Poetry

Who I am now would have astounded 8 year old me. I used to think that when I was 33, I would have been an internationally known author. Married. Living in a high rise in the big city. Having lived overseas. Having travelled alone. Having making love on a beach in the middle of nowhere. Having lived. maybe with a capital L. and so to my eight year old self - thank you. Thank you for dreaming. I have lived all those things. I have celebrated. I have danced with band aids wrapped on my feet to a song I had never heard before at 9am. Oh and I have gone to Bachaturo twice. and half me. Lives there still.  I  have met her. I will not tell you who. but, when I was there, I met her. The me that lived there. and suddenly I was at peace. I know. What is mindfulness and yoga and whatever? It's remembering that you actually know. It's I know I remember I am Ok. I know I remember I am Ok. Ok. You live here.

When winter comes, I feel it in my bones later. I can tolerate exactly 14 days. This new introspection of my own reactions to the seasons, have come about as in my maturity, I can see past the present moment. But, I wonder if using poetry as a system of tracking my seasons will prove an exercise in futility. Since most of what I do is intuitive. Oh, there, there. Nothing is ever wasted. There is always some thing there. We had to change the lighting in the house today since the sun has. Why are we so afraid of change when change is all we've ever known? Winter, probably.