Some nights I lay awake and imagine the opening. If I could reach deep enough to open my chest as a pair of ornate french doors, I might be able to crack wide this cage and release the ravens within. My heart, pecked clean, would provide the bass beat for a symphony of trees, their leaves a choir above me. Outside the window, moonlight dances silver against the neighbor's home. I cannot catch a clear view, but the shadows tell me stories enough. I pretend that each snore is a tiny earthquake, the fault lines of sinuses rumbling from deep in the core. I cannot sleep, for fear the rumbling will overcome me, books falling from shelves and a hundred glass offerings shattered to the floor. My skin is pale in the half-light, the flush of summer fading with the sunlight as we move toward winter. If my chest were cracked wide, you might see the pulse of my heart slow, each night a tiny death as I leave this body for dirt roads and a land with no snow and return each morning with the sunrise.
These days I am cracking open every minute. My heart a wild thing, pecked and worn and throbbing ever forward, never losing time to the music of my soul. I am uncertain how the next thing will occur, whether it means the shaking of leaves in the now-winter wind, or the sudden burst of sun and blue skies that has me longing for the newness of spring. Single steps feel like hurricanes, swirling around my feet and changing everything. The eye of the storm is my body, the calmness amid the chaos, the moment of intentional breath between and before the next devastation of the heart.
Even the blessed moments carry devastation, a tearing down of old patterns and beliefs to make space for newness and light. There are so many things I want to say, a shifting of love and life and longing that goes beyond words and sounds to the very breath in my lungs. Each second I am grateful and at the same time hunting, scanning the horizon, on guard. I can feel the ground shaking miles below my toes.
Outside a hotel lobby, snow is swirling as though someone took the entire city and shook it, hard, to release the glittered confetti. Ice hangs from signs and windowsills and the branches of bare trees around me. My heart is breaking and healing at the same time, a crack releasing the poison of fear of memory and slowly stitching behind it the light of potential and growth. I do not have answers, I do not have questions. I have the moment between waking and dying to learn all that I can without force or aggression. And so I continue, to crack open and to stitch together.
Today is a day for magickal thinking. For releasing the ravens and setting softly into the dark times.