Letting go

We sit with stuff for so long, feeding it with what I call a raw red bone of memory. It’s that open wound where you can see the bone and the torn flesh. The pain lies bare before you.

The healing comes with the letting go.

Easy to say ‘let go’, huh? Falls off the lips. Let go. Move from the lips to the act of letting go. It’s not a cover up. It’s not a shutting down and being forgetful of it. There is no escape from the stuff and the pain. Sit with it. Face it. Feel it.

But as you feel it – that raw red bone of memory – be gentle with yourself, be kind to yourself. Stop blaming. Start loving yourself. Easy to say, ‘start loving yourself’. Hardest thing to do, taking care of yourself.

When this happens you can let go.

Breathe and meditate, being awake to what you want to let go. Get in touch with your body. Move from your head and into your body.

Breathing helps ventilate, gets oxygen into the raw red bone. Get under it and into it. It will be uncomfortable and almost unbearable times – but be gentle and be open and the feeling with be expansiveness and always do it without judgement.

Drop the story around the raw red bone of memory. Drop it like a stone into a vast pond. Watch it sink through the blueness-clearness of the water. As it drops you are letting go without blame or judgement.

Be kind to yourself.

© Rick Frame

 


You call often

My mother said you were God’s own country. I now know why. 

I write words of love in the sand of places where we roamed amongst the rocks and rivers. You can see them in our footprints and hear our songs. I see your sky and dust. I hear your laughter. You are on the line and you whisper dreams. You talk of our ghosts. We are often raw in memory.

So, I slide into a dream of a place where we planted a treasure of youth. I arrive at the place in the the early light of memory. The dream is not fixed but rather is infused and layered: you lie naked in the slip-stream. Rivers run through you and the salty air catches my skin in the night storm. I am your prisoner. It is not possible to be released. And the memory dances to the next tune: you breathe in the valley below. The willow trees outline the river and I can hear you call out a dream of Africa. It haunts me still.

I want to see you tonight dressed in the stars of the southern sky, playing the insect chorus and I want to feel your falling warmth in the end-day on my skin. You say the words out loud in an orchestra of strings. You are the sky played on the earth with wind that lights on the morning Venus star.

I found a memory discarded on a table where I sat for hours dreaming of being in another place. I want to return. And as the midnight hour descends, memories of tubing in hot-valleyed rivers surprise me with their intensity.

I remember how you took my breath away. I could see forever into the blue hills seated under the sky. I am standing in the clouds. Your thorn trees and brown skyline sit under my skin. You surprise me often with the way you collide with my present. You call often. Why?

© Rick Frame