Hello friends,
I’ve been feeling a bit glum recently. My period and the end of my MS medication cycle have my hormones and energy levels all over the place, and all I want to do is sleep. My brain keeps going, though, so I’ve written a poem.
I dug the hole with my bare hands. I fell to my knees and sunk my fingers into the earth, scraping the sandy soil into a large mound beside me. Dirt moons formed under my fingernails. They rose and set with the rhythm of my digging, ten moons forming a crater into which I could disappear. When the hole was large enough, I sunk into its depths. I reached out from my earthen bed and pulled the heaping pile of dirt down, burying myself beneath my creation. Now, lying here in the cold, damp dark, I settle in to rest my weary bones. But there is a rock beneath my neck. There are several all around me, beneath my buried body. It’s impossible to dig deep enough—to find somewhere soft enough—to calm my ever-churning mind. I wriggle in place, trying to shift the discomfort, but the stones and shells and other silty detritus scrape against my skin, reminding me I don’t belong here. I exhale and release disappointment fear sorrow failure expectation. They are nothing more than thoughts in my head. The earth, though, is tangible. I breathe it into my lungs and swallow it with abandon. I consume the world as I claw my way back to the surface. When I emerge, everything is the same but different. I am the same but different. I have no wings to signal change, but that doesn’t mean I cannot fly. Above me, a shard of rainbow peeks through the clouds. It was not here before. I was not here before, either. We are both reflections, the rainbow and I. But light is no less real than darkness. Everything can be seen as something new. I slide my fingers beneath the dirt once more, not to hide but to say thank you for all the life I found there. I will carry the crescent moons of experience beneath my fingernails, constant reminders to see with childlike eyes, to look for the mirrors that will show me who I am.
Until next time,
Yardena
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat: a lot. Music has definitely been a crutch this week.
Collective nouns are always a fun topic of conversation.