love, z.s.

{reference points}

there never would have been enough strength. what you needed me to do, be, threatened to break my back.

so i walked.
walked fast, far and long.

i found a place for myself.
a small, simple, pretty place i love.

i had no choice but to make it home.

i found other ways to love.  but none that awakened. none that stayed weekends, cooked breakfast, or drew baths.  none that fed me soup or wrapped me in blankets when the chill came.  none that laughed, cried or moaned with me.  none that kissed me in the rain.

i loved in cool, collected ways.  ways that earned gratitude, friendships and laughter.  ways that danced, sung, prayed sometimes.  it was not passion, but it was often joy.  most of the time, this was enough, this open, public love.

most.

i manage.
i survive.

my heart is a kind of desert, one that remembers itself as rainforest: lush and fertile, plush with brilliant flowers and technicolor birds.

yes, there is beauty in the desert: a stark palette of necessity, utility.  the sky is still its blue; some cacti flower.

life just under the surface...love buried in sand full of dormant seeds and preserved pollen.  the arid blessing that maintained the bodies of ancestors for thousands of years.  a whispering love, praying the wind will serve as audience.  the occasional, elusive oasis fed by hidden waters.

it is there.

it is still deciding what to be.

brash as an explorer, excavating buried realms?
skittish as a lizard?

it survives, though.

like so many things that shouldn't, but do...it survives.

because it is, i am.

and i go on.

in my little home
in the desert

with
a love
that
awaits
a monsoon.

embodiment

i don't always recognize this package i'm in.

it feels smaller than it has in a long time--certainly the smallest since puberty. still, i'm aware that folks outside of me still consider me quite tall and decidedly not-small.

my body's become more utilitarian, lighter. i am carrying only what i need, no more. the proverbial fat has been trimmed away, even if i can still pinch decent finger-fuls of it around my torso and thighs.

this has happened slowly, almost silently; an unintended side effect of some very intentional work.

i do not find this lightness of being unbearable. instead, it's a phenomenal blessing.

elemental

on: rediscovering energetic flow

for most of my life, i've been content to identify with water, immersing my pisces mermaidself in deep waters at every opportunity.

but i've come to understand that i'm also filled with heat; a flame that can manifest as anything from a flickering candle to a raging wildfire. the temperature varies as well; i've felt it red hot and icy cool.

hot or cool, it embraces and consumes like flame: fully. unapologetically.

now i know the cycle:

my water communes with the spirits.
my fire propels me through the density of this existence.
my air nourishes both.


*interestingly, there's no earth in my chart.

sista {napowrimo '11, # 23}

a tanka

mami wata hair,
knotty like tree roots. lagoon
eyes, black, reflect your
image, not color. she is
proof: beauty's diversity.

sustenance & starvation

currently sustaining:

the moon
sleep
this
this
and this.

i am particularly drawn to the story of golden hair...

Golden Hair was her name; a woman so beautiful of soul and so gifted of spirit, with such a lovely singing voice, that all the villagers wanted to be near her, and all wanted to be like her. No one gathered to her out of deference, but out of true love. And that was returned to them by her a thousand fold.

Whereby some in the village were always pointing fingers at whomever they thought were sinners, she gave love and encouragement to the goodness in all, including those designated by scowlers as “sinners.” Her way of being was to lead by singing of the ways of love, and by giving others time enough and reason to grow and develop and learn, through errors and through inspirations, both.

But a giant of a brute saw her lovely golden hair, heard her lovely singing, and noted her beautiful hands that wove cloth so fine it could be passed through a golden ring with ease, and he coveted her -- not just her body, but her mind, her spirit, her very soul for it was so filled with life and vision and love. In contrast, he had made his life self-important, darkened and harsh. He was given to punitive judgment, and he wanted to somehow devour the golden haired woman, as though by so doing, he could somehow take on her light inside his own dimmed self.

And so he courted her, but she refused, preferring to follow her own visions of weaving and being, of ministering to the people who flocked to her to just be near and hear her songs.

The brute became wildly jealous of the love others had so easily for this woman, for no one cared for his stern visage. He became enraged. Who did this woman think she was to turn him down, he who had pillaged gold and jewels unlawfully from others, he who lived in splendor but surrounded by a sterile land, he who was the biggest condemner, criticizer and fault finder in the valley. Shaming and blaming, blaming and shaming, those were his power madnesses.

And so, he laid in wait for her one night, and when she passed by alone on the road, he sprang out and killed her. Down to the road she fell, her blood soaking into the earth. He dragged her body into the forest and there grunting with sweat, buried her body, believing this would hide his crime.

The villagers grieved terribly, but as time went on, an uncanny event occurred: her golden hair continued to grow in the grave. It grew in the soil of the forest, a small field of golden reeds swaying in the dappled light and singing ever so softly in the wind. Upward and upward it grew until it pierced the earth overhead.

