Tuesday, October 23, 2012

this t-shirt does not necessarily reflect the views of its sponsor

how often do we miss what others truly are or are concerned with in their lives?  how often do we miss the opportunity to reflect what we truly are or are concerned with in our lives?

sunday morning my lover and i climbed a hill which overlooked this small town.  we have been involved in conversation about society and mindful living for over a year now.  even on sunday morning the cars and transports thundered by on the highway, even a work truck nagged and beeped its warnings.  we opened a quiet and sacred pocket in the rock and the trees and went into it together and inside of our pocket, as happens between us, we found the world removed, erased, and we found god inside of one another.  we made love on the side of the hill quite by accident and certainly not according to our own design, but as a consequence of being open to each other and the world around us.  (ha!  we are not as weird as we sound.  wait, yes we are.)

descending the hill later, cutting back into this world of working order, i was saddened that we could not go back to the apartment and say to the children casually but truthfully, oh, it was wonderful.  we made love on the hill and forgot who we were, became one another and a part of the energy of the larger world.  instead we went back to the apartment and pretended we were regular people in regular bodies up to regular things.  (but we were regular people in regular bodies up to regular things!  this is the point of frustration with us not speaking the truth!)  later we would go to my parents and talk about the weather and what type of water pump supports our well in our new house and things like the price of meat, regular things but not the truth, not the real truth, not what we are truly concerned about.  (we are concerned about a great many things which are not making love, but perhaps they are all potentially extensions of making love:  philosophy, politics, war, peace, language and poetry, art and the institutionalization of art, freedom, violence, isolation, connectedness, and life and death for starters.  i wonder what my parents are truly concerned about.)

but today i had a conversation with a woman i barely know who suffered a head injury years ago and since then has lost the ability to edit herself in conversation.  she said to me, erin, my husband and i are in no mood to take applications for friends.  people in northern ontario are only ever interested in three things, drinking until they puke, driving their snow machines (or quads), or making love.  my husband i make love A LOT!

carefully i wish two things for all of us. first i wish that we would all be able to truly make love (and how we can make love in so many various ways, not just between our bodies and not just with our lovers) and lose ourselves, want to lose ourselves, be willing enough to lose ourselves. (how this reflects onto the larger philosophy of living, a willingness to let go of the ego.)  and then i wish for us all to hit our heads hard enough to lose that phantom shield which we think protects us but only holds us farther away from our own authentic lives.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

upon waking

i wake into the morning through my mind and into my body, not opening my eyes, but letting my remade denseness sense the page. in the shadowless grey, my body at its center, the bed is level and so i know you have already risen. old pains that have been at bay like wild dogs along the edge of a forest all night long gallop toward me and then snout-delve into my muscles, tearing at me like meat. ok, ok boys, i say, feed but just a little. i have so much life left inside me. i open my eyes and the day accelerates in writing itself, an adjustment in speed between blindness and sight. there are books in lazy piles on the bedside table where we have left them, water glasses with smudges, evidence of murky bodily living, the covers are corkscrewed and my back lays bare. outside the window a pen is scrawling certain vagueness that will be adjusted all day long and the earth's pen trawls casting up earthworms and crows. oh, the day is becoming. it is then that you find me. you draw me to you, your long cool body which has just returned from the edge of the horizon, you standing regarding this prolonged but busy becoming, sand prints from a heron, water gently lapping at the shore. at this intersection our new writing takes place. oh, the pen continues outward, but inward the hurried artist draws a thimbleful of sand within me, a tiny column there within my tilted pelvis. outside, he says, this is the world, this is the solid, this is the stuff with which to lean on. you kiss me, each kiss a rupture, an elbow's blow to one grain of sand, a threat to the column. this, the artist says, this is what you lean upon the world with. this is your corruption, your reminder, your testament to salvation, your true and certain ruin. deep inside the crux of me, your warm mouth an entreatment, i lean that which is made every day new against that which is made every day new, two planes of existence at odds but acting in congruence.

