Dear 21,

It’s finally time to stop looking back, where my writing and thoughts have so often been directed, pulled from, curated. There is something comforting about the past: it is finished. November is passing as fast as the leaves are falling off the trees. Time to take care of myself and fall back into the rhythm of things. I don’t have to start reeling through my mind the countless things I’ve learned the past 20 years of my life, which I so often like to do, as it’s so easy for me to look back and remind myself of the work it took to get here. Maybe instead, I can think about me now or me in the future.

My past only casts reflections on me, giving me old answers to new puzzles. 21 is cheers to my new life.

I am not old and dry, turning over a new leaf. I am growing younger with every step forward, putting my face towards the sun, encouraged by an inner drive like water, pulling itself through my stem and letting me dazzle with life. Every day I will grow younger, able to reach new parts of myself and my world.

Cheers to you, 21.

Regards,

Mary

Waiting for things to feel

Week 5 in Quarantine

I can't even cry because the emotions would be too heavy to carry
and the days between white walls have washed emotion away
As I wait for the next meal,
a blankness blankets the day
As I heal from every interaction
it feels like a ripped off band-aid
As I yearn for solitude

And this is the only place I can be completely real
Instead of picking through unharvested thoughts
thinking of pasts, futures, missing the now
and still,
I'm waiting for things to feel.

i momenti

 Quando i momenti vanno troppo veloce
Allora decelerò

Quando i momenti sono troppo corto
Allora crescerò da gli

Quando i momenti sentono troppo fatto
Gli disimballò

E poi gli porto con me mentre imballo le mie valigie

When the moments go too fast
Then I’ll slow down

When the moments are too short
Then I’ll grow from them

When the moments feel too made
I’ll unpack them

And then carry them with me while I pack my suitcases

Box

I see angles. Sharp ones, soft ones, patches of shadow as the sun rises for the triangle days of waiting: For the rare comings and goings of people, so we have somewhere to go in our minds. Dreaming. Boats of balconies sailing through sky, where clouds are left unharmed. Angles floating through windows and my door, unlocking a sanctuary to let in a little bit of heaven, 6 o’clock songs, voices bouncing between buildings, mingling with the birds, washing away the static sameness of the days, like waves and pulling you into life once again.

A shred of doubt

A piece of paper, pinkish, on it written some aspect of our lives.  It was found deep down, under all those layers of thick skin that took us years to build, under blood cells moving through our veins.  It was found beneath muscle, bone, and the breath that kept our body moving. In fact you couldn’t even see it. The paper was invisible to modern microscopes it was so small, and yet there it rested, just a small shredded piece of paper, pinkish.  It was a small shred of doubt, a love letter, laying underneath these layers of human, and something about its presence told us to observe ourselves from afar. It seemed godly, an out of body experience, and finally we could see what was written on that tiny paper through our plain eyes. And whether the meaning of it’s words began to fade or become more saturated, we started to see the larger picture around us, and for the moment, it saved us.

keeping young


Is not that which is old
new
to the young who have never known it?

Are not those who have lived long
younger
every day they allow themselves growth?

Time has a way of disguising itself
Hidden in the endless trickle of memories
behind her pearly bright eyes and so I say 

life never tires, 
It goeth.