One day, along the road came women and men musicians. Upon seeing the golden reeds swaying near the road, they tramped into the forest and cut the beautiful reeds and fashioned them for pipes.

Thinking how fine a music these unusual reeds would make, they tied them together with raffia and cut their stops, but when they lifted the flutes to their lips, the oddest song came forth, the same song for each of the pipes and the only song the pipes would play, a song that told over and over again who had killed Golden Hair and why.

The brute and his horrible deed were revealed. And the villagers, now seeing the brute down to his cunning and rotten core, shut the brute away and gave away all his ill-made booty.

In our family, the old people say the only song the golden reeds would play, went something like this, my translation of a translation from the Magyar:

Here I am, woman golden hair,
killed by a brute who gave no care.

Lonely hatred is more base than lust.
And so he killed to still my holiness.

But kill me once
and 10 will rise to ring,
for I am not the singer of the song
I am the song the Singer sings.

it makes me think of how i was "killed".

how he always praised my wonders while remaining unable to hold, love or care for me properly...unconsciously draining my light, my love.

unlike golden hair, i was not content to remain alone. i wanted to love him.

he wasn't as obvious as the brute. i thought he was safe...

now, i am here.

in this moment, i am acutely aware of my bruises and scars. aware of my loss of faith.

i will never be who i was before the pain.

but i can emerge anew.

some days i know what that looks like...or at least what i want it to look like.

other days, i have no idea.

primordial {revisited / continued / expanded}

for each of us as women, there is a dark place within, where hidden and growing our true spirit rises...

these places of possibility within ourselves are dark because they are ancient and hidden; they have survived and grown strong through the darkness. within these deep places, each one of us holds an incredible reserve of creativity and power, of unexamined and unrecorded emotion and feeling. the woman's place of power within each of us is neither white nor surface; it is dark, it is ancient, and it is deep.

~audre lorde, "poetry is not a luxury"

i came face to face with this deep, dark womb-self recently.

interestingly, she is veiled, cloaked in luscious merlot red.  the occasional urge to wrap myself in gossamer scarves must come from her.

i can only sense her face...but her form is less important than her energy, her gifts.

she is sensuous, ethereal...real yet fantastic.
a lover of garnet.
a lightness possessing the gravity of eons.

and somehow,
almost unbelievably,
she is me. 

{other primordial post}

girl talk {a monologue}

{TRIGGER WARNING - the piece that follows contains descriptions of sexual coercion, harsh language.}

before the moon (napowrimo #21)

for the ladies

i got an urge
to lay in the lap of luxury
be pampered and
fed rich foods
sweet fruits
sip tea or
gargle honey...

be pleasured
every hour
on the hour...

sleep
dream deep dreams
light incense
wait for divine inspiration...

all in
undulating cycles
of bliss

but the alarm rings
and i gotta go to work
fit into the flow
sit and stare
at paperwork and such.

defying womb-deep desires
for something as petty
as a paycheck.

primordial (napowrimo #1)

not all wombs open as easily as legs.

there are many ways to warm a bed
and feed from breasts. 

there was a time
when a woman unto herself
was understood
and embraced
as a different kind of ideal.

over time,
politics became important.
the men got suspicious
and aroused the suspicion of our sisters...

She said:
"it's all right.
from now on, you will just have to be brave.
respect that this path will be laced with broken glass
instead of leisure.
but you will know who you are.
and, if you learn your lessons well,
i will guarantee you want for nothing."

so, daughter,
we have always been here.

yes, some turned bitter
seeing our sisters' comforts;
the years of smug smiles and haughty glances
inspired the negative side of darkness.

therein lies the worst of our reputation.

still...
most of us
were simply good
and misunderstood.

for kings, soldiers, babas, brothas and lions

dedicated to the fall of tkon

i have become
everything you've asked of me:

my hair is coiled
into beautiful roots...
i wear bright colors
long skirts
geles
the copper bangles you like.

feed the babies vegetables and fruits
i grow with my own hands
and watch us all glow.

but you complain
if i cry;
deny my reason
if i reveal my heart.
i know the stories of our african kings just as you do
{i overlook your dismissal of the queens,
but whisper their stories to our daughter...}

no one cries for my deferred dreams
not even me...
maybe i need to release those backed up tears
when i hear a beautiful poem
or song
or when you hold me
...if you hold me.

i cannot help who i am.

is there a reason your heart
must remain locked away?

i love your mind,
but i also know you have a soul.
i glimpsed it when our daughter was born,
when our son took his first steps.

i'd like to get to know it.
but it never emerges for me.

because of the struggle.
because the people's pain trumps our own.
because i can take it.
because you're "over it."
because
because
because...

i have become
everything you've asked of me.

but you never asked me
to be
myself.

being colored

today's my day
to be the lady in red...

she wd gather her tinsel &
jewels from the tub
& laugh gayly or vengeful
she stored her silk roses by her bed
& when she finished writin
the account of her exploit in a diary
embroidered with lilies & moonstones
she placed the rose behind her ear
& ...*

and...and...
then what?

certainly,
there are no tears.


