There must have been something going on recently in the collective unconscious of the world - the ether - or maybe the planets fighting each other for their respective astrological supremacy. Hard to say. But it was a harsh week.
Today is Saturday and a full moon - it feels better, though. I feel better. I didn't wake up anxious, as I had been doing for over a week, straining to understand why the invisible sounds of life's behind-the-scenes machinery were filling me with dread.
It is not raining. It is only raining in my poem below. But in fact, for the first time in days it is also a morning of generous sunshine without the sprinkling of the rain or marine layer rolling in at first light.
I found this old poem I wrote a while back.
I have not changed since then. Or have I? That is the question.
When I start going mad, I always turn to one man who will never leave my heart - Rainer Maria Rilke.
“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day".
I thought of you today.
The morning was covered by the blanket of rain
It was so sweet to lie there, half-asleep
and wonder, hazily, at the irony of life.
All my days, I am torn between
the safe haven, shining like a beacon
and the Grand Adventure.
But I am unable to give myself up
not for long anyway.
Who do you see, when you stare at me so?
A kind of saintly ghostly glow about me, perhaps
or maybe I represent a part of you
lost long ago; stillborn to this world.
The water on the roof was the Morse Code
I felt like I was close to knowing the answer.
There comes a time when all that matters
is being your own self, through and through.
And if I was with you, I know I would become
a better version of the girl I've only come to know.
No, not the girl: the woman.
I am no longer made of clay. I have been weathered,
beaten, burned and now I do not yield.
Your love is like the wind: it tugs; it beckons and embraces
I do not want the wind: I'd rather be with trees.
They stand there, waiting, until I come to them myself
and do not ever judge me.