as i bundle up to thuh cool a thuh nite in this favorite hour of closeness to Oh Wordless One, i think of all the people i've been absent to in my limited capacities and amplified efforts with terminal tease and treatments within our cultural altar frame of western medicine. and wonder what i might say to them. now that i am allowed. allow my self. recuperated enough to tease back at lingering fatigue. feeling my way through the layered pile, like quilts, of lists of things to do when i again "can". one of these quilts, layers of lists, if not all of them, if not the entire! is being with. keeping in touch. tactile. with the huge shroud i was born into. and am born again. into. of human flesh and love accompaniment.
it has been here around me all the time. it has been the mend, like grandma's high artistry, with HER mother, in stitching piece to piece, so many so likely brand new, in to square blocks of highly selected colors and textures, and then the square blocks to each other. the stitches themselves outdoing each other in color and pattern like footsteps. in that krazy kwilt, monolith of our family on my mother's side, that i have passed on to cousin Sharon's fine fingered keeping before i ever heard of diagnosis.
how do i contact all those people, crazy as they may be, crazy as i am?
how do i write my people as i emerge out of this two-year silence, chrysalis obelisk of my life into new life of moth that no one can recognize as the caterpillar they knew?
i send them this. humbly admitting. umbly offering. who i am.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Chain
from the patch of grass at Miller Park where i have done my age old regimen
of meditation, yogic stretch, and pushups. to supplicate-negotiate continuance from
and with Oh Wordless One and you. after treatment of our precious and dear western
medicine completely consumes one whole year of the few remaining in my life. with
this acorn, pin oak, in these confused northern climes along this
wild coast so far from there, fallen around my head and body. on 40# test
line replacing what i left behind on saint croix waiting for my next emergence. boring
with the tool i've made and used so long long ago there. from coathanger wire as
instructed by the young emissary of generations on an island, a seed.
i reenter the old life with whole & new point of vision. begin to string this
flash circle once more. rippling all gone before.