I had a dream that I was in a drafty, stonewalled room standing before a giant fireplace. A string of iridescent green-blue birds appeared and one landed on my finger and gripped with its little feet. I became weightless as they flew spiraling up the chimney to take me to soar above mountains and desert, where we stopped on a ridge or a tree branch or the like to stare in awe at the beauty of vast wilderness.
The dream I have come to interpret as a visual representation of a transition I have been undergoing for the past year. Cycles of grieving, jubilee, panic, and tranquility have been consistent and of cumulative intensity and October was a drafty, stonewalled room.
There was a moment a day or two ago I stood up too fast and the room shook like an etch-a-sketch while my head adjusted to gravity. Everything was blurred and out of focus save for these words in white on a painting: Do things differently. I wrote this soon after in a moment of connective clarity:
You said I'd write a book someday- the story of your life
the story you've forgotten, the life you didn't want
But the best laid plans not set in stone
are scribed in sandy shores
wiped away by rising tides that signal season's change
He says, "I know that I'm memorable, my mother knows my name"
But mine's forgotten I exist
her hairline bears her shame
I am not superwoman
tonight the world will smolder while my eyes are turned away
You hear the words I utter:
I am human. Take my hide.
Walk away, walk away
Find another place to stay
your home is packed onto your back
you're pulling baggage from the sack to lighten up your load
You're lightening your load
And lightning down the road is warning of the storm
A low pressure system with beauty in its form
You're shifting in your form