Star of equanimity
Comet’s mist in shroud
Womb of space
Home filled circuit
Connective tissue paper filament
Ergonomic electric touch
we need to be reminded how much we love roses, how deep our hearts go, how boundless our intimate care of the world, how sweetly our life unfolds as celebration, how trusting our expression of hope when released, like knowing how to love the roses….
Like a blanket of fresh snow, the expiration of my old self wipes out any traces of spring; of identities I once flowered in until their colors began to wilt, their stems bending with the weight of renewal, and I realize that self is often more transient than the seasons. Consequently, I own an incalculable collection of former selves. Some of them grow weeds like unattended graves. Others become needy phantoms haunting the hallways of my past. Those that rest peacefully become the seeds of my future selves: places where the petals of authenticity unfurl in the light.
“I want to unfold. Let no place in me hold itself closed, for where I am closed, I am false.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke
When I feel an urgency to break out of myself, it is usually because something is closing in; something is impeding my growth, and suddenly I am a plant that has become too large for the little pot that holds it. My roots thirst for more nourishment than the soil around me can offer. Identity, much like art, behaves defiantly when restricted. Both art and definitions of self share a characteristically enigmatic flavor, as I experience them. One moment we are swirling their aromatic bouquet on our tongues, and the next moment we spot it floating elusively against a landscape we do not even recognize. Hans-Georg Gadamer believed that all art comes from an intimate experience of participating in something beyond oneself, which then paradoxically reveals a broader, deeper vision of one’s self. I often suspect that when I recognize my self the least, I am actually the closest to really discovering who I am. Something about this feels deliciously primeval to me, like a cosmic drumbeat we all carry in our cores.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am……Sylvia Plath