a poem from March 2014 that has resonated with me recently
At the base of the mountain is mud
thick
brown
heavy
the kind that seeps into my crevices and cracks
that builds forts under my finger nails
stamps into the soles of my feet
oozes down my neck
under my arms
across my body
far from smooth silt
this mud is sedimentary
this mud is dirty
this mud has history
Before I was always looking for water
clear
clean
pure
ethereal in quality
water that would allow me to climb
water that would absolve me
I had banished the bath
as soon as I thought I was too old
to let my brother see my naked
my mother had always liked her water warm
and so I hunted for the hottest showers
not caring
about dry skin
a frustrated father
global warming
I had always drank my tea
scalding
not willing to wait
for the water to cool down
to acknowledge
that the burned tongue
was my tongue
and that I was always falling
but this time something tells me
that I could wash with dirt
that it was not about what I washed with
but the way I washed
in slow circles, gently
up my shins, around my thighs
that I could cup my elbows
massage my shoulders
run my fingers through long, tangled hair
that I could kneel with my knees tucked under
hearting beating, breasts pressed against the earth, mother
moves inside of me
I am no longer afraid of pain
I am no longer afraid of shame
I am no longer afraid of never
reaching the top
I no longer needed to climb
the mountain
I am the mountain.
I have work to do
I have dancing to do
I have loving to do
And it does not matter whether you
will be willing to kiss the mud
on my belly.