Skip to main content

i will stop (never stop mourning)

monday, april 15th, 2019 :: waxing moon 



how our hands hold dream

how we are making dreams when we 

cook love, for our beloved, with our hands 



when we cook yams, and beets, and greens 

and how this gives us our hands back to us 



how we fall in love with experience 

how we handle, tangle, and disturb even the outsides 

of what we want 



i am in so much pain 

i am in so much physical pain today 

and i am breathing with it and then pausing to weep 



the weeping comes out of my body sometimes



sometimes the weeping does not stop 



sometimes i wonder how much longer i will be grieving my mothers grief 



how can i make separate her grief from mine? when really, 

it is a line of beckoning hands showing me their scars 

and how can i say no? 

how can i say no to my own kin? 



i can . 



i can say no. because i love myself, because i care for myself and my life and my dreams 

more than i care for being loved 

because i will no longer shrink myself in order to feel love anymore 



no



i will stop trying to prove

stop trying to prove i am lovable 

stop trying to prove i am enough 

stop trying to prove that i am a good white, owning class person, 

a caring person, someone you can trust 



i will stop trying to prove these things 



my spine might break 

my hips might cave in on themselves 



and how our hands, our hands hold dream. 
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

radical love, trust, & rest

walk like the land can hear you like the land feels  every imprint made upon them walk with reverence walk with care remember  how your ancestors walked  before all of this  moments before, i was outside. when i was outside, i was watching the deer. and they were watching me. sometimes i can conceal myself, and so they do not know i am there. but, they are very good trackers, and they teach me about tracking. i freeze in mid-air once i notice their eyes upon me. i can feel their eyes upon me as i retreat and am walking back home.  i stumble across it. it is huge, and calls out a gasp in me. it is covered by a branch, and i fall to my knees, with a weeping that comes from wonder. i press my hands on the ground, and i start singing. little whispers of melody peak out of my mouth. in between deep breaths. i am calling out to the one who left this here. i am calling out to them, in gratitude, because they mean so much to me. i wonder ab...
2 comments
Read more

i have been making devotion videos to the seasons

i often notice that november can be a challenging month for me. the season of fall brings a lot of letting go, of slowing down. a surrender to darkness as teacher. akin to the luteal phase of menstruation, my energy starts the turn inward. I move a lot slower. My healing is heavy with letting go of anything that I do not need for the bare, silent wisdom journey of winter.   i get panic attacks more often in the fall. my nervous system tracks the descent into colder, darker days, and my soma slows down. My body gets more heavy, I want to sit near fires and not do as much. i’m interested in how i have been taught to believe that my body is not mine. as a body that has been invaded, i am curious about how my body becomes a war zone. how me against myself has been implanted and fed in me by social forms and systems of oppression. i am so interested in how the ancestors teach me about beauty amidst struggle, outer or inner. kindness and gentleness towards myself, truly, holding spa...
Post a Comment
Read more
cooing, soft night air.   i conjure this around me.   i let my bones settle, because often in the city, they are on fire. they are running with electric tires, the nervous systems in me cars. streets and cars, hard metal that comes from somewhere, far away. distant booms, high pitched sounds. i wonder about how we can manipulate our environment with sound, and how there might be sound warfare, and how there is also: sound healing.   because so often in the city my breasts never settle. my bones have a hard time not rotting and becoming the earth, because we must return to the earth, we must return to the earth, we must become Them, we must become Her, be eaten by our chthonic desires, come home to Her, come home to Them, sparkling and dark, moonlit :earth. my bones remember. my bones remember, decay and how to become the earth again.   in winter, i smell death. death is everywhere. i feel like i let parts of my garden (genitals) die out this winte...
Post a Comment
Read more