In Process


Ash covers these dimming streets
they only last a time until my petals will fall and I will bloom again
but this time under far-away clouds adrift in the same sky that now fills our lungs with half-clean air
only to the sensitive is it harmful but still I find that perhaps
I am the sensitive one.


I grow poetry out of my hands
Usually
but during that movie all I grew was unfallen tears and partly-burnt laughter
and a couple of sad sighs and an unnatural hum
my skull feels cracked and washed out and dizzy from turning circles and listening to the same five tapes over and over
on an old radio cassette in a beat-up volkswagen
my babysitter had an old car with wood paneling and I believe it was named Martha.


But it is after I return to this warm house that feels just barely too small
for the seven heartbeats that live here
that I find the prose within myself and
she left a pile of tangled up headphone wires on my desk and I tried to work out the knots so I could hear
hear whatever this soul is saying to me hear what’s
always talking.


Teenagers are hormonal and insensitive and risky and moody and they don’t realize consequences.


I am hormonal and ultra-sensitive and deathly afraid of risks and jealous of those who are not and inconclusively moody and reflective of what a mood means and I am always dwelling upon the imminent possibility of an unbearable consequence.


Therefore, how does one, such as myself who defies and conforms at once, listen to the advice of teen forums that give tips on sex, love, and breakups?
Pink is not my color unless it’s peach and I don’t speak bubble fonts my handwriting is too wobbly and that song never made sense and for God’s sake I don’t curl my eyelashes.


Am I being vulgar? I would like to think not because fruit is fruit and I do not overly equate myself or all of those who call themselves female as an orchard for we are artists but; even I must admit
there is blossoming in the spring.


But the thing is.


I can be tempted and I’ve been tempted and I try to follow my heart and my soul or whatever these confusing hedge-mazes are and they’ve gotten me to this point and I walk up that sidewalk and promise myself a lot of things but most importantly I remind myself
it’s all up to you and you don’t; have to do; anything you don’t want to.


And it’s so
so true and
that’s how I know it all must
Be
on some level
smaller than I imagine it to be.


And I grow up and I will become
more of the
drifting palm
I was seeded to be
and yes I’m all
in process right now and a lot of things will feel new and
I’ll revel a little like fireworks in july glimmering over the face of a boy who probably could’ve loved me but I chose not to love because
I had my own back home.


I had my own back home and now I return to him whenever the clock sets to a lucky time and sometimes we hold hands and kiss foreheads and sometimes we breathe deeply into each others chests and try to understand what it’s like to have a heart in the opposite ribcage and sometimes we drift off to nearly asleep on the other side of a screen and the only things left in our ears are friendship and true love and gentle snores.


And these are all just buttons sewn on the back of a skirt I wear to market when it’s sunny
these are all just moments in a diary I write at night and in sad afternoons
these are all just how it feels to be a girl and be a sheep and be someone’s somebody.


And it’s better if I just let myself
write it out and sit in clear bathwater and daydream and have a bit of a crisis
instead of trying to work it all out; before the hour hand hits 11:11.


It’s two months later now
I’m still sleeping on my stomach and twisting my hair into knots and counting things down with my knuckles I’m still keeping score and keeping time and trying to keep it all together.
But maybe I’m just beginning to see the edges of the sunrise and the words it’s ok
maybe I’m starting to understand eucharisteo and gifts and grace
maybe I’m learning that it’s not really my job to sew patches over all the holes in my jeans.


And the only way to go in this life is forward and my grandma has been through a lot but now she spends her afternoons sewing me a quilt for me to take with me when I find myself drifting through lectures and late nights
keep stitching green thread over the canvas of my life
keep praying
keep lifting my face to the sun.


A hundred words and a hundred minutes and a hundred things to be thankful for
I’m in process, but that’s really the only place to be until I find my left foot joining my right in eternity.

6 comments :

  1. I read this and was too blown away to form words at first, so I am belatedly returning to say that I am blown away and it is beautiful. <3 I, too, have been treasuring the concept of being in process lately more than ever before.

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    1. Aw Andrea <3 You keep me writing. I agree, it's truly an important concept and one that has been on my heart as of recently as well.

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  2. Sorry to get off topic, but the book down in the corner of your picture seems interesting, the "Life is But a Dream" one :) Who is the author? Did you ever review it on this blog? I haven't read it yet, and I'd love to hear your opinion of it!

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    1. Hey! Yes-- the author is Brian James. I did a review of it here https://moonsworlds.blogspot.com/2018/01/january-book-reviews.html

      Let me know if you enjoy it!

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