they'll sing themselves free

the world rushes by
silhouette patina sky

passenger of mind

silence fragments these

words scratched through india ink

colored stories rise

i let them go —wild

birds cannot be caged for long

they'll sing themselves free

I am struggling with blog silence. I miss everyone. It is lonelier when suddenly silence isn't a choice, but imposed by misfiring neurons. I can talk intermittently and then back to gobbledygook, no warning. The steroids must be starting to take down some of the inflammation because there are periods of clear speech and then it sinks down into the black again like the color draining from the top of the photo into the darkness at the bottom.

My concentration is poor and creativity feels stilted, not the flow I was experiencing before this brainstorm tornado touched down. NOT what I planned for this month. Why do I plan??? Life just unfolds, as it will anyway. Jack Sparrow's compass, now that might come in handy....nah...my inner compass, that I can trust. No map. No plan, just listening deep to that rhythmic compass; my own beating heart. And if North is suddenly West, then I need to re-calibrate, pay closer attention, breathe, rest, breathe, be. Oh, can you imagine this renegade compass needle spinning? Or is it just my mind? Vertigo certainly isn't helping.

Perhaps it is this lack of blogging my thoughts that has been holding my creativity back? Maybe I need to write here, right here, to stimulate this wonky brain of mine? I’ve been so tired. The “other” writing I’d planned to do just isn’t happening the way I'd hoped. I am so tired. Have I mentioned that I’m tired???? Yeah, swollen brain tissue can do that to a person. Compassion, compassion, it is ok to rest. I need to rest.

And it will return, my voice I mean. My legs will walk again without going ragdoll to the floor. I know these abilities will come back to a certain degree, maybe not exactly as before, but mostly once the steroids do their magic. I'm always a little less physically functional after a new exacerbation nibbles away the precious protective myelin, and also a little more —in unexpected ways, a little more. And then the "gains" will all leave me once again —jilted, jolted, disjointed when the moon or stars or T cells are aligned (or misaligned) just so.

Oh, these wild birds want out, to be freed from this cagey body. Perhaps that is the little more; this quiet knowing that I am a little bit more than what is infused in these bones, this flesh. A body I hated as a teen and young woman, a body I learned to love as I finally matured (ok still maturing, 47 in two weeks). A body I do love and respect for all that it still accomplishes despite the challenges, and its bird bone fragility —how I longed to be skinny fought my hunger when I was young and NOW can’t keep weight on —another joke the Universe is enjoying toying with. Perhaps MS is an apt metaphor for life's unpredictability in general...but on steroids! 

Oh this vessel beautifully crafted and absolutely imperfect. This body supports me as well as it can. But I’m a little bit more, more than this body, more than this mind, more than emotions flapping wings and clawing through dense ink for language to express my essence beyond words —even if I could say them aloud and be easily understood...and I will again, I will, for a time.

I am a soul, neshama, I am breath, neshima, I hear, sh’mati. I’m listening to my SoulSelf singing —singing, “This is my life.”  It is the life I've been both cursed and blessed to live. I don't always have to like it. Love life? Yes. Like every moment? No. I’m allowed to feel sad, impatient, frustrated. Even angry, the emotion I dread and loathe for it always gets me in trouble. I’ve earned every feeling as much as you have earned yours; merit badges for surviving and thriving through the hardships and joys of being human.

So I am reentering blogdom, out of boredom, loneliness, longing —but slowly. I am very good at slow, if not patience. “Thank you MS,” she says, tongue and cheeky; still, this gratitude is real, for slow is a wonderful gift, and I am far more blessed than cursed, of this I am completely certain. I am broken. I am whole. I am slow. I struggle; we all do sometimes. This catharsis has given me relief. Thank you for reading this far, if you have, for listening to my small voice rising. You are beautiful and kind and your visits and loving comments heal me. I hope being here awakens healing in you too, at the very least I pray it opens a crack so light gives you an honest look at your own precious life.

haiku my heart at recuerda mi corazon