The Valley is hot. The corn was harvested, now dust devils play in the fields across from the house like spoiled children. Life is an inside job for awhile.
Putting it all together…
Ah. There I am. Pieces of me, anyway. Some pieces from another incarnation are missing. I don’t see them. Poof!, like magic. The Disappeared. Self exile. There, I’ve confessed.
Other pieces, seedlings really – succulent, filled with longing, desire and……always seemed shy, never ready for debut. Some things don’t seem to change. I always told them, “When? Share with me. Include me. Inspire me.” But they only spoke when they were damn good and ready. I have always been aware of time. Not them. My needs and desires never ruled them. I was their muse.
Unpacking. Or is it Unveiling? I suppose that has to do with expectation. I won’t tell you which it is for me. I have three lots of storage. This one includes old drawings stuffed in boxes. One large portfolio. Poems, mostly unfinished. 1976 was an incoherent year. I will tell you that. Others…..
Pieces of ink and color
Road warriors and prophets
Proof of Life banished
Everywhere I went they screamed like banchees
An ache like a monument rooted in me
Living without them was akin to
Trying to cut off my leg while dancing
Balance was impossible
My right arm has trails of my cat’s life on it. Skin pricks. Scratches. Subtle, barely noticeable lines. I feel them when I’m drifting off in thought. I find my left hand wandering there, tracing them, like walking down a historical path and reading the markers. Some are old and difficult to feel. Others are fresh. They occur when I hold her, when I talk to her and reassure her that everything will be fine regardless of her illness. She holds onto me – once, she actually fell asleep in my arms like an infant. Her head slowly rolled forward as her eyes closed. Her weight shifted, her muscles relaxed and she slept while I stood in front of the mirror watching her in an attempt to memorize the moment. She woke a few minutes later and left another light mark on my arm as she catapulted herself to the floor. These are not microscopic ephemera. These are height marks on the corner molding, stories of silly antics, staring contests and food wars. Twelve years of caring, that’s what these lines are. I don’t want them all to heal. When she’s gone, I want to reach over and feel where she’s been. There is a mark for every place we’ve lived, every major life event. When my husband died, she clung to me. Every place I went, she followed. She is a vocal cat but she went into mourning and was silent for a very long time. When I had heart surgery she slept on my lap all the time never scratching me, just purring and digging in with her nose and ears, rubbing and watching. I don’t know how she knew not to scratch me. When I healed, she returned to sleeping on the bed.
I am not moving. I am breathing. I am fully alive. I am pain. I am love. I am Resurrection. I know because I feel pain of wings sprouting…..with gemstones and stitching made from tales of Truth and Guidance. I am an Artist. A Writer. I am a Maker. I am a teller of stories and Love. I am the only true God. I am me.
Knowing who you are in spite of what they tell you. Feeling it without words or visuals. Smelling it in the air, under the current of the wind, on top of the mountain. Kneeling to Yourself and no other.
Raising dragons and the moon at the same time. Standing in the shadow of both and seeing the same thing.
© jacqualine-marie baxman 2014
“There is no coming to consciousness without pain. People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own soul. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” – Carl Jung