Magpie 142

I would say to any artist: ‘Don’t be repressed in your work, dare to experiment, consider any urge, if in a new direction all the better.’ ~ Edward Weston to Ansel Adams

my darling have you seen the exhaustion peeling off my skin, heard the depth of my breath as i fall into you each evening.  you are my words and when i hear your heart in the vibration against my chest i wholly sum up all that is us, where mountains and sea once stood is the soothing earth and leaves beneath our feet.  i sweeten and soften and sympathize with the tiny legs that try to digest and build beneath this row.  you inhale and exhale the synapses which collide in the calm we have created.  there is nothing, everything in what and how we see – you give as i receive as i give, it is circular and brilliant in how we see light.  i want you in all forms, in all ways of being, in how you think and how you mutter and how you chuckle and how you prevail.  what am i other than organs and skin and spirit?  i am a woman – not a girl, maybe not even a grrl anymore.  legs stronger, arms wider, path more steadfast.   you stand up and i cannot help but pray.  me, i don’t pray, me i don’t baptize, but today we feel goddesses around us, nurturing and pushing us forward, forward.  i sweeten, you strengthen.  terrible isn’t it how those particulars never came to see our brilliance, but insignficant for us.  they lose as we gain footing, find rhythm, square off into the sunset and then flow into the tide.  i am unsure at moments, that is when you stop me, look hard at me, make me see that it is we, together, who journey now.  i left to be one, now it is time for me to leap – leap!!  can you believe i say it, I head that direction, unknowing and true and full of bravado!  you tell me i am not silly, that i am good, that my boots are beautiful and my scars are tremendously soft.  you know my stories, i know yours, yet every moment when i tire at my own tales there is music in these streets we cross.  i hear chopin when your hand brushes softly to my belly, as i giggle. i hear billie when we slow dance, me in my bare feet.  i hear gustavo santaolalla as i look across the table at you while i write.  there is nothing they can see and everything that i know – you are the one for me, i am the one for you. never shall i tire of you, never shall you stop seeing inside me.  beauty is what speaks on those nights that women struggle to stay open, when those they love in child in man in woman in friend in neighbor in kind passers by, when they look into us.  you are the rustling of the breeze on my arm as i walk this morning, you sleep while i sit, contemplating, strategizing, breathing life into my own veins and then lying back down against you to curl into your sanctuary.  the universe expands and contracts yet i remain, here, thoughts on fire, woman on the verge of a new day.  i am tremendous.  i am.  we are.

post script for tuesday – some mock giants they try to put us in boxes, in binders, in ways to own us to tell us what we can and cannot do.  he cannot touch my body, he cannot own my suffering, he cannot near my soul. we must stop that force, we must not sacrifice our bodies for the dollars that he promises cunningly.  i am blessed, so blessed, to cast my fight FIGHT against those such as that.  please love yourself and vote against those who would box us up and tear us down.


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