I didn’t grow up with anything much in mind except escape. I used to watch the long driveway to my parents’ house while playing solitaire. I once had a palm reading by Tennesee Williams’ cousin Stella Adams who looked at my hand and said something like,”oh lordy, you were boring when you were young! Your life has gotten more interesting and will continue to be so.” She could not have been more right!
Endless games of solitaire, reading, day dreaming, running up and down the river banks left me open to longing and crushes and believing in people who were interested in what I had or could get them. People fantasized about me, I think – if they noticed me. And I focussed on them. Any life but mine.
I got good at drawing them in, people. Men, and later women. I found a power in me and no clue what to do with it. My father pushed and pushed at me when he was sober. Conform. Give in. Do what I say. I don’t think he knew any better either. He didn’t know how to handle freedom of mind, of action. He didn’t know what to do with love.
To be naked is not necessarily
To be exposed
To love without Self
showing up is some of it, Being there might be the rest
might, I said
nothing is naked that’s clothed in shame
facets of distortion, the holograms of the soul,
don’t make anything very real
even as they might be pretty, or true, interesting or defining
they are not real
I think my soul looks like this
pink and delicate, embarrassing
in its softness, its lack of purpose
its ability to just be.
I want to be mindlessly exposed
to express what I don’t know but what I feel
I want the wash of little lies and big truths to wallow in my essence
my wading pool. no drowning. no waterfalls. just light
and shadows giving way to endless presence
a life turned on, lifting up, waiting, letting go, cycling
an excess of the spirit, of moment, of Is.