Gift

SOC Writing _ 3.9.21

Gift

There is a gift culture in the community of some, the community of none. Wherein lies community? The heart is the place where I reside and I am feeling like you are a gift. Given freely to me. The child reluctantly takes their first breath of air – preferring the midnight bowels of its mother. I reluctantly change seasons - let go of one, grieve and move toward the conversation of this new. Love you more fully, let go the honeymoon in place for the full moon - with its ever hidden dark side. You see my dark side – it’s in your Taurean blood, damn you. And, the gift too - of my many moon of self obstructed blindness – where what I want to get out from behind is a huge stumbling stone the size of me I just cannot see. And to trust you in this – trust your love and the world of heavy truth that comes wrapped up in bite sized and not so bite sized amounts. I know I can do this – can say yes to this next season with you – can ask you to stay - can be a lover beyond the surface and dive down into that abyss where drowning is required. Come up for air I remain in the depths – for here the world is as unexplored as the moon – here there are ancient mysteries revealed in physical form – here I can marvel at how blackness is really just the other side of light. And you? Where is your yes today? Hidden in a basket you have been weaving? Clear and open like the black bird by our front door – just waiting, waiting for food, for a gesture of presence? It is all a conversation, bless David Whyte – this conversational nature of reality he rabbits on about – I feel it – I feel how what I want being put into words – the yearning, the cleaving away – into a cleaving unto. You. You and your mysteries and domesticity. All parts loved and welcomed, freed and forgiven – given the light and dark, breath and stillness they require as we takes space then embrace over a fish in paper.