Holding Space, While Holding Heart

My heart is the color home. My heart is a poem that has changed over time, scared and worried people when I was younger, worried them about my state of mind and state of being, and now that poem is a country, a world, a whole bunch of states and a whole bunch of Universe stars that have together rewritten what it means to be alive and well.

Can you remember your old poems? What were they trying to say, trying to reach toward in their own way? I wanted something to change. I wanted to be close to the dark so that I could find out what was there and be unafraid. I let lyrics of others’ songs guide me into the process, and then I’d flow on and make up the majority of the stanzas forward on my own, sometimes weaving in more lyrics that seemed important. I wasn’t a natural poet. I was more of a journaler and book writer. I made up stories back then, so that I could live in other worlds that gave me more freedom, more color, and more possibility to express a different side to me than the life my female body already had.

I guess that’s why when I sink in close to my heart today, at the core, I can feel how my inner most home truly hasn’t changed. It’s there, and it’s been there, not in a layered sort of way, but in a relaxing inward pull that kind of dissolves the layers formed and all around and lets me just rest in who I am. It’s a permission to be maybe a cloud above or a heartbeat inverted so the pulse goes back to me directly, without veins of dispersion, and that’s why the flow feels so sincere.

Where do all the worries go from before? Somewhere else. Not my problem today. Not my problem in general. So, his problem? Or her problem? What is a problem when it isn’t a problem anymore and it’s just gone? The source of it. What makes a problem? Are you a problem? Problem. I’ve got ninety-nine problems, but a Scrat ain’t one. Let’s just float today, I suppose, and continue being silly in a removed and deeply at home sort of way, whilst killing the bad people, because in the end, that’s what we do, and in the beginning, that’s what we prayed through pen to have the power to do too. This is the life I’ve always wanted. The kind of life where the Good people live and the Good people lead. We’re free in every way now, and I can feel that most of all out on the open road, where air and wind and movement is King.

I won’t have this when I go back to Vermont. No, I will. Every journey, no matter the distance or kind of journey, is a recharge and regathering of spiritual wisdom and strength to bring back home. Home is a house—home is my house and my heart, my soul, body, and mind too. Soul is such an interesting word. It goes deeper, you can tell, than the word and idea of spirit. If spirit is the air, then soul is the pulse pool that floods all of you back comfortably home. It is from here I am centering, because feeling it again, so purely these last two days without all the added layers, has reminded me that I am safe no matter what. There is a pocket in me that keeps me like a locket. It’s invisible to anyone passing by, but maybe more of us have a little space like that than we all originally believed.

What happens here? What gets figured out, accomplished, or done from this space? Inner peace. I usually write my journey blogs at the destination point, but this year, I'm writing from a random slow-down spot on the way back home, a two-night stay with a day of relaxation in between at the Hampton Inn in Rapid City, South Dakota. Trust and free-flowing is enormously half, while the other half is still very human. I like that. I'm glad I'm here.