I want to go on a solo retreat.
To Adelynrood.
I want to be deeply silent for days. To be fed. To walk a labyrinth. To be off my phone, computer. No screens. I want to write letters, drink tea. Walk seven miles. I want to sing in a sanctuary. I want to feel my body shed its stress. This reminds me of Italy. Of the places I've rested before.
Windows remember, as do doors...*
Purple Loosestrife.
The chapel. That almond-eyed icon.
The slow, long notes with room to swell and blend. Finally confident.
I want to make, without fear. Not because the fire is under me, but because it is in me.
Why did I love practices so much? Play. Being. The discovery of sounds. Synchronicity. Shalom. I began to think the world needed me to push harder. But the world needs more Sabbath.
I need more trees, and poetry.
I need fewer things.
Rest.
You can't afford not to.
Who is my enemy? What do we do with our enemies? What do we do with our friends?
How do I pray for a hundred people? How do I feed a multitude? Where are the wounds?
The widow's mite. The widow's might - surrender.
How much do you have? That's what you give. All I have to live on.
Freedom is having nothing. Floating.
Birdsong.
Opposite of soldier.
"Opposite of doormat"**
What are the stories I tell myself? About myself?
What do You say about me?
I don't have to prove to anyone what I am, what I am not. You have already made the way for me. Misunderstood Messiah. Moshiach.
Leafless. But the vines climb up the tree.
God is right in front of me. Why would I text Him? Why do I search for signs instead of looking in His eyes?
He wants to hold your body whole. How terrifying.
The grave takes everything. What is essential resurrects.
I want to write better letters. I want hours.
What do my feelings tell me?
My anger, my worry, my fear?
What am I hungry for?
What illuminates the world? Whose validation do I crave?
What gives me courage?
Plucked away from survival, I'm desperately tired. Aggressively sleepy, like nothing else matters. Like I must sit still and grow a chrysalis, no matter what.
Stiff. Dead to the world. Let the quiet things inside do their work. Enough. Here it will happen.
No more outer effort. No more food. All I need now: to be still.
* See Carolyn Forché , "Travel Papers"
** Danielson, "Good News for the Pus Pickers"
