At least for a moment

Day 75

photo by Michelle Johnsen

photo by Michelle Johnsen

To be honest, I don’t feel like writing tonight. In order to write I must process my thoughts, examine them closely, let my feelings rise inside my chest and channel them through my hands.

I can see why people get writer’s block. Because a thought is just a thought. A seed, an idea.

But once it hits the page it takes root, begins to grow, acquires life of its’ own.

So you have to be sure. Sure that you’re clear on what you need to say. Head to heart, heart to hands, hands to page. Clear communication.

And that’s a little scary, because at this point on planet earth I don’t think we can afford to be sloppy, with our lives, with our world, with our words.

And tonight, I just need to hold everything inside, let it sit and stew. So the juices can mix, so the flavors can grow more bold. Let it simmer.

It feels like monarchs, and honey bees, fluttering around my stomach, my heart. Sweet, like an unborn baby’s first fluttery kicks. Like how I knew Revel, before he was born.

And I need to read tonight. Someone else’s words, thoughts, dreams. I’m tired of hearing my own voice, crave perspective, quiet, silence, rest.


At least for a moment.

Thank you for listening,



photo by Wilson Alvarez

photo by Wilson Alvarez

And thank you to my beautiful friend Sarah for tonight’s guest post. She wrote me this deeply moving letter about her own struggles, loves, hopes, and fears living on planet earth at this time. Thank you for your words Sarah, and for giving me permission to share them here tonight. You are not alone. Love you.

Dear Natasha,

Could have told you they’d be building some kind of new gas pipeline whatever through the area. A group had meetings on the matter a year or so ago. Then the plans drop only to reappear…

As I reluctantly log onto the ‘Facebook jungle’, all my friends have this article- Oklahoma company proposes new gas pipeline and complex in the southern part of the county. Of course, there’s a meeting tonight for all those opposed, at my cousin’s high school.

And then it happens-

I consider whether or not I should attend this meeting…

My monkey mind starts to swirl, you know, some cliché’ ‘angel/devil’ type nonsense, where I expend and expel all this energy on self-perpetuated, internal, endless debate.

“Well, what good what it do anyway… there are meetings everyday, the corporations still get what they want…”

“Yes, but if everyone cared and went to all the meetings and participated fully in the ‘will of the republic’ with true political will, than things could change…”

And it goes back and forth and back and forth inside my skull until I just get sick, and tired, and of course, fail to attend the meeting…

It’s like the word itself… ‘meeting’… conjures this grotesque boredom, this catholic school girl rebel, who spent her whole life indoors, her whole life in false rhythms… who has attended ‘meetings’ to be put in debt to made up numbers, or ‘meetings’ to ask men and women in power why they’re so greedy and cruel…

And the ‘meeting’ allows them to sneer back in utter authoritative self-aggrandizement, to bang gold gavels and condemn hearts, to call you a ‘young lady’, a ‘little girl’- to use fluffy facts to demean you…this ‘meeting: drain of life-force’… as voices fade in and out all around… talk… talk… talk… but what to do?

And it’s with this sentiment I have become paralyzed in my community. It is with, vulgar, raw recognition that I’m ineffective, and worse yet- not present…

All I want to do is fly backwards into a vast pool of water, completely submerged, so the noise of the machine droning death stupid psychiatrist shit just muffles, fades, departs…

This imaginative liquid escape, which lulls the connotations of filth away from innocent ideas of people being together…

I must free my soul of the beast, for the ones I love…

And you’re right. It’s as if we need to be athletes, training to love with such ferocity- learning to overcome seemingly impenetrable grief…

Healing or fighting; fighting or speaking, speaking or dancing, dancing or destroying, destroying or expressing, expressing or capturing, capturing or praying, praying or protesting, protesting or relishing, relishing or resisting…

These false dualities!

I want to do it all, but I see my capacity short of able… I see my illnesses before me-my hideous addictions, my inescapable frailty, my severe and domineering emotions…

How am I any good, to anyone?

So, I sit in my “Sit Spot”, recall how much I desire the subtle yet intensely provocative callings of the Earth… I sit alone, thinking of all the many I love…

And I’ve been in this place more than 31 years- been in and out and up and down…

I’ve experienced an array of bliss and disease…

I have yet to bear any children, in full maturation, still unsure if I even want to- and this choice, a first world luxury of an educated woman…

I’ve drenched my lips at the coffee shops, speaking small sense in a mad world, preaching it- lonely to my inner core choir of lover friends… now realizing these words, all these words can not compensate, can not resolve, nor alleviate, even mildly abate my health problems; a restlessness beyond focus… an entire imbalance in my everything- brought on by a poisonous environment, and my cowardly, weak poisonous responses…


My solution.


Take 90 days and go away. Go to a place I’ve never been, a place whose natural landscape has been cared for and protected wisely, an asylum of sorts… Exchange communal services for room and board. Practice meditation every morning and night. Work and study yoga in between. Tune my body and mind. Let go of all these ‘bleeps’, and sick static glitches, insecurities that say- “I’m not an herbalist, nor naturalist, nor spiritualist, nor dietician, nor activist, nor athlete, nor therapist, nor martial artist, nor musician, nor teacher, nor poet; and fully allow myself the time to open up and learn who I am when I, simply, very simply- live well. To be not one; but all the things I’ve mentioned and more… To create new categories of dreamers through all time and space, and be not bound by a deranged society. To be blessed enough to venture into a more active and productive role in a new blossom tribe of many colors community, because I love the Earth and her children more than my hang-ups.


Then, maybe when I speak, I will believe myself.


Thank you for your love and support, and for the inspiration that ‘Year of Black Clothing’ provides…




Sarah Henry


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