The Crows

The Crows
are makin' me nervous
I woke
to their ominous jawing
the macabre
sound set my terror wheels turning
their jet
majesty stalked me through daylight
eternity in
their knowing; their watching
I refuse
them as signs of the future
my mind
remains vigilant, all the same

It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.  So much gets in the way – all the time.  So many ways in which to ignore our souls, our inner universe.  We neglect it until it acts up – shows us physical signs that our delicate equilibrium has been disrupted.

These days, I know that I can get off track with worry, anxiety, fear…I am fiercely protective of the love and place that I have been blessed with, and for some irrational reason, I think that I can control the fate of everything that is valuable to me.  Even though I believe whole-heartedly in faith, having faith that there is a Power greater than us that guides us, every step, somehow, I am still arrogant enough to believe that I am in control.  That if I think about it enough, I will be able to get ahead of every bad thing that could possibly happen.  That if I don’t worry, if I’m not scared, not constantly looking over my shoulder, then a big bad boogie man will sneak from the shadows and take everything that makes me happy.

I hate the fear and worry, but they are a part of me.  They will never go away, they will always be swirling around in the chains of my DNA.  I am constantly apologizing to You for my doubt, my lack of faith that You will guide my every step, and truly, I am sorry.  But I think it is time to see the foes of fear and worry as worthy opponents, and bow to them in respect.  

I dreamed that Mars was perched just over the surface of the ocean last night...it was grey with a big hunk taken out of it somehow, like a bite out of an apple.  The inside surface was molten red...it looked like Mars was dying.  As I watched, the seemingly diminished planet fell out of the sky and landed in the waves with a big splash, then rolled across beach and dunes to take out a couple of the houses settled along the coastline for the night.  A giant bowling ball, and they were its pins. Strike!

I remembering being there to witness this, but feeling removed.  Possibly because I was aware that it was a dream, or sheer disbelief.  I think there was a newscast of some sort playing somewhere, and they interrupted the drone of the loop with the breaking news that Mars had fallen from the sky and bowled across a beach.

What was notable about this to me was the feeling of incredulity that I felt when I woke up...not so much that I envisioned the ultimate demise of Mars as we know it, but more because my brain came up with such a creative dream.  "Oh, Ye of little faith", I chided as I dozed.  In daylight hours, my brain can work up unlikely scenarios like this and more all the time...none anymore believable but still turned over too frequently by my mind, as if these rampant fears warranted any such inspection as valid concerns.

Lesson to learn, here, me thinks.

Evidently, in my mind I see the savant type of writer...the wildly impassioned, temperamental genius who needs absolute silence and strangely beautiful, elusive muses to be inspired to create. Evidently, I have coveted this image of a writer who needs extremes to let the words flow; only if the end result is from a deep, unique, almost spiritual place can it be considered beautiful prose. And once the train of thought has been lost, it is gone forever, banished to creativity hell and mourned from the deep recesses of a brain who only cherishes and respects a thought at that moment, instead of nurturing it into fruition forever. I have seen writing purely as art, instead of work, without realizing that it only exists as art in my mind and is glorified in that shadowy place alone...to share it, which will probably alleviate a multitude of my frustration, I will have to work at it, chipping away at this rock of writer's block like an unglamorous miner instead of a ethereal, wispy fairy who waves a magic wand to make lovely little words appear. Which is irony at it's best, because while fairies are pretty and magical, they can be crushed like bugs...a characteristic that I absolutely don't covet.

Evidently, I need to come out of my mind a lot more and give it a go in the real world for a bit.

I want just one word, or maybe a few, in your hand writing...a few words from you to me. So that I can tattoo it on my soul. Or at the very least my skin.

Anxiety. Bleh.

I know that there is a relaxed person inside of me. Maybe I really am type A and am in a serious state of denial. But I don't think so.

It's weird, 'cause I am pretty articulate. When I allow myself to communicate, I really can match up the words to the thoughts that are rambling around in my head. But it always seems to be in this slightly autistic, borderline unhinged kind of way. It's verbal vomit, where I am not really thinking about what I am saying, I'm just sayin'...it. And it's right. I am actually communicating the right thought to correspond with the current situation. It might not be pretty, but it's out there in the open where it is much easier to manage. It's as if my brain is a candy machine (I think I would charge more than a penny for my thoughts, though) and my subconscious can access it to dispense the words with the touch of a button.

It's the thinking that fucks it up.

Thinking too much causes me to become this very verbal, very communicative mute. Because I censor myself so much, my voice has become this rusty mechanism that I don't trust to function properly anymore. I've never much liked to hear myself speak, I prefer to listen. Honestly, it's just easier. But it's counter-productive to the point of being damaging. Damaging to myself and to those that I love. At least in my head.

Because they can't follow me to wherever I go when I shut down. They can't know how much I love them when all that's out in the open is a mask of indifference. And silence. Somehow I have managed to create silence that is LOUD, this almost tangible refusal to speak, make eye contact, or act like I give a crap, really. It's gotta be difficult to understand that I'm really just being hard on myself in my head, willing myself to use my big girl words, trying to find a way that makes sense to me, trying to stop thinking and just be. To just speak.

It's hard to explain that even when I know that something is not a big deal, it's seems so to me. My whirring mind spins things so vastly out of proportion so quickly that even I have a hard time figuring out where the hot mess of drama that it turns into comes from. Most of the time I am able to sort through the BS detritus that my brain has created and set myself straight...sometimes before it's even noticeable that I went to that weird place. But sometimes I get stuck there and it seems that nothing short of Divine intervention, a backhoe and some dynamite will make me come away.

And I am there now.

I had a dream, and as I have actually been remembering my dreams lately, I thought I would try to get this down...

We were walking on a sea wall - some place cold and misty, like England; it was a foreign place, but it still kind of felt like St. Augustine. There was an older man with us who I didn't recognize, but his presence was kind and it seemed that we cared deeply about him.

Somehow, I got ahead of the two of you. All of a sudden, a gigantic tsunami type wave came and swept me off of the wall, gobbled me into the sea like a baleen whale sucking up a tiny fish. I was dragged to the crest of another wave, and pounded back into the water repeatedly. It was terrifying, but somehow I was staying alive, and there were other people in the water who seemed to have removed themselves from the vicious cycle. They kept telling me to take a deep breath and dive, dive down into the cold, unknown depths and eventually I would escape to a small beach that capped the tide line.

So I did. I guess I miraculously turned into Aqua Girl, because I held my breath long enough to sink down into the navy blue calmness and free myself of the crashing waves.

Once back on land, I was frantic to find the two of you, scared that you had been swept off into oblivion. But when I found my way back to the sea wall you were still there, hands in pockets, having the kind of solid chat that is rare and meaningful. I don't remember wondering whether or not you noticed that I was gone; I just marveled over the fact that you were still there, waiting for me to return. The panic dissipated as I realized that you were safe, and I was safe, and we were together again.

It was a good dream, it was a dream that meant something to me - perhaps that you represent the calm in my stormy psyche. And the old man? THE Old Man, maybe? Walking along, having a chat?

Did you know that God was by your side?