"It's not some message written in the dark
Or some truth that no one's seen
It's a little bit of everything."
* * *
There is this: life insists upon itself - past your fears, past your doubts - and calls each of us into our name. When we listen, our lives run in greased grooves. When we are deaf to it we are fucked fuckers. It is never once and for always, but a bidden thing, a daily choice to be that thing that is solely ours to be, or to trade it in for what others want us to be. But how to know, right? How to know if what you are hearing is life calling you out of the dolor and into the flow, or if it is just a self-soothing lie, an acquiescence to the larger stories of commerce and class, an abdication of your authority for the promise that another authority will take care of you?
Dude, it's not some message in the dark, or some truth that no one's seen. It is there waiting for you each day. It is in a little bit of everything.
* * *
Too often our voice is swamped by louder voices. We learn to doubt ourselves because it is either too loud in the world, or too quiet. We are uncertain where we belong because everyone else seems to have figured it out and we struggle to find our feet. It is debilitating to live so and the tides of self-doubt pull us far out to sea. But why do we allow this to happen? Why do we doubt ourselves and trust everything outside and so very little that comes from within?
Because being fucked is easier than being unfucked. Misery is a pal. Fear our drinking buddy. We know these devils and the longer we re-work the story of our victimhood over and over in our minds the closer it comes to being the truth we live by. Useless, senseless, meaningless suffering is easier to attach our story to than to stand and insist on our name.
But here's the good news: revolution is internal. You can help yourself at anytime.
* * *
It is here: a robin's nest and a featherless bird on the ground, still and quiet except for the flies, clapboard siding thick with layer upon layer of paint, a white rose yellowing and a fat bumblebee nestled inside, coffee sweetened with sugar, the lattice of shadows from trees, the smell of rain, an arm asleep, burning with pins and needles rather than move because you are drunk on the smell of your beloved's air as she sleeps in your arms, books foxed with age and the smell of dried mildew, dog hair everywhere, dishes left overnight, flight, solar flares, rust, eyes tearing up not from loss or sorrow, but strain and hiding it just the same, penmanship, lichen, the Maillard reaction, a baby's fontanel, Venice, music played so loudly your windows rattle, Dylan Thomas, lemon yellow lotus flowers as orange, black and white koi drift below, tiger balm, dovetail joints, fingers stained with paint, a tattooed shoulder, ashes carried in a simple box and at first being afraid, then digging your hands in and saying goodbye, lilacs, small mouthed bass...
It is here, in this world, here and now our living is to be done. It is here we will know love. It is here we will know our name. It is here we tell our story. It is here and now that we live. For fuck's sake, why would you let fear or doubt or someone else's expectations keep you from it?
This is a timed test. Don't die a stranger to yourself. The answers to your questions, to your fears are right here. When you give the voice inside you some space it finds evidence of itself everywhere in your life. Life seeks life. It insists upon it. You can find it in a robin's nest, a rose, a tattoo, the smell of lilacs. When you find the strength inside you, you find it in a little bit of everything.
* * *