a world made of eyes

oh grandmother,

first of all, a thank you, for the rains have come again,

small green shoots finding their way back to the light through softened earth.

Are those some of your tears at our insanity that softened the dry ground enough for life to come jumping up again? Some days that’s the only way to make sense of what is going on around us. Most days there’s no way to make sense of it at all—not if that depends upon human’s adhering to sensible ways.

How did it get to this point?

How did we get so lost, so far from a simple sensible way of being?

My mind seethes in circles with no where to land, no clear place to rest in a knowing of how to be, what to feel, where to begin again.

Just this strange spinning, seething, aching—afraid even to hope.

Hope doesn’t feel safe anymore.

What feels safe is crossed arms and an unwillingness to trust anyone—and of course that doesn’t really feel safe either, just a little less vulnerable and so so sad.

I don’t know where my words have gone—sucked up into a vacuum of my own fleeing.

I come and go, I do my best to answer your call, to follow your instructions, to craft my life into a response to your generous riddles.

But I am lost in these woods too, these days.

Turning birdsong and patterns of growth and decay into some sort of guidance,e some sort of map.

The territory refuses mapping these days.

Again and again I am washed in the mystery, I am on my knees searching for clues in the dirt until I realize it’s all clues, nothing but clues…

and so I stay on my knees and douse those clues with the only salty water I have, in some hope they might begin sprouting into a story whose curves I can rest in, for a moment, and find my way.

Of course, i hear, no way is mine.

None belong to me.

The hope, if i dare because i must, somehow, still, hope, is that a way might arise that I could belong to, that could hold me like a home built long ago by those who dreamt of my face.

And the dirt tells me that to belong to a story, I must begin telling it myself, carefully, while simultaneously listening to it being told to me, from somewhere else, inside the trees.

In order to belong to a story, I must learn to sing in a tongue older than forgetting, older than the place where my name became a sin.

I taste ash in my mouth and want so much to hide—somewhere, anywhere…

but the forest just laughs at me—

And where child would you propose to hide in a world made of eyes?

In a world built from your hiding?

If you want to belong to a story you must remain in the last place that speaks to you and begin a telling.

And so I stay on my knees

and begin—

        “once upon a time, there was a girl

            who was not a girl…

        trying to remember

            in a world made of forgetting…”