Quiet Motility and Titanic.

Yesterday, I walked into the office of my therapist, sat on her couch as I normally do. 

She asked me, “So what’s going on?”

I let the weight hang in the room for what felt like a junior sized eternity, and then I just remember pulling my war torn body off of her couch and saying, “I gotta go…”

What I didn’t realize was that an hour had passed, I had spent the entire time crying. 

Between wiping my eyes, and trying to hold up my chin so that I didn't just open my mouth and try to scoop up the words that kept falling out like drunken half-truths. I eventually told her that I didn’t feel like trying anymore, I didn’t feel like being here. I told her that my outcomes don’t seem clear and that “I just don’t know anymore”.

She told me that it was ok, to feel weighted, to feel sadness, to just spend the day in “feeling”, she asked me if I was safe. 

I told her, I was fine. 

She asked me, where could I go to feel inspired, and I told her that I wanted to go to sleep. 

As I sit here, new day ahead, 1am in the morning, I can only look back and wonder, exactly how I can avoid this despair in the future. 

I don’t have answers, 

I seem to lately be filled with regret. 

Tired of the consequence of living by the light of fireworks, that possibly are just forest fires, or explosive relationships. Either way, I would love the moth in me, the one attracted to glow, to take a sabbatical. 

Logically, if I am looking for respite, wanting to let someone else drive a while - I am in the wrong job. For every one mistake I make, there seems to be at least a dozen repercussions The resilience that is required in being a proactive adult is beyond strenuous.  

I marvel at the advice of my mother, of my aunt, of my professors; they said - 

"what is your hurry Azure?

Take your time.”

At 32 years of age, weeks from my 33rd birthday I have decided to heed. To visit Hannah in Atlanta, to sit on a wrap around porch in Lexington, to finish this book that has patiently waited for me to get it out my human body. I am going to spend the remaining part of 2015 exercising quiet motility. I am going to take a vacation, finish my creative work. Hire professional services to teach me how to run my company. I am going to place my fire extinguisher in my garage, behind all the rainy day paraphernalia - this way I can get out of the habit of putting out the fires in my life. 

Yesterday, I felt defeated.

Lacking reason, inspiration, wondering why I am so slow to learn, questioning how I could possibly not be farther than I am in my life.  I do not feel differently now, at 1:15am. The same questions still burn in my belly, my eyes are still swollen from squinting through the day, the salt still sits on my cheeks, from the rivers that flowed from my brown viewfinders. 

This could not possibly be for poetry. Not for the sake of some sweet yet poignant narrative. My life is not a slam bout - where I try to tell the most epic account of a day that had every intention of being the hell that yesterday was. 

I am just trying to tell myself that I am enough. 

That I am good enough for people to stay. That I am smart enough to learn from my mistakes. That I am heart focused and do more than “mean well”. But if I am to continue being blog transparent, my self doubt, the self deprecation, the lack of love in my own heart; is currently ringing so loudly, that the affirmation is merely a morse code whisper. 

Last Friday, a young woman told me “I just have a habit of attaching myself to sinking ships”. I didn’t have the words at the time, but if I could go back, I would tell her. I am no ship submerging, the ocean and tide have had its way with me, I am calcified, patina worn and bleached with experience - but never have I sunk. I am human, but I am not built merely for fair-weather. I would tell her like I have told the rest - this poet was born in the eye of a tornado, I thrive in the storm. 

Somewhere in this tattered soul is a champion. 

Somewhere in me, there dwells a woman who knows her value, and isn’t looking for the simple equation of her worth. She knows that mistakes happen, she knows that although she is very literate, that she has the staunch ability to misread others. Somewhere in my chest is a heart that beats staccato, triple forte, even though life calls for pianissimo. She is there, I believe that, because God told me I was built in his image. 

For social media sake, I want to always deliver the anecdote. To tie the lesson to the pain and make a gorgeous metaphor out of the tragedy. Instead I will just say that sometimes you meet people from the Northwest or Oakland or Puerto Rico or the middle East. And they remind you that grace belongs in your work, they remind you to see others, they remind you to exercise caution, to listen to the beat, to let it fall right out of the melody and start a symphony all its own.

 Those are the people you never forget. Those are the moments that you place in a chamber in your heart that you may not visit just yet, because the disappointment of the estrangement or the loss is too great to bear. 

Today, I am going to exercise the ability to forgive myself. 

To keep prayers as close to my lips as I can stand. 

Today, I am going to let this day unfold without my help. Sans well wishes or expectation. I am going to dance in the reality that I am alive, and have been given the opportunity to do a new thing, and to do that thing right.  Should today not go as I am trying not plan, I will open my chest, pat this tortured heart and breathe large enough for it to find the beat. 

I am going to spend this day in total forgiveness, not of others, but of me. 


Talk Soon,