Turning the Soil


“Because of this, I try to remember the girl I was a few years back and what she thought about her life and her choices. I pay her respect, and acknowledge how much we grow, especially and because of the decisions we once made. I tell her don’t worry, I’ll take care of you next time.

It becomes clear to me how absurd I was in thinking I could go forward by going backward. How much we have changed and how nothing stays the same… I too have been holding myself hostage. I too have to lay down my promises and get on with things”

Erin Belair

It begins as a memory that jolts itself awake at three am and seeps in under the adobe walls like a snake and wraps its tight coils around the head until I am are transported to a time when I was a wretched beastly little thing and did or said something to hurt. But I lie in bed in this new spring year and twist the actions and events over, chewing cud, unable to reverse and unable to sleep.

It is a line that comes in the morning bath, and while I spit out the charcoal toothpaste and the black mint splatters the mirror and for the second time that day the thought runs away, down the drain.

So I arrange a work space outside in the shade on a dusty green yoga mat and wait for the words to come, summoning them with music and time travel.

Why do memories brings sadness when the present brings a new sense of good? This is no way to live, I am told. To sit along the tide line, forever in limbo of reverse and present.

It leaves no room for forward.

I wish to hold joy in each day without carrying the weight of years ago into each choice and new moment.

Is there place to let them sit and sing themselves to sleep?

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