Poem: We Can Move

We can move. 
Our movement means more than we think it does, 
like the movement of brushes and pens
carrying messages
wherever we go.

We have feelings
and intelligence
that color 
and illuminate our paths 
in special ways. 

We are part of a 
radical inward proliferation: 
We unfurl like ferns, 
and we branch extravagantly like trees 
growing into a space that grows
from our growing.
We open like flowers 
into the space we make
by our opening.

The interior matters. 
The things that move us on the inside,
even the small movements,
the glimmers, the shadows
the passing thought, the impression,
the vaguely remembered thing,
and also the big fires that sweep through us
the avalanche, the landslide, the howling winds,
the ice dam breaking. . . 

Every inner change has its outer counterpart,
and every little change, 
or big,
can take us to new places. 

We can get clear. 
Each breath can touch us in intimate ways, like a lover. 
Every moment can be a secret tryst in broad daylight. 

We can notice how we love our lives
as treasured works of art
and how that changes all the colors:
wow
so green
wow
so gold
wow so
blue-purple-red.

So so so so so
intensely big in their ancient newness.

We can arrange things. 
And notice now:
everything we touch with our hearts 
takes residence in another dimension.  

Our hearts are ready. 
Our hearts never forgot. 
Our hearts were not deceived. 
Our hearts delivered the movie we paid our tickets for. 
Our hearts can bring up the house lights 
and we will see all the companions 
we’ve probably only dimly seen beside us
until now.

We can start a whole new show. 

One word that touches us. 
One image.
One thing we can hold
or behold,
even in the distance.
Whatever we wrap our feelings around. 

One pair of eyes,
meeting ours,
glistening and alive,
so full of light
and depth and flashing darkness,
so much that even one moment of contact, if we let it in, 

one moment,

is ours forever. 

We remember.

Then, wait…
What happened? 
We forgot it already! 

Ah…no worries. 
Our hearts will remember
until we remember
our hearts
once again.

If we remember who we are
others will remember who we are, too. 

If we keep remembering who we are
others will keep remembering who we are, too. 

When others truly see us, this can help
with our remembering. 

There’s a plate that needs washing.
There’s a stain on the carpet.
There’s a place inside us that needs touching,
and it’s okay to let all these things just be for now.

There’s a fullness in our empty hands. 
And there’s a way to meet our fullness and our emptiness
by joining hands with others.  

Why rush, though?
Things just get crazier.

Then again, why not?
Things will probably get crazier anyway!

Tremulous touch. 
Light brush.
Firm pressure.
Any way it appears, 
there’s no pressure at all. 

Whatever is most familiar
suddenly looks most different.

That’s the gift of starting over, 
of returning to our childhood homes,
of finding them filled with strangers 
or empty
of finally letting the breath we’ve been holding go,
of feeling our ways, crawling our ways, 
and squirming our ways
back into our deeper bodies.

Everything will learn to grow
in this new light.

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