Monday, October 15, 2012

october 15, 2012 (ha, i had to look to see which year:)

where do they come from, these ideas, these images beyond images?

crawling into bed last night a series of real life and simple living images of myself came to me, me in my body as others might see me, me inside my day mostly ordinary, sometimes grotesque, perhaps in moments even attractive.  i saw these images in my mind removed from me.  it was a(nother) moment of recognition that we are, in fact, not what these bodies represent, at least not entirely. 

i can convince no one.  i do not care to convince anyone.  they are moments of clarity.  i am not this body.  i use this body as a mask, as an extension to live.  who i am as erin is both familiar and strange, both connected and separate from me, whatever i am.

i ran today.  it was cold and raining.  my body engaged as a body and i knew it not to be my own.  how it moved me!  (my body is not capable of such things.) 

i ran miles and miles thinking about my body and my spirit without noticing my body working, without noticing the world.

and then i looked up.

i was assaulted by colour.  two colours existed with names, the yellow of the dying grass and the particular chartreuse of the changing tamarack, and surely there were a multitude of unnameable colours in between.  this is what i said upon looking up, the intensity of this world ripened by the rain, this can not be real.

i put my head down and ran on miles more then i had intended, lost again in thought and even beyond thought, finding that wonderful place of existing in the moment, not looking to the next.

and then i looked up again.

a rash of yellow slashing at me: poplar.  i startled back.  and then the specific blue lichen along the tree trunks that waits along the periphery for one whole silent year to find the tunnel through which to barrel forth so that it can simply be.

again, through my body and toward my mind the words, this is not real.  and holding up my mind as the colours hold up the grass and the tamarack, the poplar leaf and the blue lichen on the tree, the belief, the knowledge, this is not real.

what am i saying?  my knees hurt.  i have a pot of chili simmering on the stove.  my lover (my beloved))) is on his way and we will make love.  my children cause me to split open when i see them in lamplight.  are we not real?

yes,

and yet, not)))

Friday, October 12, 2012

today ice gathers along the frame of puddle and ochre birch needles become frozen in place, robins hop the thin crust, their red chests bleeding out in scorching light that does nothing to meet the cold

i run today through the first biting cold of the fall and am ripped raw and alive.  this pleases me.

today's run is only (and yet with such wealth!) centered in the abundance of living joy.
 
"Joy is the overflowing consciousness of reality."  Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace,  p. 81

Thursday, October 4, 2012

coming out of darkness

i come out of a brief period of darkness.

***

i have not run for days and so i leave my house and run full out, delighting in my body. how remarkable it is despite my abuses!

i have my period. at this point in my life when it comes it comes like an animal from the woods. it simply is what it is, wolf, bear, beaver, bob cat, period, a woman's body shedding rot in the face of not growing life.

but running as i have chosen to run today, full out, what began as a small ache at my center, in two miles overtakes my whole body.

***

i come out of a brief period of darkness.

when i was in darkness i wanted to hate the world, or at least ignore it, not accept its beauty. today i can not help but love the world.

a dear friend of mine, andreas, wrote to me of darkness:  "i've never been able to figure out where the darkness comes from, or where it goes to when it disappears. but it moves, i know that much. it arrives one day, and starts moving about - from the bed to the window, and from there to the kitchen table. and then one morning it's gone. the place is empty. save you and a feeling of relief, even joy. it's the first day of spring after a long, dark, cold winter."

this is how it is for me today, the darkness has moved; however today, my spring is autumn.

i can not explain how painfully beautiful the world is. i stop at one point on the trail with my head back against a tree, unable to fully process the immaculate and complete transformation of the day. although it is raining, there is light beneath the yellow, orange and red canopy of maples, oaks and poplar, birch, and it radiates out of nothing and into everything, including me.

i want to weep. i want to rejoice.

i do both simultaneously.

***

the ache in my body is a huge mouth eating me. it feels as though i am having contractions. it is this severe. i remember my water breaking for my son and then the pain setting in. when in labour there is a confusion as to where the pain comes from, cunt or ass. let's just say it as it is. and this is how it is for me today! i do not know where it comes from but i know somehow i have made it. i have made it and it feels like i am in labour with the love i have for the world. do you understand? i know it must sound like lunacy, but it feels as though i am a part of the motherhood of life, one small simple body shitting/pushing/birthing out eternally that which is existence.

i lean back against the tree and allow it. i know that i would not choose differently if i left my door again right now. i would choose the joy of my body which would lead to this pain.

***

i hold this as a mirror to my spirit.

***

a few more miles into my run and i find the sweet point between joy and pain, the place where i run hard enough to know i am here but not so hard as to break me. i am alive!

but the last mile, i can not help myself. again i let it all go. i might crash into the ground at any second. i do not know what my body might or might not be capable of but i ask it for everything that it has to offer. if i fall, i will get up, or i will not - whatever it is capable of, and that will only be determined later.

***

i will do the same for my spirit. i will ask it for everything. if i fall, i will get up, or i will not - whatever it is capable of, and that will only be determined later.