Why I Write | Terry Tempest Williams

I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write

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Small Hope

What I hope: I hope to feel the dew collect along my collarbones and arms in the rice paddy fields of Bali as the sun reaches up, evoking the promise of today. I hope to ride my bike through streets

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Morning Poem by Mary Oliver

If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails  for hours, your imagination alighting everywhere.  And if your spirit carries within it  the thorn that is heavier than lead --- if it's all

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Boy 1904

To be moved by sound, by echo, is to ultimately be moved by grace. 

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Pont des Arts

Our love is like the padlocks on the Pont des Arts, in Paris— Thousands of locks, symbols of unbreakable love. Isn’t that beautiful? Apparently, though, all those locks are too heavy for the bridge. Did you hear this? I read

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A "Ha" and An Exhale

light:


I pause at a stoplight, hands at the 10’ and 2’ and it hits. Not a moving vehicle housing an unaware driver (thankfully), but sadness.

The words of Miranda July repeat softly with the in-breath that follows; “All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life—where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it.”

It is the third year in a row with no “happy birthday”. Blood is thicker than water echoes at the forefront of my mind with a “ha” and an exhale. Whoever decided that that idiom was a true representation of an impenetrable familial bond had little idea of the contrary. Water can be pretty damn thick.

Five days before I turned twenty-four I received several spit-fire messages from my dad. Out of the blue, without a trigger-warning or causation. It had been months since we'd spoken (about eight or nine) and about two decades of nonexistent emotional relationship. The last year or so of events became the turning point in finally severing and (emotionally) removing any blood-binding relations we most certainly share. I think of the DNA splitting itself apart; I visualize animated slides of a molecule binding and separating, causing some sort of chaos in the reaction, yet the singular molecule survives on its’ own. I’m left with a brain in my skull and a heart beating in my chest that bears no resemblance to his.

 I demand respect.
You need medication so you can learn how to actually be around and get along with others.
You’re clueless to what real life is like.
Grow up and experience hard times. You don’t know what true suffering is. I need you to grow up and experience the real world, you pitiful little brat.

I imagine this is what many, many people do when they’re embarrassed, vulnerable, angry, and aggressive—they’re in pain. And what’s the easiest, easiest thing to do to alleviate that pain? Push and pull it into the false refuge that is displacement and pour it out onto others. I know this to be true because I've done it myself. Shamefully, sadly, but truthfully. But that scene of message after message, the maelstrom of emotion and words and adrenaline (all the while at a coffee shop trying to write and send out my writing) made me think on my past reactions in relation to his; the ticking bomb, the hidden land mine that is my father, and me, the solider in battle on the front-line knowing it can go one of two ways.

My reactions and displacements similar to my father's ceased at the exact season in my life when I began to love and accept my humanness, with all my flaws, and endure my proclivity of a harsh and judgmental mind. I learned to feel it all. I felt so much pain in so many of the meditations, mental and physical manifestations, that I thought I would not be able to continue. But I did. I did. My back would swell so much that lying is savasana sent radiating splints all over my body. 


Eula Biss writes, “Assigning a value to my own pain has never ceased to feel like a political act. I am a citizen of a country that ranks our comfort above any other concern. People suffer, I know, so that I may eat bananas in February. And then there is history . . . I struggle to consider my pain in proportion to the pain of a napalmed Vietnamese girl whose skin is slowly melting off as she walks naked in the sun. This exercise itself is painful.”

I think of the girl too scared and worn to get out of her bed—her eyes sunken, glazed over; her sight hazy and spotty as an off-shoot symptom; her clothing loose as she can’t manage to eat anything more than kefir yogurt or amber colored soup. Yet she wears makeup and fixes her hair and wears nice boots because “doing so will make you believe you are okay,” she is told. And it works in some regard, but never enough to lift the brick off her chest that dissipates every belief that she will somehow survive this feeling of despair.

In The Faerie Queene it is transcribed that despair is the worst sin man can commit as it denies the mercy of God. Despaire was the personification of man’s worst fate, a transgression of every guiding thought that led man and woman far from the light of the Lord and into the deepest caves of mulling darkness. Once Despaire got a hold of him, the mired mind of the Redcrosse Knight couldn’t bear to believe that he was somehow worthy of this life. He couldn't fathom that his humanness was sanctified by God’s love and that he was precious and of value. Despaire’s own convictions were suddenly meddled with Redcrosse’s own voice, thoughts, and beliefs. Their declarations and thoughts were one in the same: hopeless, hopelessness.

If dread and despair are not synonymous with pain and suffering than I’m not sure how else to view the body and mind in the realm of connectedness—because that is exactly what they are: one interwoven and cohesive entity, one holy and heavy bone-house. Like family, like the blood and water in our bodies. 

The pain of my father and his own demons, his own grim-reaping Despaire, is visible to me. The displacement, the reactions, the result of my own bodily reactions, the flooding of thoughts and threats in my mind. Pain. Past. Resurfacing, wading, sinking down again. Rating my pain against anyone else's is an injustice to humanity and to myself, as it lacks compassion and awareness to all living things who suffer in this realm. 

Losing the connectedness with my bloodline is an act of an exhale--taking it deeply within, pausing, holding it in, cherishing it for the nourishment, and finally, letting it go. For as long as I am alive the thickness of blood will move through me, the water, too. I need both to survive, but I don't need them in anyone else. I already have them here, at home, in me. 

Clown In The Moon

My tears are like the quiet driftOf petals from some magic rose;And all my grief flows from the riftOf unremembered skies and snows.I think, that if I touched the earth,It would crumble;It is so sad and beautiful,So tremulously like a

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Things To Worry About

My father is not a man of many words. And the words I do remember, the majority of them, were not kind or encouraging--they were/are often belittling, acrimonious, painful. I don't say this with anger, resentment, blame, or bitterness. I render it only as fact;

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Surrender

Very little grows on jagged rock. Be ground. Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up where you are. You have been stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender. | Rumi Image

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Things That No One Tells You

This piece was published here, at the ever-growing Soul Anatomy.  No one tells you that your boobs will grow in at twenty-two. It's the best kept secret. No one tells you that at twenty-three, you will develop cystic acne that

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I Believe In

This little affirmation of sorts was gracefully published here at Soul Anatomy. Thanks for reading (from all my heart). Image from Soul Anatomy I believe in the long drawn out breath after a good cry. I believe in the ritual

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Sea Grape Leaves

A compilation of the dark green sea grape leaves The black soil that birthed our starfruit tree The glistening tar that marred our cul-de-sac  I see her with a mason jar Collecting the rocks and leaves Pieces of the planet

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What A Prayer Is

I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the

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On Things to Consider

This small piece was published here, at Soul Anatomy, a site created by writer Brianna Wiest, who's work I've had such a joy to read for some time.  Consider more sleep. Eight hours is okay. More is better, personally. Consider

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So This is the New Year

A year of filtering out friends and family that do not serve me.  A year of essays and late-night library work leading to graduation (with a 4.0); a year of therapy and meditation and Hatha yoga.  A year of applying

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