[non-channeled]

I used to write poetry when I was young. It fell out of my heart and remained caught in a blank space for a long time, but I have made room in my heart for poetry again. It feels good. This piece is like time-travel and speaks from a place in my past.

Longing

I long to travel where my body cannot go;

through doors and walls and windows

to unseen worlds of dizzying possibility.

I lie awake, willing a single silver cord

to emerge from my body like an astral umbilicus.

At the mirror I chant I AM

and wait for the reflected worlds behind me to unfold

like petals after a spring rain,

worlds that will swallow me into nothingness.

One day I will scream for an hour so shards of my

shattered heart will break my brain into halves

and I will disappear between them.

Float away, Self, I whisper in my dreams

that follow me like twisted shadows.

Float away and unwind the becoming,

banners at rest and respectfully waiting,

all time suspended.

A friend recently posted her reflections from 2009 and hopes for 2010, and I was especially intrigued and touched by her chosen theme for the coming year -- gentleness. It's my friend's intention to be gentle with herself this year, releasing herself from the bindings of the need for perfection and from the desire to do all and be all. Isn't that lovely?

I thought it was a wonderful theme for the year, and it got me to thinking. I post a lengthy channeled message every month -- as well as one for the entire year -- which typically includes a theme for that period of time. Why not choose one (or listen to the one your heart sings to you) on a personal level each year?

Last week I practiced being dead. It was the flu. When I told someone that, they asked me, "Was it the throwuppy flu?" At the risk of entering The Land of TMI, no, it wasn't the throwuppy flu. It was the you're-dying-so-you-might-as-well-get-used-to-being-dead flu.

So for several days I did nothing. Reading was out of the question — not only were books simply too heavy to hold, but they made no sense. Black shapes swam on white pages. It was much easier just lying still under 20 blankets, staring at the ceiling with my eyes closed.

Matthew spoke to me from time to time. He was probably speaking coherently, but to my fevered mind he appeared to be saying things like, "The walrus is painting the refrigerator purple and the headphones are dangling under uncanny optimism. Can I answer your octopus?" after which my brain would announce how very very tired it was and Matthew would smile indulgently and walk away. We had many conversations like that. It was restful. I didn't need to understand. And then I would go back to staring at the ceiling with my eyes closed.