I am making this origami box
With beautiful floral paper
At the kitchen table of my dear friend’s
Pressing down my thumb
to get that sweet crease
Part of this process is how I
Am intending to practice mindfulness
And mostly to get my mind off
The heavy pit in my chest
And I keep looking out the sunny window
At the evergreen trees
And open blue skies
Trying to find a way to take my focus off the origami box
But I keep coming back to the satisfaction
Of the perfectly aligned crease
And return and return
Until I have just made
3 beautiful origami boxes
do you think
wallpaper wants to talk
to the people in the room?
don't you think there's wisdom
how it absorbs the stories and
the spinning revolving door
of people who come and go
I've developed a strange type of anger lately
I've never really been an angry person
I've only felt it in glimpses
like when I was a teenager
and my mom set unjust authority,
or a few times
as a younger girl,
when she was drunk and didn't follow through.
Now I get so angry
that I've started throwing my phone
and deleting apps
and taking all 6 of my cheap gold rings off
and throwing them 1 by 1
at all corners of the room
I started ripping pages out of my planner
and throwing them across the room
I started ripping my phone cord out of the wall
and going for runs all of a sudden
and I am sprinting on the pavement
pounding my feet violently against the cement
and I've been collapsing at this field down the street
and laying in the irritating, dry, straw grass
and crying into the sunset
I've been snapping at people
I've been hyperventilating
and I keep taking my rings off and throwing them against the walls
those quarantine feels.. missing friends and family
Found a penny heads up
Saw your face on it
Tossed it off the Broadway Bridge
There's nothing lucky about
finding a small man's face
staring up at you
on a peaceful walk
I keep getting drawn by
The pleasure and pull of dissociation
Of being idol
I'm staring at the buzzing energy in between objects
thinking about the gravitational pull
of my own mood
wrote this while I was drunk and ignoring people at a party
My mother is strong
Wrinkles like love markings cemented in wet sidewalks
My mother knows no limits
She's a true nomad, with no belongings,
no life partner,
She travels from state to state
With no goals, no aim
She says to me often
‘I’m 50 and just learning what you know about life and healing. So be patient with me.’
In Star Wars, Yoda says
‘The greatest teacher, failure is.
Luke, we are what they grow beyond. That is the true burden of all masters’.
And I think of a time before I was born, and how her unfolding has toppled, quite ungracefully, into my unfolding,
And how we will always bicker about it.
Still a draft... not sure how to tighten this poem. Advice?
I can curl up in a ball and shake and quiver. For days.
I can breathe in and breathe out toxic shame.
Paralyzed and skittish - like a stricken mutt.
My lungs feel sticky from interlaced, bright, and anxious evocations.
I am so familiar with this part of myself. I am not uncomfortable with this part of myself. This part who feels out of control and desperate for answers. Answers to a million questions - all interconnected.
Desperate for raw meaning and purpose. RIGHT NOW.
Digging for a release.
I can then,
and after a process I am very familiar with,
find that tense knot and that trapped air below the surface,
and tend to everything inside.
It takes a lot of metacognition, warmth, logic, and compassion.
There's something really beautiful about enduring these uncomfortable moments I find myself in.
I feel the shift,
my cognitive distortions working their way to clarity,
and then the beauty that emerges penetrates my life momentarily.
Like rays of sun.
(This metamorphosis is something we do over and over and over. The awareness lies in the reflection we partake in when the 'storm has passed'.)
Therapy. My biggest tool.