The Music In My Heart


Keeps me company in the ghettos of my soul.

Those dark places and spaces that I dare not always go, but how I long to illuminate them.

So, I tip toe, with a candle, can you see it, brass plate, a curled cup handle, the flicker of the flame, the shadows so much bigger than the fear and in I go.

I am listening to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel.

LOUD.

God damn.

How music can re-make me, burn me, find its way into the crevices of me and fill me with a new kind of lightness and joy.

I am full of joy.

I am in my joy bubble.

I can float, rather than wander lost, through these chambers, grateful and buoyant.

And yes.

There may be puddles of pain I drift across.

Skeins of shadows, slicks of sorrow, I will feel the pull and the longing to let it in and delve in it, or press past without looking too close.

Forgetting.

Tears.

Are just pain leaving the body.

Toxins that need to be released.

I let go of a lot today at school and it was just an amazing experience.

Extraordinary and cathartic.

I was overwhelmed and yet, I found a place, a boat made from the cup of my heart and the billowing sails of the psyche, the gossamer stronger, so much stronger than I am willing to consciously admit.

Yet.

I know.

I know so deep within me that I am capable of steering this small ship out into the grand and grandiose ocean.

I am taken care of while I do this exploration.

I got a spiritual solution for your desperate aim.

How amazing that?

I saw a way through.

A way to keep pushing and keeping on keeping on.

With flowers always in my hair.

With my heart always on my sleeve.

It needs the room to breathe.

There’s no need to go home when you are always at home in your heart.

I am always there, deep within the chasms, the spirals, a nautilus, a whispering echo of a kiss, sentimental and tinged with the dusky dried rose petals from bouquets of imaginary flowers.

I walk under canopies of plum blossoms, drifting like snow through the air, kisses from God scattered before like all the promises I made myself as a child not knowing how far flung those wishes would carry me.

Look.

Love.

How far we have come.

Buttercup.

My pink, baby bunny, my sweet serenade as I kneel, bowed head, naked at the foot of the bed, curls cascading down, vulnerable and tender and known and carried.

I will rise, cross the threshold, and then crawl, exhausted those last few inches, into the warm hand, the cup of love, the bowery of teal heart and pink ribboned adoration.

Change like the shifting night.

And this is change.

A change is coming.

I can wallow there or I can rise, rested, rise a reflection of lost light pooled and gathered in the heat of sleep, arisen, burn in the new sun, the ashes as soft as the flower petals.

Death of self.

Death of expectations.

Surrender.

Forgiveness.

Behold the heart of the beauty.

Behold the flowers crowning her hair.

The star light, the dead light, taken in, and re-ignited in the alchemy of love and yearn, to be turned back out into the world.

Hair up, head high.

Dancing skirts twirling out and the spotlight of God on me no longer a frightening thing.

Rather a place to rest.

To bask in the warmth rather than recoil from the field.

I grow forward.

I need not know what into.

Just that I do.

The desert dreams that haunt me collapse in this light, the urges and whims, the lies that brusk themselves against my lips as though to convince myself more than you that it will all be alright.

It will.

It will.

I press the poetry back agains the roof of my mouth.

Sometimes when you’re dreaming I’ll see a light.

The dark Marilyn.

The light jumping feet, bare foot against a screen of blue.

Joy, leap with me, toes curled underneath, tender and vulnerable to my gaze.

Am I there?

Am I here?

Do I need to orient myself to the pulling stars circling round another light, do I need to be raised up into this brightness, do I need to know why my heart carries me so?

No.

Not when my heart is my home.

Not when I am cavorted with, playful and joyous, shouting out in the song of myself, in the knowing that I go forth no ones woman but my own.

No ones woman.

Rather all Gods.

And therefor.

Mine.

All mine.

Sweetest heart, dearest one, longing and soft, I call to you and we will go in a field of daisies, marguerite, and dashed with the toppled heavy heads of sunflowers, their velvet leaves kissing our elbows, a soft remonstrance, your mouth on my skin, a remembering soaked in the blooded lost love from the press of my mothers chapped lips on my forehead in the light falling from the doorway.

I rise up.

This time.

I go toward the light.

I take the hand.

I let the nightgown fall down my legs and I stop shaving off pieces of me.

I build them back in.

I shine them back on.

I bedeck myself from the shift of vulnerability and innocence to the strength of better days and the promises, wishes catapulted from the billowy heads of dandelions and the soft sun soaked joy of warm grass under my bare feet.

I choose now.

I mix the memory.

I re-write the script and whisper softly.

Go, girl, go.

Fly away on the backs of geese at sunset drifting through the fog burning off from the rising sun.

Scatter the pain below you into the lake and let it all go.

Love.

Lovely.

Love.

Blessed with the crenellated masonry.

I choose to climb down the battlements.

I will live in the fray.

When the night is long.

The moon’s in the blue trees.

I will still choose to sing my song.

Love.

I love.

No matter what.

On fire, fraught and full, fallen on my own sword to die the many deaths and to let go again and again until the flowers fall behind and I stand.

And I will.

I will.

Stand.

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