There are tears, here
dried
out of reach
and locked inside
seeds
of what might have been, alive
now caught, and clustered beneath
my right eye
each one, a waxy aril

Light flutters
through lidded sky
lash tip, a brushing bat
My heart, a blue ocean
chasing itself, confined
in tight, caved systems
winding orbital spaces

My tunnel vision
narrowing, on pace
slighted, in blurry haze
reel spin, still seeking
old ways of escape

I hear a trickle, back here
above my right ear
echo drip on cave wall, beading

My jaw falls, unfocused
mind wants me
to care what I look like:
tongue flopped, lips parted
blep
what if they all stare?
I pause, self-conscious
but no one else is there

So, instead, it tries to find
new ways to use the time
taking notes, to help others
shared later, in writing (here)
you seem to come and find me
when no one else is there

A twitch
in my cheek
revealing shroud, I speak
what Gillian taught me
years ago, in Lisbon
“It’s softening, now…
Go ahead, say it - out loud.
Breathe in to the space, it wants
to hear from you”

Do clouds withhold
what they’re meant to carry?

Looking down
at what might be
washed away, beneath

Or do they dissipate, as rain
tumbling down, in faith
eager to breathe and see
with new eyes, incarnate?

Water swells
between blinks, I tell myself
that I've always had permission to leap

Back of the Page

This post was a somatic exercise in trying to cry. You know, when you really need to, but the tears just aren’t coming. Why not? There’s so many reasons for a release. Who’s holding the reins so tightly?

I am grateful that I met Gillian and Paula, of Conscious Alignment, in Lisbon back in 2022. They introduced me to body scanning - taking a little flashlight into the dark caves of our body, where we’re storing all the stress, and tension. And seeing what we find.

I remember one particular spot was locked tight, to the point of resisting her touch as she was trying to free it. “It’s softening, now…” she said. “You try it - ask it to soften” (I’m paraphrasing, today). I was skeptical - this thing was engraved in stone, unmoving. “Try it, be nice…” - so I said it out loud, and believed it in my mind “it’s starting to soften…”

As I said it, the muscle let go - “see!” - I couldn’t believe it. But this was not the only magical experience I’ve had with holistic therapy (informed by Rolfing). Earlier that year, Mike, an integrative practitioner in San Diego, held a point on my back for so long, that once the muscle released, I had a visual image of letting go of a boulder that I had been pushing up a grass hill. Sisyphean, I know.

The body is trying to tell us things, if we listen.

This poem takes imagery from pomegranate seeds - the aril (yes, I had to look that up, too). In my mind, I was imagining the little raspberry or pomegranate-like seeds trapping my tears. That must be the reason it’s so hard to cry, and release…

The cave system imagery is how I explore those stuck areas in my body - as I wave the flashlight around, I see what thoughts are associated. No, I don’t want to go there… The body asks anyway.

My blue ocean is the feeling of my circulatory system, pumping in the dark orbital space around my eye. I was focusing attention there, asking why it felt so stuck. We can follow our breath around our body, too. It’s neat…

As I breathe and start to relax, I’m sure, I look hilarious. The self conscious voice comes out to say hello - are you aware, your tongue is hanging out, cat-like, for all to laugh and point? Uh, yes, but no one else is here - thank you, kindly. I sometimes have a hard time turning off the protective mechanism, even in private.

My thoughts also race to this page, dear Reader. Lady Whistledown would be proud, I finally got to use that phrase. But, in the midst of my meditation, I found myself thinking of this poem, and taking mental notes. How ironic, to write a poem about being so present and in tune with my body, while I am writing for you, in the future (which is now, and now)…

I didn’t have the full cry I was hoping for - just some water between blinks, but I am grateful for the chance to check-in, and find silence, for a moment. It made me think of clouds dissipating in a leap of faith, with excitement for what they’re falling toward. Usually, we think of clouds as ominous, and may see them as losing something as they disappear after a rain storm. But, really - they keep flowing.

I wonder if they ever remember what it’s like to cry.

💧