Times are a Changing (and Quick)

"There came a time when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." —Anaïs Nin

Oh Internet,
There are so many things I want to tell you. The words rattle around in my brain and I struggle to catch to them. To pin them down on this page because there are so many. So many stories to tell. Stories about boys. New boys, old boys. Stories about jobs. New jobs, old jobs. Stories about yoga, and meditation retreats, and finding God. Stories about stories.

Because this past month or so has been one story after another. One story dissolving. Another being created. Two more springing up. Three leaving.

A rush of new words and old words and unexpected endings and beginnings. So that when I start to tell you one thing it's quickly become another and I'm not sure what to say. Except that cliche is true, the only constant is change. 

And boy have things been changing. Have I been changing. Rapidly. So fast that I often go to sleep one girl and wake up another. That one minute I have a plan and the next I don't. That right is left and left is right and my world is upside down and right side up again. And again. And again.

And how wonderful is that? To be so tapped in that things are moving. Rushing around. Shifting. Changing. And fast.

Too often we resist this. We cling to the past or reach out to the future. We attach ourselves to what we should have done, or said, or been. Or to what we have to or must do next.

Bypassing the moments that actually create the done or going to. But this middle part. This force that through the green fuse drives the flower is so sweet. It's what makes the bud blossom. And the blossom decay. It clears out and makes room. It creates and destroys. And without it you can't have seeds or flowers. Can't till, and plant, and reap.

So I try to sit with it. To marvel at the growth it causes. And the destruction it brings. Knowing that they are both the same. That I can't have one without the other. That if I want the blossom I have to be open to the decay. To the shifting and changing.

As radical and forceful and unpredictable as it may be.

So while I wish I could tell you all my stories. Pick the blooms and present them to you in a neat bunch. That doesn't seem to be how this is working.

Because just as soon as I gather them up they've already wilted and they're are others that need to be plucked.

And I know this will settle down. That the process will slow and there will be time to present you with a final bouquet. A longer absolute. But right now those are things I cannot say. Can't tell you what, or who, or where is next. And I'm ok with that. Because the blossoms I've been given are beautiful even if they don't last.

Hope you are well. Miss you terribly.

Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

William Carlos Williams

There were the roses, in the rain.
Don’t cut them, I pleaded. They won’t last, she said.
But they’re so beautiful where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,
and cut them and gave them to me in my hand.

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