*excerpt from for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf by ntozake shange.

wondering...

...if there's an island deep in the south pacific where black women's dreams come true.

it's gotta happen somewhere, right?

full

{birthed jan. 2006}

he says i'm full lately...
becoming womanly.
i feel
big
heavy with creativity
universes
potentialities.

my babies
lack physical manifestation--
i bear lyrical children
foster positive living environments for metaphors
carry messages on my hips
diplomatically translated
by my inbetween.

i am
more woman now
no need to roar...
returning to the comfort
of womb whispers
and peacock feathers.

my weapons:
earth tones
headwraps
and bluejeans.

call me boho if u wanna
i was who i was
when erykah wasn't on the radar yet
and india was stll singin in coffeeshops

...hoppin planets
just for fun
ain't too much in my line of sight
worthy of keeping me grounded.

dreams reflected
in diamond sutras
and wide-ruled notebooks...
don't care if you think
i'm perpetuating bullshit
goddess/empress/queen images
unrealistic pussy powers.

complexity is my birthright.

why perpetuate mediocrity?
inferiority?

i am made in the image of
god
ancestors
africans
angels

who are you keeping alive?

i am
more woman now
heavy
heavy
heavy...

i am
due
today.

seen 2

an indio mother or grandmother with three babies.

two toddlers, a boy and a girl. there's a baby on her back, looking both modern and ancient.

baby's in a new school sling overwrapped with a traditionally tied blanket. baby wearing made slightly more convenient. the blanket makes things less sterile, secures in a different way.

i wonder if the babies will grow up here.

what will they keep of their home?

what will they leave behind?

what will be deliberately forgotten?

seen 1

people can be beautiful in the strangest moments.

there's a woman by the window with striking red hair. curly. the sun is coming through the window, and when she runs her hair through it, it's backlit like a stained glass window.

her shirt is royal purple and accents her coloring.

it occurs to me that scenes like this are what cause men to fall in love.

woman

who can doubt our divinity when hearing a song like this?
i always wonder who the inspiration was...

i can't know how many times i've incarnated as a woman and/or a female of a species, but there has to be a reason those are the memories and dreams that have left the most lasting impression.

priestess
wonder
mother
creator
qadishtu
shape shifter
worker
codetalker

woman.

first corinthians 11: 2-16

I praise you for remembering me in everything and for holding to the teachings, just as I passed them on to you.

Now I want you to realize that the head of every man is Christ, and the head of the woman is man, and the head of Christ is God. Every man who prays or prophesies with his head covered dishonors his head. And every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head—it is just as though her head were shaved. If a woman does not cover her head, she should have her hair cut off; and if it is a disgrace for a woman to have her hair cut or shaved off, she should cover her head. A man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man. For man did not come from woman, but woman from man; neither was man created for woman, but woman for man. For this reason, and because of the angels, the woman ought to have a sign of authority on her head. 
 
In the Lord, however, woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman. For as woman came from man, so also man is born of woman. But everything comes from God. Judge for yourselves: Is it proper for a woman to pray to God with her head uncovered? Does not the very nature of things teach you that if a man has long hair, it is a disgrace to him, but that if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For long hair is given to her as a covering. If anyone wants to be contentious about this, we have no other practice—nor do the churches of God.

i will
read shells in my house
any way i please

nothing moves without my ase
nothing breathes that is not first housed
in a womb

space itself is the uterus of the universe
the planets her constantly-evolving babies

how dare you presume to know
my place in the temple?

love

there's so much to say,
and nothing at all.

speculation is pointless,
and so are the visions that haunt me when i look at you.

you don't need me on your conscience.
and i don't need you on mine.

...the little lies i tell the part of myself that always wants a little more. the strumpet who's never content with just one.

there are so many dull, inconsequential meetings in life. it's a shame to waste the ones that could mean something more.

...that doesn't mean i don't enjoy monogamy. i do.
but i have a lot of love to give.
i want to share. it's a compulsion.

sometimes, one person's not enough to hold it all.

it'd be invigorating to have the freedom to say, "wait for me a moment, please, while i love this person a little closer to divinity. i'll be back directly. i promise."

i don't break my promises. i would return--and allow you to love as necessary in the meantime.

i'm sure it would only happen once every few years, at most.

but who could stand that?

i have learned that most people have just enough love for themselves--if that--and that, sometimes, they're able to squeeze out enough for the mates that come along. or the children that come along the way.

a paucity of love makes beings selfish, insecure. believers in lack.

i hate that fact profusely. it limits my movement in the world.