dark red nest

My writing from week 6 of The Visceral Self plus some older heart art

dark nest

my brother was born a red and colicky thing 
screamed night and day 
sweated until his hair stood on end

I cleared my small shoes from the floor of my closet 
replaced them with a soft nest 
pillows, my favourite blanket 
the pink cat my father won at the fair
bright and as tall as me 
stuffed with styrofoam pellets that crackled with each hug 
neck loose from affection

I stole away into the dark 
listened to sitar sounds on my father's tape machine
while my heart fluttered the wings of the butterflies 
beneath my favourite tree 

the sitar strings in the dark louder than my brother's crying 
the taste of flannel  
pattern of puppies and kittens chewed pink and thin 
like the line of light through the fold of my closet door

the tabla echoed in my chest until my breath slowed 
my small fingers flipped the sound to half speed 
pitch dropping to an oceanic wave 
sun sounds and vastness as I curled cocooned 
in the dark fists tight around my blanket 
my pillows a pericardium holding my slowing rhythms 
the electric cat crackling as I slipped into langour

my heart told me when I needed silence 
my heart told me when I needed the dark nest 
my heart taught me how I could expand through slowing 
how the lack of light 
was like floating

heart vortices (2016)

In times of heaviness creative work is what pulls me through. In times of heaviness I stitch, each pop and shirr of needle and thread through cloth is a grounding, a slowing, so my heavy heart can rest. Time expands, and I am hypnotized by the shapes I embroider. They are attentive, mindful stitches.I remind myself that small moments of beauty are what make a life. Find the glowing moments to allow the breath to expand, the heart to open. 

In some heavy moments I am drawn to write pages upon pages growing imperceptibly heavier as I fill them with ink. My handwriting is tiny and curved, the trails insects leave in wood. I rarely reread this type of writing. It is about the process. The words release themselves from my mind in a torrent. My mind clears, my breath easy after. 

In other heavy moments I am drawn to write poetry. This is a slower sort of pen work and more spacious. The page is a canvas I place each word on, chosen precisely. I slow. I breathe. I wait and each word drops lightly. Blossoms from trees. Pale things that the wind/mind gathers up scenting the air, leaving meaning behind me when I walk away.

You can read my previous writing from The Visceral Self here:

Weeks 1 & 2

Week 3

Week 4

Week 5