In the early morning, I wake up before the sun rises. I drive through fields along the ribbon highway, rubber humming against the asphalt as the sun lifts itself up over the horizon, climbing with long thin legs over trees and houses and farms. This land is not my home. I have been other places that felt more so. Familiar, rooted.

At night, I walk to the field at the end of my street and climb the sliding hill. When the sky is clear and the stars are out, I lay down. I feel small. Tiny, insignificant.

Don’t tell me I am the sky. The voice is back and angry. I am not. I am not this wide and unyielding dome covering every aspect of my life, the weather. The birds are my soul flying in and out of tree branches. The clouds my sadness and the rain my tears. I am the earth, the trees, the lazy rivers, the crashing waves. I am not the sky. When I am clear the stars do not shine more brightly do they?

I am the choking seed in the mud. The debris from winter left in the corners by the fence. The nasty phone message. The broken heart. I am the last moment before she died.

I am the weather, not the sky.

Some days I am so overwhelmed. I know the rhetoric, the practice. Stay present. Don’t live in the past, don’t get lost dreaming of the future. I have no future, and the past is eating me. Not just her death, but the thousand other deaths I have lived in the past two years. I have asked for help and received it, but the work remains. I have not asked for help and received it. The why are you not over it yet accusations and you must have moved on by now and sign the papers because we are adults and I am no longer good enough for you. They dangle from me like bitter gems, pulling me deeper.

I get up. I watch the sunrise. I work. I cry. I laugh. I love. I cook. I clean. I am told from many corners I am not good enough. I go home. I watch the sunset. I sleep.

I am not the storm I want to be. I am a drizzling rain that falls like mist and never fills the dried up river bed. I am the husk, forgotten. I am the branch chewed up for mulch. I am spoiled milk left too long in the fridge. I am an egg left to rot. I am yesterday’s coffee thrown up. I am the other one, fucked, left behind, and blinded.

No current.

If I am the sky what would I be?

Endless.

~ la fraser 2012

A few weeks ago, I shared a writing exercise inspired by Pema Chodron. She wrote “You are the sky, everything else is just weather” – a quote that stuck with me the moment I first read it. On Diving Deeper Writer’s Workshop I have the privilege of looking after the Writing as Spiritual Practice group.

This was the exercise:

Sit with this quote from Pema Chodron. What comes up as you contemplate her words? How is your sky today? What is the weather like? Do not think too much, let whatever needs to come up come up. Don’t edit what you write, just let the words flow from you.

… digging into my sky this evening

Leigh

He was the first one I had kissed that made my knees wibble. New Year’s Eve together then a week. A beginning. I went to him, knowing if I died, no one would notice. He would have been the last. I was ready to go. I never told him that. Instead, I sat on the hardwood floor in bare feet, watching sunlight, writing while he worked. We watched movies and the Dakar rally and in brief moments, explored. Seven days saved me. I wanted to kiss him one last time but the road called me home. Just needed a reason. 

The idea is to build to filling at least one page a day… I am not quite there as far as quantity goes, and definitely not there as far as consistency goes, but I’m working on it. I have decided that I will post a little excerpt every few days this month,  maybe more frequently depending on what is going on in my world in general. That being said, here is an excerpt from my March pages so far…..

day 1

I let yesterday go. I felt heavy and sad, worn out and down. It is not a date I want to remember or celebrate. The day that everything I knew shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. The memories stick to me like shards of glass, cutting my skin, my soul. Two years. I am only just now beginning to learn how to breathe again.

Last night, I dreamed that I was standing in a river that was dammed. In the tiny streams that were still flowing, a small group of five yellow ducklings were walking and sliding. They were trying to swim and not doing very well. In the back of my mind, I knew that the river would start to flow normally, and if the ducks did not learn how to swim, they would drown. I went to the little ducklings, and started showing them how to paddle their feet and they followed me down the river. I stepped through the streams and little pools, looking back over my shoulder to make sure they were following. I knew that we would have to go to the riverbank soon before the dam burst. Then I woke up.

Pema Chodron writes about the opportunity that lies within this kind of pain. Our first instinct is to run away, hide from it, deny it, and I definitely did that. The pain so great, so deep because of the betrayal of trust I could not face the truth. I still can’t really. She advises to sit with the pain though. Step into it like you are stepping into a warm pool of water, let it surround and embrace you. In the end, it is the only real way to know; the only way to get beyond it. This is what I had in my mind yesterday as the day passed. I sat in it. It was the first time in two years that there was a sort of dialogue between us about our daughter. Afterwards, I let the tears fall. Actually, they let me fall. I couldn’t stop them. I have been trying for the past two years to find a way to forgive him. I am just not there yet.

day 2

2 am wake up out of a dead sleep. Sweating, heart pounding, no memory of a nightmare or fragment of a dream hanging on me. I throw off the covers, heaving, trying to catch my breath. God what is happening to me? Everything is hot. The air is hot, pressing down on me. It is early March, winter lingering in its weakened state but still holding on, yet I’m drowning. 17 minutes for my heart to slow. Is that normal? I ask the corner shadow. Check my phone for emails that I don’t care to read. Nothing. No text message. No word from anyone.

I should not watch horror movies before sleeping. Especially ones about angels at war. Or Christopher Walkin, whom I love and fear.

The floor is warm under my toes. My throat is full of sand. In the darkness I step quietly. The girls are sleeping. At the top of the stairs the brrap of the cat chattering cuts the silence. Shhh, I tell him. I need water. The stairs groan as I walk down. The cat barrels past me. There’s no reason to shove. We are all going to the same place, I mutter in my head. In the kitchen, I search the darkness for a mug. Turning the lights on would be painful and blinding. I move easily knowing where everything is. No echolocation required.

The water tastes like tin and algae. I make a face that no one sees. The cat knocks on my elbow. Yes, I know you are there. I scratch his forehead with my other hand. His white spotted fur glows in the moonlight. The backyard is empty except for it. The street is too I imagine, though I refuse to look. My heart dances against my rib cage. I find it hard to breathe. I asked for one day without being worried or bothered. I never have just one day. I ask in the mirror, as I climb the stairs again. What would it take to break free? A chance if I can see it.

I never used to worry like this. Maybe I should have long ago? I don’t know. I never used to have nightmares either. Why would angels be at war in the first place? It’s another question I have never thought to ask. The answers are in the opposite, like the cure for being poisoned. These thoughts weave in and out as I lay down again and sink my head into the pillows. The sparrows and robins could be quieter. Or shut up all together. They won’t because it is time for change. I have no choice but to listen.