Sunday 10 December 2023

Cocooning

It’s hard to let go of life when it still has to be lived, but I am so burnt out I have worn myself down to bare bones. I don’t know who I am anymore. 


The world is simply too much, and I am far too little. I can’t make sense of things, outer or inner. What I know seems irrelevant; what I don’t know seems daunting in its immensity.


I have just begun four whole weeks away from home—to look after a sad little dog—and I will be using this time to cocoon. Of necessity, I have released myself from expectations:


I won’t be making any art for the foreseeable future. This is a huge burden lifted. If the creative urge returns, I’ll welcome it; if it doesn’t, so be it. 


I will share writing—most likely of a poetic kind—if and when it comes, but am releasing myself from any requirement to produce shareable work. 


I’ll be reading less, and more slowly*—after reading Iain McGilchrist’s books I’m sure many things will seem flimsy in comparison anyway—and avoiding most online content. 


I’m finding that I need to avoid as much unnecessary stimulation as I can, so will be attempting to be online less, to rest eyes, ears and mind. This is tricky because online interactions with people are a lifeline, so I will still be responding to messages, and posting things occasionally. (I do also have better days, when more is possible.)


My existence feels flimsy, dissolving. Formless and purposeless. I need to find a way to re-solidify, repair, reinvent. I need more entanglement, to be knotted back into life.


There is nothing I need to do for a whole month other than take care of myself (and doggo) and try to begin to heal after what has been a year of struggle. I’ll drift through the summer days, wandering, unsure, trying to find solidity.


I barely have the will to be, let alone the ability to become. Though I cling to the reassuring notion that the future is unknown, and therefore contains unknown potentials, some of which I may want to welcome, so I do have to hold on. But right now I must move slowly within a dark circle of stillness and silence. 


*I most likely won’t hold myself to this. I devour books when I am dog-sitting!


Monday 27 November 2023

Gleanings: III

within the womb of winter 
travel to the self long-concealed 
find openings. but no way through 

is wellness possible in this world? 

keep seeking and discover darkness 
firelight (and a circle of women) 
creates quiet and discloses a centre 
that finally opens so 
reborn from the belly of winter 
the heart is ruptured, spilling, red red 
into a surging spring 

outside is where I go in 
to grow downwards 
to connect with the ground 
and root into dreams that flow with 
the shimmer-song of summer 
I become the opening I enter 
into the interior where 
birds sing and silence speaks 
and I am seen and see 
profusion 

can I mould my life to the shape of this vision? 
or will I forget infinity? 

sliding into autumn blue and loss 
the melancholy turning 
I trust my heart to the seasons 

even concealed again 
all worlds are connected and 
I am still journeying

(October 2023)

Monday 20 November 2023

Gleanings: II

worn down and drowned
a nub of rough stone
entering the undertow
sinking down to be claimed
by the riverbed

submerged

cold water slips over the surface
of a small stone heart

what is the language of illness? of immersion in the undercurrent?

sounding out the depths of
the dim life down there
rolling with inner tides that riffle the mud
tugging at dreams that attempt to surface
dissolving what is known in the murk
softening in silt
gentling stone to quiet
darkness and deepening
inhabiting the liquid of malleability

there is no fixed point, only flow
even for stone
transformations in a ceaseless stream
a confluence of cool moving waters
soothing, wearing smooth

until the nub is grasped, fluent in the hand

(September 2023)