uprooted from a sometime somewhere

on letting go | part 2

uprooted from a sometime somewhere

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i miss a tender wilderness that
i’ve not ever (truly) known
it is a place so far away that
i’m not lonesome
though i am alone — because —

the columns of the
rainforest
the colors of the sky
blanket all my being as much
as a lullaby.
and when i cry it is
more like a wellspring, like relief than

it is a drain, or pain — because
there is more underneath —

because it is reflection. it is
everything i’ve known. it’s

valleys peaks and
tender breezes
don’t you see it, how your spirit spies
the prize, which is
the way you recognize it — and the
way it knows you, too.

the presence of a buried wisdom:
living, breathing, even when you
know not what to do.

yet how am i to commence with this?
i long for that old abstract wilderness.

*

There are words for this feeling. I haven’t found any of them in the English language (such a wonderful language and yet so limited). Except yearning, but even that is so general, so vaguely-formed, in comparison to

sehnsucht, or

saudade, or

fernweh.

For some, the feeling does apply to a certain somewhere or someone that is far-away. To others, it is a sense more ephemeral. Right now, when I think about it, I’m decidedly in the in-between: there are moments wherein I feel close to having captured this elusive it, almost, mostly right at twilight, when the sun is hitting that perfunctory point above the trees as it sets, maybe glinting off of nearby water. Everything has clarity then, both within and without. I yearn for a place that I do and do not know, and is almost right there.

In those moments, the feeling itself does live within and without. Even though what I yearn for is also almost-present, all around and centered inside.

I fear I am making this sound complicated, when it is far from complicated. Is it not a feeling of everything’s existence and occurrence at one time — of nothing being absent — of alignment?

It doesn’t last. It doesn’t have to. You keep seeking anyway, right?

Maybe.

That kind of seeking can go awry, I know. It can lead you down roads you never intended, detours that sort of pit you against who you really are or what you really want. I think of Into the Wild, for the most obvious of examples, of that heartbreaking coda of a scrawled half-sentence: “Happiness only real when shared.” I have been reading Women Who Run With the Wolves, which also speaks to the tragedy of losing touch with one’s wild edge: how it can do you one worse; how doing so can slingshot you back into too much of everything, of intensity and chaos.

So I suppose I wonder if it’s possible to let go of the search. To let people, places, things — truest selves, too — enter and ebb as they please.

*

Residual | Part 5

residual | part 5

What if I were smiling, and running into your arms?
Would you see then what I see now?

We wait for so much beneath the embrace of fluorescent lights—
Lingering is a natural state of things.
It pushes us towards entropy, that slow-consuming enemy;
It eats at order we desire, and renders patience faint.

How can we take in truth with slumbering eyes,
As if we’re in the cool of a coma?
Dreams try to tell us we still do, but
There’s still the clinging feeling, is there not, that someone’s forgotten you?

How can we go on waiting?
We have rooms for such things.
If there were a cavernous one for us all, well,
Those walls would be heavy with song, with sadness.
For waiting to give life, or to receive it;
To leave, or to return home;
To change, or to see change;
To find someone, or to lose him.

If this story has a moral, perhaps it’s this:
Our names are not our lives,
Nor are they graven with any chisel, safe as that would seem.

Yet why should not the opposite be comfort?
Why not tend another’s garden just to see the bloom?
Why sleep curled, fetal, on the floor in yet another empty room?

While our veins are yet undrained of second chances,
Let us be not timid—bravery comes in quiet ways.

Waiting is not wrong—perhaps purgatory is
Like paradise—

And it ends, eventually, and all things are made new.

*

I have little to say about this one. But I do believe that, eventually, all things are made new, no matter how blighted or seemingly depleted. Sometimes it simply requires waiting—patience—to get that full abundant result. That new breath of life. That grace-filled renewal that is real.

*

title drawn from Into the Wild (film version)