Checking my reality for gravity,
I am certain the devil is memory.
Loneliness inside a humanity
so inhospitable to uncertainty.
I am earth and I am woman—
you watch me get sicker
day by day;
eight generations of
from a cherished cellular clay.
This life is a place of great death;
everyday I die a little more,
relieved to have let another piece go.
What are these things anyways?
A dishrag, a lover, my ring finger;
what are these things?
Everyday I practice losing—
a dishrag, a lover, my vision, my temper—
everyday I practice
in terror and relief—
asking others to hold the whole of me
in their 4×4 inch hearts—
driven to chase the illusion of satisfaction
again; in the end,
emptying even more into the great, dark ocean.
Amazing to realize years later what you learned from the most harrowing of relationships; to look at your life and see yourself now embodying all you sought in him—that bull masculine thing—that unapologetic creator, container, destroyer. His gorgeous and simultaneously dangerous ferocity as he created and manifested with just his hands powerfully and continuously everything that lay before him.
It’s the thing that both attracted and drove you away. To now experience as you look at your hands and, at last, the moment of WHY in that demented story of abuse, rage, and devastation. To overcompensate through a lover all that you wish to, but choose not to, embody in yourself is a dangerous and often unconscious game.
Blessings to the one who shattered me into expansion, who bulldozed my spirit into the slow realization that who I was looking for in him was, in fact, the rest of myself….and found it, exaggeratedly and absurdly—as I took notes for two years in the wordless dark ink of complete undoing, then said goodbye to build from a quietly fertile ground zero.
©Julia Daye 2014
I am learning to listen. I am learning to apologize. I am learning that the speed of wounded panic is faster than the speed of rationale and that the vast warmth of a loved one’s understanding makes space for that. I am learning the wisdom of wounds. I am learning the resonant field of shared joy. I am learning timeless presence. I am learning there’s no time. I am learning to ask only for that which I myself can take responsibility. I am learning armistice. I am awake. I am unbridled heart. I thank God for bringing me. I am learning the truth of love of the whole. I am learning love.
Every year, at the precipice of spring,
I get a little cerebral,
grieving the loss of those summer-grown ego feathers
under the snowy lay of winter.
Having shed so much,
I become uncertain what to wear
and where to stand
so I teeter at life’s threshold,
underdressed and chilly,
asking for guidance but taking none of it,
choosing instead to laugh my grief loose,
making funny word-things,
a slow-cooked porridge of sense;
my heart grows slowly back again.
along the way
in this human evolution
the animal kingdom-wide instinct
of self-preservation became conditional.
As I stand on the roadway with a heavy heart,
I feel this existential threshold beckon.
Yes, we can choose this life
in both directions.
The day the reverent gesture transmuted,
the ravenous species at the top
of the food chain reached
instead for devotion.
We re-defined starvation,
we re-defined God.
We will die for one another,
we began to say,
We will die
Blessed be these bodies
where movement lives free.
The mind-made brokenness
that forgot its inheritance
Can you forgive it too?
we were born
to be here.
Dearest strangest city,
In love with you
I’ve lost myself;
On the train, my being
retreats from a face full
of street lights, falling
backward into an empty heart
than the canyons of the West
from two feet longing
for the red mother’s clay.
There we breathe, alone.
There we cry.
There my heart fills again
with the vast
oceanic question I call
I consider death.
I allow the earth to heal me slowly.
How to be happy for the unfolding
that has been, that has,
until this moment, seemed meaningful
Nine years ago, you chose experience
over love, and boy did you get it.
A swashbuckling education in emotional travel;
around the world in eighty greys–
vulnerability, discovery, loss,
mortality, shame, error.
Yet it’s a decision you continue
to make like a contract, annually
renewing over and over this strange,
lonely sort of freedom.
~ Julia Daye
At the end of the day
and the end of the year
and the end of this life
and all things I know,
I allow trust to replace vision.
The night sky’s deep celestial face emerges
again from behind its sunny blue façade.
What is dream but a midnight
porthole into invisible infinity?
Tonight, the bumblebees that fly
around my vulnerability, stop
allowing the space to yawn
wide and open.
A cozy tide beckons release
of these weary lids,
and the dream.
~ Julia Daye