I cannot read poetry. I don’t know when it happened. But I noticed it today. I turned to a page filled with delicate memories of a childhood. Of tooth fairies and pixie dust footprints. And found my skin so raw, my tears so close, my throat so narrow, that I couldn’t read on. I just put it down. What is it in us that urges us not to feel. Why is sadness so seductive and so painful. Why is art so deft at finding that tender spot. At striking so straight and true at its target. Why are words so powerful. After all this time. Why aren’t we more immune to their effect, their seduction. And why, despite this power that words wield, do I sometimes think about quitting. You know, just turning them off. And not just the words, but the voices that carry them. The ears that hear them. The mouth that whispers their names. The desire to pin more of them to a page. As if they were exotic butterflies. And I were some kind of ento-etymologist studying their behavior, their migration patterns, their mating rituals. Their distinguishing marks. Maybe it’s because chasing butterflies is hard work. The truth is we all need a break from even the best parts of ourselves from time to time. And from the ambitious hopes that carrot us along most days. None of us are strangers to the crushing waves of doubt that pound our shores. Or to the trip wires we must avoid as we run the chase-your-dreams marathon towards the lives we aspire to live. And there are those moments where the chase just seems to have gone out of our legs. There are days where we all just need someone to say: Go ahead. Give up. You can, you know. After all, always living for a dream somewhere out the in the future is an impediment to actually living right here. We want an alternate reality. Somewhere we have permission to take a long nap in a world without alarm clocks. A spa day that lasts for weeks. A foot massage that brings us enlightenment. Or maybe we just need a place to be free. Because most of us are slaves to something. Money. Our jobs. Television. The internet.
Our minds. Dogma. Our possessions. Halfunderstood beliefs. Obsessions. Escapisms. Fear. Ignorance. Prejudice. Doubt. Maybe we need to live in a world where we matter, without regard to resume entries, social media, or sales quotas. Where we can forget things like tweets, relevance, likes, and friend requests. Maybe to be free is to have found our home. Our passion. Our voice. Our tribe. And our ability to be our authentic selves. Maybe it’s a place where we own our days, our time, our direction. Where we choose where to pour our passions and when. Without having to lug around that oversized dollar sign all day. (The one that doesn’t quite fit under my writing desk.) The one that’s hard to pack around on a spontaneous hike in the foothills. That acts as a roadblock to countless creative projects. That comes with its own defeatist recordings that play on loop. Or maybe we just need to be free to follow our voices. To understand, in every cell of our bodies, that now is all we have. That we no longer need to carry the weight of the future. We never did. We can just let it fall to the ground. Right here. Because someday is imaginary. This is my prayer. For me and for you. That we find this place to go. This place to belong. Where we use our voices. Where they are heard. And where we do not waste this wild and precious life just paying rent. And to find that place, we may need to learn something new. How to be nothing. Because sometimes that's all we need. Nothing. Sometimes space is King. And silence its Queen. Sometimes we reach for answers and come up empty. And sometimes empty is the best thing to be. So go ahead. Turn down the noise. Turn off the screen. Unplug your thoughts. Just be free. Try to remember what that even is. Forget that life is short. Remember you are infinite. Remember you are poetry.
Reno Tahoe Tonight 7