A note: I don’t know what this is. But it is something. I got back from Everest Base Camp a month ago. I went on the advice of sweet intuition. Before those precious 15 days, my plans fell through and fell through again, and then again. And again. Plans made moth holes out of me. I was Swiss cheese. (I love Swiss cheese!) Ok. I thought. O.k. Okay. I expected to be trekking in deep contemplation, asking myself big questions. But when I was there, a beautiful thing happened. I was there. I was on a playdate with the kids of life school and there was no thinking. It was the island of misfit toys. I was full. Abundantly full.
When I got home, and was confronted by my sense-making mind, I found I was a stranger in my sweet little nest. And then this little voice started whispering in my ear and out this came. I don’t know if it makes sense. I don’t know if it’s accessible. But what I do know is this: I’m too tired to proofread any more. Be and let be. x P.s: To the EBC family: Thank you for more than you could ever possibly know. You’re a bunch of badasses.
What The Mountains Told Me
You’re afraid. You’re afraid that your words are used up. That your laugh has been lost. That your last love was your last chance at love and it was your fault for letting it slip through your fingers because you were too busy shielding your heart with your head. You’re scared your cubicle is going to sprout arms and with thick hands grab hold of your neck and choke you while the Mac man smiles and florescent lights reflect off your crocodile tears.
But you’re here now.
Somehow you’ve been wired to want this but this is just a pin prick in infinity. You won’t be here long.
You’re vulnerable – for the first time in a long time. I’ve picked your pockets of the guns and the ammo and the knives. I’ve cut a hole in the sack where you’ve carried cutting words and the broken mirror and a shattered image of your face. You are beautiful, girl, but you have more chin hairs than you think you do. I’ve disarmed you. Your loose change, it’s mine. The book of your stories, the horror of your youth and the fairytale of your future, they’ve been lost on deaf ears in thin air. You’ve been picked clean. Left only as you are.
You don’t want to walk, but you will.
I’ve called the pain to plague you, with its buboes and blisters and seeping rot. Humble yourself; walk at the back of the pack. Watch the ambition before you. Stand by as I empty the change from their pockets and rip their pockets right off. You’re all exposed; naked as you came, just not to me.
I’ve called the wind to greet you. But even his savage hand has life lines and heart lines too. He’ll smack you in the barren center of your chest, like the old lover you left behind. Let him. Feel every burning inch, until you’ve spun around to see something new growing amongst the rocks and the soot and the shit.
I’ve called the stars to remind you that nothing exists except for what you choose to make. You’ve buying your wishes but the wishing stars are out of change. The stars, they don’t exist. They’ve been dead for years. You’re not.
I’ve called the frost so that you seek the fire. Step into the deep freeze so you seek the warmest stove. I’ve called the steepest hills so you’ve only one path. The hummingbirds will distract you. And you might stray for a bit. You might panic in the dark. It could always rain. But you’ll get where you’re going and if not, the sun will rise. (Keep going.)
In the end, this is all just a game. You’ll win and lose and sometimes you won’t matter at all. But play, so that when you’re dealt a bad hand, when you’re the shithead, you’ll know that every time you lose, it’s a new game. When this is all over, wash the mountain off your skin until it’s like you’ve never been cold. Forget your skin. Ink it with technicolor and cover it with dirt. Untangle the precious crochet inside you. Follow what lines you.
And for God’s sake, when I come knocking, let me in.