Writing my way back home

It’s been a minute and maybe a minute more. Finding a path. A way forward. A clarity of reason and purpose.

And not to eschew politics and all the other swirling difficulties of our time and place in the world–but one does also need to be located in things outside of it all, even as one sets aside the time for a haircut and simple braids while nursing a fractured humerus bone.

The deeper things are something else again:

Negotiating grief. An arc of the lifetime spent with another. How to say goodbye to something one barely had the time to say hello to. How life intrudes on dreams, and love, and feeling the quickening pulse of a heart pierced with the elixir of possibilities. Of falling into a bed of leaves tickled with laughter and longing. Of nursing hurt and heat and sudden clarity on a sweltering summer’s day in a hotel pool on the coast of Turkey.

The jockeying for whose foot is on the outside as if every love affair is the pas de deux of a south paw fighting an orthodox opponent. The perfect alchemical combination of polarities. The Yin and Yang of it all. Puzzle pieces that fit with a longing that seems without end. Of how it can feel lost in the tunnel of experience. The day in and day out of it all.

I think I figured out that Jed actually died. It’s what comes after that that has proven so elusive. Overcoming the guilt of survival. Of honoring who we were but needing to move a pace towards an unknown realm that lies beyond the horizon. My new arc of something. A surprise that sets my being alight with tingles of sensation.

I am still becoming. Still hurting and yet feeling a glimmer of a future tense. Having faith in it all, what with the minutes of daylight ticking forward towards warm breezes and the scents of Spring.