Grip the broken end, the splintered bone
and nibble gently into spice-softened reptilian skin,
tearing into sinew and cartilage.
Masticate the morsels of childhood flavors
of satisfaction and shame
lingering on the round edges of your tongue.
The blurred memories of tropical heat
sharpen with this salty, sweet, chewy claw.
Spit out the bones like baby teeth
from a mouth that no longer speaks
the Mother Tongue.
Eat this alone in the kitchen at night-
not one, but the whole pack.
Then scrape the pile of broken fingers into the trash
hiding all evidence
of this delicacy.
“The rocks are beyond slow, beyond strong, and yet, yielding to a soft, green breath as powerful as a glacier, the mosses wearing away their surfaces grain by grain, bringing them slowly back to sand. There is an ancient conversation going on between mosses and rocks, poetry to be sure. About light and shadow and the drift of continents.”
- from Gathering Moss, by Robin Wall Kimmerer, botonist
Something to meditate on as we hustle about the city...
“I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality.”
― Frida Kahlo
Creating art from pain, shaping stories from torn flesh and broken bones. Healing is progress not towards normalcy, as my health (physical and mental) will never be normal (whose is?). Healing is progression to authenticity, to singing aloud, to creating and adding and becoming part of the chiaroscurro of pain and joy to the world. When pain occurs, our bodies are mindfully alive-- mindful to death. Respecting death with all of life's wonder.
Telling one's story is not narcissism; it is birth and truth. To tell a story that does not spring from the heart, the mud, is cliche (big media) and cliche is not death, it is static.