(from journal)
The past few days I am practically brought to tears by nearly every living creature I encounter--a miniature dragon insect on Cam's ceiling; a buzzing fly who I release into the outdoors; my cat in my arms like a baby (and there is sadness there, as he is confined from wildness); the beautiful blond child at the PDC workdays; the tiny bird with hummingbird wings at the window feeder the Stellar's jay at the top of the tree at the corner of Cam's window, swaying in the strong winds and rains of the long, hard afternoon (a grounding, a guardian); a baby squirrel at the window, eating the seeds fallen on the ground; the bees in the movie tonight who I now feel such reverence for; the crows circling, diving, riding the winds; the frogs chirping in the pond out back this night, as I walk around the house. The thought of the creatures pulls at my heart--just the thought of my shared existence with them at this time in life, in time--just the thought of my communion with them as inhabitants of this world. Do they hold me in any such reverence? Do they hold me?
Flashes:
wanting...longing to be a small, soft animal that someone holds and loves so sweetly; that is not so impacted by gravity; that does not feel so much weight from the world.
a picture of a child sleeping against a wild mountain ox of some sort, resting together in the harmony of an alpine world; relaxing into their shared existence and the privilege of each other's company.
This softness and pure love and co-compassion contrasted with something like industrialized animal farming is enough to break my heart many times over each day. The violence and force inflicted upon beings with heart and soul practically destroys me. I feel the pain of it inside me. I feel it. I feel the clear-cutting of life on my heart. Barren patches where joy, vitality, and complexity have been stripped.
I want them back.
Each loss is another gash and I am spilling blood and love all over every day.
I am not hopeless, nor defeated. I am not destroyed.
I am alive. Preparing. Ready.
I am built for this time, for this world.
I can find the beauty and piece it back together into something new.
I feel the collapse in my chest. I feel the pain. I feel the harshness and the suppression. I live it. It is part of my world. I will stand in it and in another. I will marry them until beauty overcomes. Beauty is always present. I don't know if I believe that. The possibility for beauty... finding beauty... no... yes...
healing.
Well, it exists in the pain. Isn't that my duty as an artist (well, a writer)? To find that beauty? Find the beauty in the broken world. In these creatures whom persist in the world even as it crumbles, or whom hold together the world my species is attempting to erode? I have such reverence and love. It fills me to the brim and I burst. The pain and love become one, and they fill me, and I burst with the anguish of loving something more than can ever be expressed.
"Finding beauty in a broken world is creating beauty in the world we find." --Terry Tempest Williams
Yes, but I don't even need to create it. It is there, in the eyes, wings, and wonder of all creatures, all beings. I only must bear reverence and love for them and all the burdens that follow with such love. And yes, I will try to create beauty from the filth of hatred, and try to understand how hatred can breed such awfulness when it is so clearly driven by desire, and love. I will try to direct my own desire, my own love into creation and not deterioration.
Yes:
I love a broken world
a whole broken world
a whole world broken
a world whole in its brokenness
but perhaps I can only see that because as a person with a poetic heart, that is what I want to see. But I think I can also feel it. As I explore this pain, I at least feel a fullness which is a golden thread of hope that connects me to a deep [and distant?] faith. And in that...
"Finding beauty in a broken world becomes more than the art of assemblage. It is the work of daring contemplation that inspires action." --TTW
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