I don’t trust myself.
I don’t trust myself
because my heart is unpredictable
and I don’t always do what is best for me.
Because I follow a red thread where it leads
even if it is into dangerous territory.
I don’t trust myself
because I let my mind wander and wonder
into places in my mind I should not visit after dark
and the thrill of ‘what could be discovered’
keeps me awake at night.
Because my muse is irrational and emotional
and she makes me do things good girls
should think twice about.
Because my heart is cracked in many places
and the pale yellow light sometimes
casts an eery hue over my choices
both because I don’t want to be hurt
again and because I am willing to be fully wrecked.
bring it on.
I live in unreasonable love and risk.
I thrive on not knowing
and sometimes not trusting.
Trusting keeps me safe. I don’t
want to risk being too safe.
Can I hear my heart?
yes. Can I hear my muse? yes.
Do they tell me things I can trust,
They lead me where I need to go,
yes, but sometimes there was a faster, better, wiser
path, a safer one I could trust.
I don’t trust myself because
I haven’t unfolded yet
and because I don’t know if I will
fall, in fact I can trust that
I will indeed fall again and again.
My wings are uncertain in new skies
will not follow my commands.
I fly into cloud river with a crash
face first, water up my nose
but laughing. skinned elbows
Do I know I am living my dream.
Yes. In fact. I am.
Do I know aliveness counts more
than almost anything?
Yes. I do.
Do I know my heart must
dig up its heart bones until we are whole?
And sing over them until they dance?
Yes. Whatever wholeness means.
Am I willing to dig deep even if I bleed?
Yes. Of course, for goodness sakes, now
that is a silly question.
Do I trust this process. No. of course not.
If I could know the outcome, and trust
how it would turn out, then
I wouldn’t have nearly as much
fun. Or mind heart opening blowing open wide days.
Am I going on a vision quest anyway,
with skinned elbows and cracked heart
and ready pen to capture poetry from the
underside of stones it the bottom of the river?
no matter where I end up?
Can I count on myself for the truth?
Can I count on myself to make art,
poetry, song and dance?
I can trust this –
creation is the key to everything there is.
And so you will find me
in my studio today
in my nightgown
with a giant brush, risking.
Not trusting myself one bit
and having a grand ole’ time.
(fyi, don’t anyone write me back
about what trust really is, my muse
wanted to say this and so I let her
say the unspeakable things because
I need to hear them. a friend
texted me this morning, do you trust
yourself. I said no. then this came