Up for just a bit. Drafting thoughts or as someone once said sketching...
The Middle Way
We worry for ourselves, our decaying bodies. We worry for our friends. We worry in missing in desire, in longing. We worry for our bodies’ decay. We worry about weakness. We worry what thoughts of us are in the others I. We worry to hide our true thoughts, fears, desires. The worry passes in the wind’s cool hum. The worry passes. This too shall pass said the friend that is now gone. We worry for our “soul”. We worry for our lack of peace. We worry for our food, shelter, clothing. We worry for our pride our failures. We worry because we are taught to worry. We worry in thoughts. Thoughts fade, worries fade. Thoughts return, thoughts fade. Worry. Worry. Worry. We note our worry, name our worry, and hold our worry in our body. We worry for the weakness of the spine and back. We plan to strengthen the body then realize it will decay no matter how much or often we strengthen the back. We think the work to strengthen the body will bring peace. We worry to make the body strong. We understand and note the body will decay. We worry for what is fat and thin and ugly. We worry for what is beauty. We worry others will steal what we call ours. We worry about locks and objects. We worry about our language, our gestures. We worry of our need to drop the “our” or “mine.” We may worry about the “We” and understand only the worry. We worry for the departed dead. We worry for their goneness, their empty existence outside what we see, hear, smell, taste, touch. We worry for the elements. We worry at the wind and fallen branches. We worry for electric fires and evaluations. We worry we forget. We worry that we remember. We worry the flowers their weakness in the storm. We worry about the need to plan and plant. We worry about replanting and harvesting. We forget the worry as it passes like clouds, like rain or wind. The worry winds its way down the spine, in the ebb and flow of oceans and tides and beaches and cut stones, the worry dissolves like stone at the edge of water, like stones round beneath the river’s slowing. We worry for the sun and sleep. We worry to wake. We worry about death and love and sex. We worry about. We worry inside. We worry without. We worry beneath or above. We worry hollow and whole. We worry dry and wet. We worry in dream and waking. We worry they will not like our words. We worry that our words do not meet their standards. We worry the standard is skewed. We worry the standard is correct. We worry too tight, too lax. We worry the thieves, we worry at the theft. We worry the the’s in poems, worry the time lost, the time to come. We worry the shaking of the body uncontrolled. We worry the overly controlled body. We worry the early sunset, the early sunrise. We worry we are late or too early. We worry to hear Vivaldi when we find Hayden. We worry our long-winded talk and silence. We worry at the lack of breath, the overindulgence of food and drink. We worry our bodies’ lack of symmetry, lack of youth, lack of strength. We worry the lack of music, the lack of image, the lack of harp strings and colors. Worry is fear. We name the lacking and the abundance. We forget the voice is an instrument. We forget the leaves too find their gestation in beginning. We forget the leaves too dance in the cold wind. We worry the adjectives, the lack of adjectives, the naked verb, the holy verb, the self-indulgent pronoun. We speak things to some and hide them for others. We imagine the word. The word imagines. We are the wordless hum and silence. We fear the string’s tightening. We fear the string’s loose hair-letting in the wind of being. We fear our sweat and smell. We love our sweats and smells. We name joy in the unnamed haphazardness of being. We fear the continuance, the ending, the pause, the step, the fall. We know the unknowing. We unknow the known. We crown ourselves in time like breath, like movement and conjugations. We lose our life. We find our life. We seek the flow, we seek the stillness. We lay the bricks, we cement the foundation, light the paths, light the coasts, light the nights. We shade the body, move the heart, crack the breaking, seal the opening. We are seasons. We are revolving, revolutions and letting go the dream. We are the dream, the waking, the wing’s span, the fairy in the child’s story, the print out, the ink drained, the sea swam through and fed upon. We are the in the beginning. We are the night folding and opening. We are the sun’s light, the water’s gaseous floating. We are the hurried and the slowed. We are the stone, the heavy laden path worn beneath the feet of us. We are broken twig and weeds flowering in their empty headed blooming joy. We are the reaching, the relaxation, the bulb, the flowering, the knob that opens and closes rooms and windows glinting in sun, beaten by hard rain. We are worries passing and passing, floating, drifts in or of the ether of living. The emptiness solidly confines music. We are nothing and briefly noted. We are noting and un-noting. We are wordless empty breaths and blood strewn causality. We are process and processing and processed. We are spoken and speaking and unspoken. We wind through this sky changing and changing and passing and passing. Slow lingering bones and lungs attached to spine and amphibian and water and grass and such living mass, such energy lit and darkening to a perfect unknowing, worry-less and truly free.
