Wild Knowing

What is known is the wild. This valley, the way she keeps me, calls me to her shores with whispers of westward winds. Vacated beaches and clouds thick like milkweed, like a soft crown around my head. The knowing I can always find a quiet place, away from sidewalks and sirens, in between the changing pink hues of the sumac leaves and the jagged rocks that collect distant memories, dead and forgotten pieces of time resting in pools of last night’s rain.

What is unknown is when and where these moments find me, pulling me to the earth, opening my dark eyes wide. They find me in the scurry of an otter along the banks. My back turned and something says “look behind”…there it is quietly sitting, watching me. The way both our senses collide and we respect each other’s space. An unspoken connection, a recognition of what wild feels like, what freedom lies in the stillness, in the moments between these moments.

The sweet surprise of the old Nepalese man I see on my morning walks, how we don’t speak with tongues, we see each other, through and through. I feel a warmth come over me as I study his face, the wrinkled tributaries that trail from his eyes. Folds of skin that tell time. That tell another life. Under this gray sky, he sits, legs folded wrapped in colored cloths and today I hear him singing from his balcony. I look up and exchange smiles, we press our hands together and bow to one another. His song whirling through my ears like a familiar lullaby. Generations and miles that had previously separated us disintegrate, they fall like sand.

Knowning and unknowing. In the release of decisive abandonment. I know the wild, the random pieces that fit together and make this day. Fragments of expectations and observations cast aside. The familiar unknown…we stand hand in hand, chests out, hearts open, eyes wide.

We weave the wild.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesclear #wedontedit #wild#unknown #eyeswide #poetry

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Open

I study the way water caresses the shore, the gentle pulse and pull. No thought, just free movement.

The crash of chaos turned soft, like wrapping yourself in a white cotton sheet fresh from the line, cooled by strong summer winds. Fueled by dragonfly wings.

I watch the maps the water creates, a cartographer leaving tales of currents and fresh rain. An old sea.

Open to the sheer beauty, the truth of time and the look in my ancestors’ eyes, how they visit me in dreams. How easily I overlook such meaning. Lost.

It’s become easier to close myself, to bury in earth and walls than to wind toward the sun, trusting growth.

Open like tears that flow down my face each time I hear Moonlight Sonata. The way Beethoven or a forest floor, a waterfall, holding my son’s hand, a bed of ferns just feels like home to me.That kind of beauty, inherent and vulnerable, young yet a lifetime, a library of memories.

A trail of fear lies behind, boxes and parts of me strewn across the country. I return each time, to this shore looking across state borders, always looking west, mountains lining the horizon. Lost in sunsets.

I want to feel the stillness, the calm within the storm. Forget about before or after. Stop trying to determine my own future. Just flow. Water washing over my toes. This simple silent beauty. A quiet connection to it all.

expansion. exposed.

An open expansion of curiosity
The thirst of a dry riverbed
Cracked earth
Making room for hard rain

An expansion of community
A support system holding me like an underground mycelium network
A filter that nourishes me

An open dialogue
No lies, no masking words
Just honest
To honor the ability to accept and deflect
that which doesn’t enhance me

Expansive, explosive like the dying star at the heart of a nebula
Dispersing color and element
Letting go of time
Watching it float, bend, collide
A reincarnation of the skies

An opening of strength
in a world that often holds me down
I slip closer to soil
To scrape together the remains, the decay
I sculpt it like sandcastles
A temple for detritivores
Building from discarded remnants of life
Making it breathe again

Overflowing love and guilt and words held silent for too long
Spinning
Spiraling like a tornado
Touching down
Touching skin and sweat
Bruised legs

I held
I hold things tight
Pressed against my breast
Stacked on shelves against my sternum
Quietly
Slowly seeping out

There I am
Split open
Peeled
Unhindered
Open expansion of eyes
Reaching back

I fly these memories like kites
I let them go,
tethered to me by a string
By one
simple
fragile string
I witness them dip and bow in the wind
How did they ever have the power to bury me?

A trail of tattered, faded material flying high
Open
Exposed
I release you
You may follow me,
but you are no longer mine.

Opening

When I open I imagine my rib cage has hinges, unlocked at the sternum, creaking open like my old dollhouse, cobwebs hiding small compartments, a curios cabinet of time. 

DNA of the forest, flesh of fern and bark of birch trees. Faeries I played with as a girl, fluttering in wings of hawks, in sounds of birds awaken every morning at 4 am to greet the world before the sun. 

Soft pine needles under hardened bare feet. Tongue of fire, eyes of owl, pupils full of clouds. A canopy of buds and leaves, filtered sun and shadow protecting me. This is where I breathe, hands in the dirt, toes dipped in silver streams embraced by sand. 

Acorn, pine cone, tiny shells and feathers, treasures made of moss and bone. Roots that press my airy body back to earth, to ground, to rich soil and rock, to former glacial ocean turned deciduous, coniferous, old growth, layered and sedimentary. A reflective self sufficient history.