Maybe you are tired (you are not alone).
The brightness, the lighness of step
receded, past resistance, to memory.
It’s been like this maybe for years;
you’ve stopped just shy of wondering
what happens between the early years
of boundless joy and laughter, and now,
and why and how and by whose design
we’ve come to decide on a version of life
less saturated, sparkling and true.
But something stirs. It is inside you,
a gem that cannot be buried long.
It pulses, takes you on the first steps
of a journey you could not have known.
There you are, as if grace itself appeared
to lift the veil, and so you do. And see,
you are standing, has it always been like this?
On the lost wing of stunning remains:
a one-winged butterfly, larger than any legend,
resting for awhile on a mount only rising.
This was inspired by a beautiful encounter with a dear friend today. She is full of joy and passion and wisdom. While I can’t capture her ephemeral “her-ness”, which is nonetheless out there in the universe, I was moved to create this watercolour.
With her help, I remembered a valuable lesson today. When you make time, no matter how busy you think you are, you will have more time, and joy grows infinitely from there.
I hope you enjoy!
Tammy T. Stone
I can’t sleep.
Even the bed,
worn and crinkled,
and dampened with sweat,
becomes a rejection
of everything I am.
And the storm that started
hours ago as a lighthearted rain
and showing no sign
of passing by.
She invites me into
her unfurling movements
filled to the very edges of all things,
with grace, and I submit,
because I can’t think
of what else I can do.
Ask your questions,
the storm tells me,
making sounds that shake the bones
but ensure that I am rooted here,
where I’m afraid to be.
The storm knows
that I still need to ask questions,
even though I’ve had hints
that there are other ways
of reaching truths.
She knows I still have so many,
and they arise often,
so I tell them to the howling wind,
Why am I always seeking and what am I looking for?
Why do I always feel I am falling?
But why am I afraid of this, of falling?
Why do I always feel there must
be something more to all of this life?
Why do I feel that happiness
can only be found elsewhere,
and why can I conceive of happiness,
but not actually have it?
Why is the mind so strange
that it can form questions
that it can’t answer?
What is the nature of nostalgia,
that it floods me with feelings
that have no object?
Why do things feel more broken than whole?
Why do I feel lonely?
Why does it take me until the very end of all things
to realize that all of this has everything to do with love,
and only with love?
The storm takes me in her arms.
I can actually feel the warmth on my skin,
despite the raging nature of her essence.
She tells me that it doesn’t matter
how long it takes to come to love,
because love isn’t going anywhere,
and will happily wait until it is recognized
by every single one of us.
The question is tiny and frail.
I am a little girl again.
“Yes, even you. Of course, even you.”
The tears and the rain mix together.
I keep talking to the storm.
“Have I left any kind of legacy?”
I guess I’ve only ever wanted
small things, less even,
than I thought.
Just quiet days for reaching in,
yellow butterfly love surrounding me
until we are the same thing.
*This poem was recently published in Rebelle Society – check it out here!