SOC Writing _ 24 September 2020

Small

Pit of stomach – pit of kernel, nut, anything hard and difficult to enter into – anything below the level of seeing is where I reside. The smallness – the nub of my heaviness – that little dense piece of uranium that starts up –alight and then moves me to other places, larger and more cavernous but still beneath the surface of me. All is going on below – I do not know it but it shows on the surface. She said my energy has been different. Awesome – like better - and I do do the things that pump me up – keep me looking into your eyes – confident and sparking – but that is not all of me. Subterranean I am a wild mean – looking for my pool of magic – someone emptied it with buckets and now the rust only lingers – below – on the surface of the bottom – below, below, below – rio abjo – the river beneath the river. What is going on below? What can I show you that matters - that moves you – helps you on your journey in a felt way? I’m not interested in progress anymore – only becoming – what we are able to feel, turn up to, work with – the energy of my life passes through me to my children and I wish to become masterful with that energy, master of myself, master of none. The children have gone, their bags not hooked, I cook, find a new book to shake and stir the pot of domestic bliss - my hiss and boil, steam and burn – sizzle and smell – my happiness in food and their needs to be nourished by my hands, my happiness, my willingness to sit down with a book and let them, let me, us, settle. There is nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. I, me, you, thou – we shall commune over distance – but here at home I put my hands back in the sink, let my fingers type a few lines here and there – go searching for the fallen gum twigs for fire starting – and then comes night, dreams, and the day begins again. Let me ask you.. How are your feet feeling your own way on your path today? How are you, dear one? You, are loved, are loved, are loved, loved.