Wednesday, March 14, 2012

my own horse

I've written very few poems over the last months. One of the poems has a line that has been running through my head: My horse was brave enough because I was my own horse. Yesterday a friend working through challenges, a friend I've been consoling, sent me a message telling me I was the light he turned to in his struggle. I was flattered, honored, glad that I can share any accumulated wisdom with people I care about. But it set my thinking wheels to spinning.

I've been wondering if in my way of living self-sufficiently I've sacrificed a certain vulnerability for strength, my desire to live a certain way and not compromise. I'm not interested in the ideas or things that are supposed to interest me; husband, kids, nice house, clothing, jewelry, status symbols and signifiers of a life allegedly well-lived. Blah blah blah. I don't know that in recent memory, more than a decade, I have had anyone I could turn to and say You are my light. I haven't even had anyone to come home to, to feel that very human desire of being taken care of. It has been my choice, mostly. I choose to be the strong one. I turn to self. I let myself be vulnerable only in my writing. I am my own horse. It is mostly satisfying but weeks like this week it is also exhausting. I wouldn't mind being the passenger occasionally.

I had a dream yesterday wherein the father of someone I used to respect was begging me to forgive his son, asking me to hold out hope for a future. I turned away from him; instead of answering I slaughtered pigs. I've had some rage lately. In one of my favorite books, Lirael, part of the Abhorsen Trilogy, the main character, Lirael can cast spells. One day she casts a spell that is too strong for her. The process knocks her out and her throat is burned from the words she spoke. I feel my own throat is burned.

Work is busy. So busy that I'm having a difficult time keeping up with my writing the way I want to except for my daily journaling. I love seeing journals fills up. My body is tired but I enjoy the appreciate the ache from physical labor. I enjoy coming home and standing at the sink for ten minutes, working the pumice through the webs of my fingers, digging the black paint out of my pores, scalding myself on the hot water. Not that the adage means anything to me, but these hands are way too busy to be the devil's playground.

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