Ashe is "Talkin into the Wind", Again

It's just my way of doing things. Grab a warm drink and get over here. Been a while, ain't it?

Photo by Jenni Kowal on Unsplash

“I retreat into myself,” I say.

“And what do you do there?” she asks.

“I curl up into a little ball,” I say, “ and I feel. I feel deeply. And then I regroup, and I come back out.”

“Good. That’s good. But are you accepting the person that comes back out?” she asks.

And I am perplexed. Because I feel that I am finally accepting the One that has emerged, and perhaps that is why I feel this strangeness.

Therapy has been a mixed bag. It has helped me to accept some things I did not want to admit. To myself, about myself. But I have accepted these parts of myself: my hypocrisy, my idiosyncrasies, my fantastic ideologies, my lack of the need to explain, or debate. To discuss, but not debate. Being ok with not being ok. Hmm.

I am a whole person. But my journey through life has fractured the wholeness, and I have plastered over the fractures the best I can. I feel it’s enough. My fractures, they got character. Pizazz. The fractures and the plaster and the nails and the cement and the gold overlay- they are all apart of the wholeness.

I’m okay with who I am, but I have not always been comfortable with that. Society is the Great Liar, the Great Facade; for they tell you to love yourself and be confident, and unbothered, and unapologetic, but oh boy do they hate you when you actually do. Because now you are harsh, you are cold, you are selfish, you are arrogant. But I am also tired of Society’s perception of me. So I will be all those things. As it suits me, of course.

I been nursing this broken ankle for a bit. Wearing a boot up to the knee, an extra 2 weeks tacked on for healing cuz I’m diabetic. So instead of 6 weeks it’s 8. Would have been 4 extra weeks but I’m “young”. Whatever. Autumn is my favorite season and I’m missing it.

But I been on my porch swing, feeding my birds (and squirrels, and that woodchuck, Octavian ), swinging and listening to creation. Talking with the Creator. And just reading and thinkin, reading and thinkin. I got strong opinions, high ones, low ones, some apathy. I know a lot about a little and a little about a lot. And some things I know nothing about and will tell you so. Some things I know nothing about on purpose and I’ll tell you that too. I’m fully human, flaws and all, and I’m reveling in it. And it feels good to just let other people be humans too. Flaws and all, cuz we not being hypocritical about that.

My sketches and drawings have become more abstract and frantic; as I feel a need to just get it out before the back of my head explodes like a jar of raspberry preserves dropped on the concrete.

“Am I crazy? What do I do when I get the urges” I implore. She look mighty comfy on this video conference. I feel like a squiggle drawn on the margins in boredom.

“You are not,” says she. “You are an artist, a writer, and this is what they do. So write it down, draw it paint it. Your anxiety will lessen.”

I am silent.

I got a friend that’s dying of a brain tumor. A glioma. You can only do so much for that you know. So her thinkin, it’s a little discombobulated. But I love her and her gentle strength, so I will deal with the discombobulations that I will yearn for when she is gone. I talk to her and pray that her personality does not change, that she will not forget me. But i will be here even when she does; I will be the person she needs or wants me to be. Whether she is aware or not. What’s the harm? Serious question. I think of her as I swing. I will paint her. Her essence, anyway. I could draw her from memory and then be compelled to smear the entire thing in gold glitter. Such is art I guess.

I swing and I think of the absurdity of the world, and I am no activist, I fear. I am a part, and yet apart. Others will have an opinion about that. I care not. I will not debate it. Maybe not even discuss it. I only have the energy to care for my small square, and ask of it to ripple. Ripples of love will sustain. They will have to. The masses are weighed down. We’s tied, boss.

I swing and I get so fatigued, as I have been told that the Fibromyalgia-that is worsening in spite of ‘state of the art’ therapies, because of course it is- the fibromyalgia will cause this healing bone to take most of my energy. I think they are right and that ticks me off. I swing and seethe. Then I get over it.

I swing and I feel the neuropathy (fibro + diabetes cuz go big or go home, amirite?) making my palms and soles burn, and the nerves right over my fracture. I swing and I pop 600 milligrams and take a swig of Limoncello La Croix.

I miss my hummingbirds, but I am jealous of their journey. But I’m glad they get to go. I swing and I wave at the mailman, who calls me ‘Ma’am”. He’s a good kid. Got a good job with benefits, he doin alright i hope.

I swing and I read Ms. Bambara’s “Gorilla, My Love” and each story makes my heart swell. I cannot breathe. She is speaking my language. And it works.

I swing and I read Ms. Walker’s “The Chicken Chronicles” and my mind begins to churn. Yeah, like butter. I’m ready.

I get off my swing and I come inside and I listen to music from my memories and clean what I can with this idiotic boot on and I light my incense cones when my house is clean enough.

I swing in my dreams and I curl up in the fetal position and I dream odd dreams cuz of the Advil PM/ or melatonin.

I wake up and shed the dead skin of the writers block and I let my mind do what it do. Cause I am who I am. There is no debate for that. Society be damned. As it most likely is.

I drink coffee that my husband always seem to brew to perfection and I sit down at this computer and I swing my fingers around this keyboard. I pray that the reader has a cup of tea in hand as they read through the disjointed muck that is the Brain of Ashe. And I hope they are whole too. Cracks and all.

Tell me what you have been up to lately. What’s on your mind? What are you working on? What have you come to learn? Or accept? I miss y’all and I’m interested.