of moving, of moved

i keep thinking about bayo’s writing and how he says to write in these times is to disturb, is to confuse. that we cannot make sense out of what is happening to us, within us. to make sense out of it is to follow a similar pathway and thread in the brain that got us here. to make sense, is to continue to make a colonial mind. to make sense, is to pretend. 

i am sitting here, in the mountains and i can smell the alfalfa near me. it is not growing. it is tied up, in a bundle. this bundle is for my use. it is for the practice of archery. i have yet to transport it to the forest for this purpose. the smell of it is nice. it lingers. it reminds me of fall, which reminds me of my childhood, which reminds me of my birthday. as i was transporting it, it shed many pieces of itself and they ended up collecting along the edge where the wall meets my deck. i liked this. i hope it liked it. i kept them there. for the lingering scent, but also for the sight, of something beautiful. of a chaotic, kind of beauty that i feel happens the most in the fall, when things are letting go and finding themselves strewn about everywhere, in a surrender to death, to change, to transition, to life. 

the rain is trickling, the rhythms of it can be heard against the trees and the rooftop. playing with each other. the birds echo in and out. different types of melodies coming in from the fog. the breeze is rolling in and it is cool. it is very cool and overcast. i ask myself if i want to go to denver... if i want to go to pride. i don’t really get a clear answer. well, actually. i get a no. and i suppose i am dissatisfied with that. 

my neighbor speaks, and i can hear his voice hit the environments around him. it is deep and a little urgent. i wonder about how people are aware or unaware of their presence in the world and the impact it has. i wonder about impact. about as we move through our environments, we interact with them, with every sound, touch, look. how there is impact. and is this impact intentional? are we are tracking the ways we touch and are touched by the Other? i am not sure. 

it is soon that i will leave this familiar environment, of ponderosa, of mountain, of forest, of quiet. it is soon that i will leave this place, and i can feel the sadness. feel the immense gift this place has been for my soul. and how a part of me feels like i haven’t fully taken advantage of it. stayed inside too much. not spent days upon days outside. 

and i know that the outside will always be there. wherever i go. even if it is far. it will be there. to greet my soul, to hold it, to be someone to speak with. nature is an incredible ally. it is the deepest accomplice in this fight we are facing. 

slow, kind movements. 

slow, kind movements of birds inside. of hearing the rain but realizing it is your own crying. 

slow, kind movements, even when things are twitching and won’t stop. 

even when the anxiety rises and tightens in a chest, that is not mine, is it mine? even when i find myself on the moon and i am not sure how i got there :

slow, kind movements.