This morning for two hours I was throwing my heart against a white wall. Over and over. I picked up the pulsing red ball hurl and hurled and as my time wound down, I turned on the cold water, washed the shards and slivers from a raw muscle, made oatmeal, sipped cold coffee and read a beautiful poem.
It’s hard coming down after mornings like this. It’s hard sticking the muscle back in my chest and putting clothes over something so warn and raw. But I gave myself a half hour of rest to watch the feeding red birds, the squirrels taking leaps of faith into faulty green nets and limbs. Keep going it’s good. Keep going it’s good. The way we walk along hot thin nerves under our skin. And tonight I’ll sit outside in the wet warm air, maybe bathe under the tepid water of a thunderstorm. I’ll breathe and soak. I’ll laugh with love. I’ll eat cookies. Because tomorrow I’m cutting something open again, tomorrow I’m going back in.
Coming down
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2 responses to “Coming down”
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Ooh, ouch Rachel – life and work can be a bloody gruesome affair, can’t it? Be kind to your heart, lay it in a hammock in your chest – let it sleep and breathe. You will be doing the same for yourself and your poem, too. xx
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Thank you, dear Claire. Sometimes I forget to take care of myself inside. We push so hard when we’re working it’s hard to remember to come up for air. But that sleeping and breathing is so vital, too. It’s tucked away in a hammock. And it’s feeling warm.
xoxo
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