Somehow, I am sick (again), so I’ll keep this brief. Thanks to all who sent congratulations for the good news at the end of last week’s post. You—and this platform—are such an anchor for my creative journey. Here’s a poem-in-progress about the context in which that news came.
Thaw
After five and a half years of torture claims, my child asked me to brush her hair for the first time this week. This week, too, I heard a yes just when I’d learned to braid raw courage from only noes. This is also the week I dragged a dining room chair to the porch to write serenaded by the syncopated drip of snowmelt and time. When I stepped outside it was only as I felt my face unclench that I detangled the truth: I’d been bracing against a cold that– at least for this week– never came.
In a comfortable position, close your eyes. Tune into your body. Are there places that you are clenching or bracing that don’t need to be? Let your mind’s eye travel from head to toe, melting away tension as it goes.
Now think about what’s on your mind. What are you bracing against? What are your perpetual worries? What fight are you already armored for?
Some of these fears and fights might be real. But it’s worth checking in. Is your defense proportional to the threat? Or have things changed, and your posture has yet to adapt? Are there shafts of light that your impermeable walls are not letting through?
Welcome the melt.
With lots of light, life, and love,
Devon
Welcome to our newest subscriber, Anna!
Love this poem!
Torture claims - ha! That’s universal.