First of all, a big welcome to all new and newly-upgraded subscribers! You make it possible for me to keep writing—an amazingly healing practice for me that hopefully impacts you, too, in some small way.
Second, an announcement: There will be no new Toward Utter Aliveness post next week. I am going on a family vacation and decided that a) I am a human, not a machine, and b) I value people who are transparent about taking breaks. But if you are hungry for more to read, please check out my archives and recommendations. TUA will be back August 8th.
I started writing this poem as a free verse, then decided it leant itself to a form I was introduced to in a postpartum writing workshop offered by a local nonprofit: the pantoum. Still a work-in-progress, but as always, I’d love to hear what you think.
Puddles
I wipe puddles off the porch furniture For I have come here to rock, and to write Carving a way through the thick morning air Careful not to slip on slick, slimy boards I have come here to rock, and to write And instead pry pink fungus off the railing Careful not to slip on slick, slimy boards Yet beads glinting on a wire catch my eye Hands instead pry pink fungus off the railing Dump the drip trays from my potted plants Yet beads glinting on a wire catch my eye A breeze sends down a wave of rain Dumps into the drip trays from my potted plants Splattering my notebook, triggering freeze A breeze sends down a raining wave Of internal alarms, encoded by neurons Splatters in my notebook, triggering freeze Slow down, dear one, it’s only wet leaves These internal alarms, encoded by neurons Like a dog shaking dry after a swim Slow down, dear one, it’s only wet leaves How many times will we wring ourselves out? Shake dry like a dog after a swim? Will we always be able to begin again? How many times will we wring ourselves out? Carving a way through the thick morning air Will we always be able to begin again– To wipe puddles off the porch furniture? I have come here to rock, and to write.
Listen for your own discomfort. It could happen when someone says something that doesn’t sit well, when a situation doesn’t go as planned, when you are triggered (like I was, in the poem, by the threat of rain). Pause.
Notice what it feels like in your body. What sensations are present? Bring awareness to the connection between what happened and how it felt in your body.
If you can, find an opportunity to speak your discomfort aloud. Maybe it’s with the person who caused it, or maybe it’s with a colleague, friend, or therapist afterward. Chances are, they experienced it too, or something similar. This sharing helps us to metabolize the experience, helps keep it from ingraining as trauma, and guides our bodies toward accurately assessing threats and non-threats. Let me know how it goes.
With light, life, and love,
Devon
Love this interesting form of repetition mixed with change.