Last night at yoga, I made a vow (or, in yoga-speak, “set an intention”) to be more involved with the community of writing. Our yogini asked us to think of a sangha (community) we wanted to support and be supported by, and writers was the first thing that popped into my head. I want to be inspirational to and inspired by other wordsmiths and artists of different sorts, and I want to make concerted efforts to have that be an ever-growing part of my life. So much of my time is tied up in work these days that I need to take a step back, look at what’s really important to me, and figure out how to re-align. (This is a process. It’s something I keep saying I need to do regularly.)
Tonight I’m going with a friend to an association of sci-fi/fantasy writers whose work I’ve adored for years. I’m going to be tongue-tied and starstruck, I just know it. (They’re not big names to the general public I guess, but they are to me.)
Tonight is also the summer solstice, which is not exactly the theme of this one. Technically this moment happened to me last night during yoga class; I was in some godforsaken twisted position with limbs everywhere, and I happened to look down and see this arc of shadow perfectly placed along the knob of my ankle. I don’t know why, but that just kicked in a small door of inspiration, which led to this. I’m trying more and more to capture these moments of inspiration, and not rely on sifting through a slurry of experiences with a prompt-shaped dipstick; I think it worked out pretty well, this time.
I believe there is another body buried
underneath the body. You cannot dig it up:
it must be wrung out like a twist of silk,
maybe coaxed to the surface with some
brown sugar and vanilla, scribbled on
a saucer. You can feel it as it turns loosely
within your other skin. We are layered
like the Earth. Sometimes you catch
glimpses, when the light is absolute gold
in the window, tickling through the nets of
your pale surface. You find yourself
bent into a ring, dripping with sweat, and
you see it. The simmering evening arranges
shadows that cup the ankle, just so. You are
pressed, against yourself, against the sun.
There is so much we belong to.