April 8, 2006
“Cure your head,” my dad says, ending our phone conversation. How did he know my head needs curing today? Cure your heart. Cure your belly. Cure your legs. Cure your feet. Cure your back. Cure your lungs. Cure your spirit.
My eyes last night stung and finally, could not see. My head today that runs and twirls like Max, trying to walk—carpet twirls—makes me dizzy. Dizzy head that won’t stay still. My spirit last night that became radiant, that saw the radiance in all, then stopped seeing, then drowned in a fallen body and merciless dreams.
This morning woke up thinking that I was still living in my dreams, that I was waking up into dreams: the bathroom sink completely full of water like I’ve never seen it. Had to stop and wonder what ghost did that, what ghost was washing their face and left that silver sand water sitting in the sink all night. And the kitchen counter—the kitchen counter covered with the remnants of drunken cooking for most beautiful friends. Naked cooking, showing my poverty but feeling comfortable with gracious guests, anyway. Mismatched types of pasta. Wine bottles, beer bottles, dirty dishes. A funny dream to wake up to.
Tabitha asking Max last night at the Green Frog Café, “What did you dream of, music?” And that’s the sweetest thought, baby dreams.
The day starting with new Josh Ritter on the car stereo, making me confident that I can make it on my own. Sun and warmth. A crop duster plane stopping in mid air to listen to the music. Horses I’d never seen coming out to the edge of roads. Beautiful day. Max falling asleep in the swing, the river lulling at our sides.
The wind now shaking this place, shaking the barks of dogs, the singing of birds, the blinds on my window. I want to go out in it. But first—cure my head.
“(Think of yourself riding away from the dawn, think of yourself and the unnamed ones who had gone Before, riding, who rode away from goodbye, goodbye, and toward hello, toward Time’s unwinking eye; And like the cicada had left, at cross-roads or square, the old shell of self, thin, ghostly, translucent, light as air; At dawn riding into the curtain of unwhispering green, Away from the vigils and voices into the green World, land of the innocent bough, land of the leaf. Think of your face green in the submarine light of the leaf.
Or think of yourself crouched at the swamp-edge: Dawn-silence Past last owl-hoot and not yet at day-verge First bird-stir, titmouse or drowsy warbler not yet. You touch the grass in the dark and your hand is wet. Then light: and you wait for the stranger’s hoofs on the soft trace,
And under the green
leaf’s translucence the light bathes your face.
Think of yourself at dawn: which one are you? What?)” –Robert Penn Warner
No boundaries. Boundless I want to be. No limits. Limitless I want to be.
Get a little healed
by feeling so deeply I have no more feeling in my hands
as long as I have myself, my life, I
everyone I love, we grow together, not apart. Paradise I see would not exist without me, without my acknowledgment and love for it. Living earth flourishes from love and nurturing. TAKE ALL OF ME.
Grieving down at the prayer bridge. Feeling my heart rattle huge within me, feeling so heart sick I couldn’t move or stand, feeling as if I’d vomit again—all the pressure. Those fields that have held me in my sickness and strength, known me in sorrow and joy.
Felt like I was losing everyone and everywhere and everything I love—with nothing to gain. Felt like I was committing suicide.
Then—walking—reborn—realizing I could never lose myself, so there is only everything to gain. I can’t lose what I already have—it is firmly embedded in my soul. The sun came out and red tail hawk flew over my head as I stood and I said is that you God—watching over me, showing me the way?
I am not like the black cow loose, running away from the cowgirl driving it from freedom, from the greenest grass. The cow was not lost. And the grass is greenest wherever I am. Paradise is here, where the daffodils are huge and yellow as farm fairytales.
Heal yourself by walking 9 miles in 5 hours. 9 mile—the place where I was born—Suncrest.