loss of a song

there are moments in time and space when the world stops. time ceases to exist and the passing of hours into days no longer holds meaning and within that moment nothing and nobody can bother you within that stillness. i'd like to say that these moments offer you such pure bliss that nothing else can be noticed, but it is not the moment i am thinking of. no, the one i am thinking of is a moment of pure grief. a grief so profound that to utter any sound would be sacrilegious, a grief so complete that it encompasses your entire being and swallows you whole, that is the moment i speak of, and while events that took me there could have been a death of a beloved family member, my most profound sense of loss occurred when red-wing blackbirds fell from the sky and when humans successfully cloned the embryo of a sheep. the psychological scars left by those events could easily be the same as experienced by the death of a relative, and yet, for me, these were felt more. i cannot say how, or why, or even what for the convoluted psyche behind this phenomenon, but it is there, and it is a truth about myself that cannot be ignored. perhaps it is the following thoughts that go along with these events that effect me so profoundly: if we can clone sheep, when will we begin to clone humans? and who's to say who's genes get cloned, and who's do not? if we have lost hundreds upon hundreds of red-wing blackbirds will my spring flock return to me? or have we lost part of their song? a song that is known only to a few, and a melody that can only be heard by those willing to sit still and listen, but how many have forgotten the notes? how many will loose the tone, until the song of the red-wing blackbird becomes changed into something unrecognizable and indescribable to their own ears? how much have we lost? will we ever be able to regain what was there? will my flock return? or will the lone early bird of last year now become the only one?

life = fight = flight

my life is a fight. every moment of every waking day i struggle to make it through the end, until i can pretend that my job is just a job, that my job is not me, and i truly am a writer, a dancer, a mother, a teacher, a healer, a lover, a friend, all these things and more i push to the side, and make them abide the mundanities and inanities of dawn's early light, waiting for respite to bring a moment's solace and peace.
my life is a struggle to push against, barriers follow my paths wherever i turn. i push at them, i slide across their sides, i dash around them, i am exhausted by them, and yet, when sleep finally beckons, i reckon that there is more to do, more to write, more to read, more to see, more to hear, more to touch and taste and smell, always more to keep me fighting against the oblivion of sleep, so much so that my brain becomes a muddled, fuddled, duddled mess. my thoughts no longer form straight lines, but instead curve and swerve, forming spirals into labyrinthine thoughts too bold and pure to find my way out of, and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, i find myself outside myself, looking in beneath the surface of my skin, and i take note of the things that i wrote, damning them all back to the hell they came from, wondering at their madness, marveling at their gladness, and i am stopped in my tracks by the awesomeness of the path i have laid out before me, by the grandeur of the trees that line their borders, by the colors of lush life swaying and dancing in the breeze, as the muse and i dance and play along its winding roads of yesterday, and today, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, loosing each other in time, in space, in the words that try to form the spirals into squares and walls of lush growth become cut down into hedges so that others may see into the labyrinth of my mind's ever wandering eyes.