once again, thank you all for your support. i’m feeling much better now – more grounded, more aware. a weight has been lifted off my heart, and although i know myself well enough to say, “i’m all better! look ma, no hands!”, yesterday was rock bottom and i’m coming up again. i know i need balance…i’m slowly figuring out ways.i might be quiet here for a while, i might not. the reason is, i get slightly embarrassed when i look back at my posts for the last bit and see how much of a rollercoaster i’ve been on, and therefore put you through. 

I’M FEELING GREAT i’m feeling like poo I’M FEELING ON TOP OF THE WORLD i want to crawl in a hole

 i really appreciate the community i have and i don’t want to drain energy from anyone…i want to replenish myself so i can nourish you. i know there is much to be said for being a witness on this journey, but at this point in my journey i am considering the idea of letting real change take root, quietly, in my body. not disturbing it with constant poking:

*poke* have you grown yet?
ow! *rubs little root tummy* quit poking me!
*poke* have you grown yet?
*packs suitcase, puts on fedora* i’ve had enough of this shit. me and the missus, we’re taking off to mexico.

olivia at happy luau reminded me of julia cameron’s phrase of staying “emotionally sober”, and i have definitely been feasting on the blues lately. i can also say that my depression began around the time i stopped writing consistently. both are things i’m going to be working on in the next few days.

in spirit: a poem….

the dinner table, the tulip
by rhea tregebov
found here

So what do we do with this,
this world, this uncertain spring,
the tulips still holding, things green and cold.
Take the tulips, composed, driven to yellow or rose
from their chilly green, given to order,
unfolding. The colour they move towards
held for a day, or a week, contingent
on the weather, accident. Then paling or darkening
into other shades, then the quick
or slow decomposing. Coming to grief.
To being not tulips. Does rot
have its own order? I think not.
Theorists see things moving
to degeneration, some, and looking down,
I might be inclined to agree, skidding down
to an agreement since more than the weather
this spring is uncertain. Systems large
and small are flawed, disintegrating.
Think of anything: my respiratory system,
the world’s. Today I run along the cul-de-sac
in the swanky end of our neighbourhood.
As always, there are vans parked in the driveways.
Things are being taken care of, expensive systems
in need of maintenance. The rest of us
are short on money, time, love.
And you so careless, the roof needing repair,
plaster crumbling from the living-room ceiling,
faith battered, struck by dilemma. Yes you,
I’m talking to you – reader, lover –
pay attention to this poem! It’s a good thing
it is spring, my faith still holding,
in R. Tregebov, a body running along concrete,
however the lungs rasp. Spring inclines me
elsewhere, to lean towards other theories –
anti-chaos, the universal yearning
towards order. Setting the table just so.
The tulips in the right vase.
Yearning, yes, the scientist wanting
it to be the case that we are at home
in the universe, that life is inevitable,
the consequence of broad avenues of possibility,
not back lanes of improbability. Although,
agnostic, I might settle for back lanes.
I’ve loved their rough edges, seamy sides:
rusted garbage cans overturned, the
opportunity for scrounging, the
possibility of unexpected plenty.
A clump of fat white violets beside the garage
and beside them, blue ones, their pansy faces
attentive. Not an aberration but a plan.
Agnostic, I bless those looking
for a science of emergence, of complexity,
looking for a way to model complicated systems
like the dinner table, the tulip. And I
of science, but ours why is there
something rather than nothing.