Wombs of Relationship

Lattice shadows slant westward through the gazebo. It is the crimson of October which curls up and rests as a fetus in my heart.

So, yeah, I married an aviator who is also a light house keeper. One persona flies close to the sun and the other tends light at the edge of the sea. It is good to remember that neither are the light.

These first frosted mornings.
These hints of brilliant diamonds glittering in northern light.
These dazzling harbingers of frozen stones and quieter songs.

Maybe this year I will love winter more. This and other ways it is better to be a stone than to fall into one.

Loose leaves begin to gather in the corner of doorways and rest at the base of steps. In the slightest breeze, their scratchy voices cry out in the tenor of the dead – beautifully here and not here – thin but not unheard.

Reading J's poetry I realize more than before how we all bleed from the same womb. What is left to discover in such a mirror and does it matter? I have a feeling that I exist because of this relationship to the reflection. Speaking of which, I raised my voice when talking with Mom about her lack of agency in the marriage. She has pain over it, complains, and yet, has some how forgotten how to say, “no. I do not want to clean the sail boat or haul it up the hill.”

As a woman, how does one live without reaching for power; without extending this idea into our society and governments; without being beholden to resistance at spiritual level?

We discover ourselves in the relationship of another – poetry, marriage, lovers, enemies – and we give attention to that which arises, thereby nurturing the soil for liberation.