We’re turning to mush.
Gone are the old, reliable labels
Piece by piece we are
Doing as was foretold
For this virus crisis was long expected
By climate crisis scientists
Made worse by our many-decade long race to the bottom
Where am I in all this?
How do I be?
To be?
What does that mean,
when the cycles of seeding, growing, fruition and fallow mean nothing?
This cyclical principle has guided me for many years,
and now, oh now,
it has deserted me,
in all the ways that seem tangible.
Remember:
It is about being
What is yours to be,
when all the labels have fallen away.
I am Mummy,
an occasional poet,
a dog walker,
forager,
grief-holder,
empty vessel,
lost,
found human.
I feel this, deep in my bones;
the pinnacle of security,
the Western Way,
is to sit in a hammock and read a soothing book,
while the Old World Order collapses,
human being by human being,
far out of sight.
Just wait until it gets into Rohingya refugee camp,
I keep thinking.
I tell you a secret: I am falling apart,
label by label,
piece by piece,
into something Else.
What, I do not know.
Nowhere to go, when once I saw so clearly the path ahead.
No one to speak to, learn from, because all Guides are as lost as me.
I am INSIDE the Circle.
Who is here with me?
I think we all are,
in some form or another.
Some days I barely know I am in here.
Some, like today,
it is abundantly clear that within the Circle is where we step to become dissolved.
Nwyfre 