Inside the Everything

bubbles of sadness burst themselves all around my body and being -
i kneel, i flee the room, i let tears have their way.
another token
of a saddened day remembered
so long ago, 
so often now
reborn. 


shades of a person, memory of their soul,
you want to touch it, press it, 
but it lies so buried in dimensions’ softness. 
constricted softness holding eternity, 
the whispers and imprints of 
what was, what is. 


what hasn’t been -
its dull and studded wall not yet clambered over,
its invincibility 
a blurred imagining 
in our ever-present minds.


they say we need more presence, or to “be present”
i said it myself just two days ago, if I could just be present
to the beauty of the present 
enjoy it as much as my heart deems it wants. 
but why the “if” -
if that’s my solution… 
to how i wish to be in a state of happiness, 
how i am seeking ways of thinking
to make it so. 
if I just think in the PRESENT, and positively at that…
THEN, i can enjoy the NOW and 
my tomorrow 
will be just as good. 
For it will be its own present, of its own. 


i’m just not sure that
that’s the way of thinking
i wish to choose and employ.


i sit in the dark at my desk, having forgotten to close the window from the evening chill, 
i sit and realize i’m freezing, and thirsty, 
and a candle burns upon the dresser/altar
joined by the light of the laptop screen, 
and the sound machine loops its static heartbeat womb noises from the baby’s room down the hall…


and i am unsure. 
need to take a breath. 


again i ask my soul, my anything, my world and existence. 
how can I see into those soft warm folds of everythingness? 
can i reach in and just hug my grandparents, or, be hugged by them? 
that’s all I wonder for now, as i cry a prayer of wishing my family safe, 
after breaking into tears
standing in the kitchen after putting the baby to bed, 
ready to make dinner but first, bang! -
- a thousands sadness bubbles burst around my body and being… 
In tears I leave the kitchen to kneel on the yoga mat left from some earlier lazy stretching.
its blue color, along with the welcoming hardness of the wood floor, embrace my prostration
but I can only last a minute before retreating to the bedroom and letting my body fall as if in slow motion onto the bed. 
Feels like I have so much to cry about. There’s no time for crying right now, it’s late and you gotta go make dinner, I tell myself. 
But the tears continue unchecked until I wipe my face a few minutes later, rise to light a candle and burn some palo santo (because I’m a gypsy hippie after all), and sit down on the blue exercise bouncy ball that is my desk chair. Open the “drafts” file off a fresh desktop window on my macbook to begin typing, but am caught off guard by the last thing I had written here. So I read it. Proofread it sort of. It makes me cry harder for a moment and then all at once it helps me to stop crying. The text was a sort of birth story, written as a review of my doctor. It’s too long (said yelp when I tried to post it), even though I thought I was keeping it succinct. I thought people wrote pretty long essay-ish reviews on there so I went at it. Was too long and I never posted it, having seen that in the 17 months since he delivered my baby, he had gotten loads of positive reviews. ANYWAY,
the paragraphs on the bright screen, dimmed to contrast less with the darkness of the room, but still very bright… 
small thin letters carried me out of the sadness. it had been such a soaking, heavy-ish feeling - encompassing my entire self and requiring full lay-down-on-bed maneuvering. it’s a bit like grief, never quite going away. 
it’s grief. it never goes away. 


it gets smoothed and coated. it gets hidden, or tangled, or processed in a healthy way and released. 
(that last one is bullshit)


it never goes away. you can “release it” and think it’s released, observe it as released, commemorate it as such, teach others how to do likewise, describe how and why, when and where, with whom, through what, how else. infinite ways of dealing. of healing. of words and words and thoughts, feelings, dreams, travels, trips, quests, voyages and pilgrimages. of infinities. infinities onto infinities. 
and then - plop!
back to you, just you. 


a woman on an edge, 
from maiden to mother. 
grieving. always. 
and rejoicing. always. 
the grief is there, but it becomes something else. creativity. and something akin to an angelic power. an amplifier. a never-ending blessing. 


i reach my arm into a nondescript void, 
a void which so embodies the meaning of a void
that it is not a void - 
and I feel my feet follow in step…
am I here? 
inside the everything? 
​