It guts me when a young man, a boy really, takes his own life.
The artist, poet, writer, actor, inventor and dreamer.
The one who made the world more gentle.
Maybe he was a misfit. Like I am.
Like all of us who have a different drumbeat.
He was caring. He was wonder. He was precious. He was disarmingly beautiful.
He was bold.
He didn’t fit into puzzles.
Not because he was misshapen,
but because there are too many teeth
among the fearful.
I think of a mother having a third of her heart ripped out.
November will never be the same.
Once the heart is severed in such a brutal way,
There is an ancient scream
A buried language.
We have each other inside.
We are portholes for love and pain.
And now I’m trying to do yoga. My own. I can’t
I won’t bring myself there. Not now.
Who am I to have a safe landing when God leaves some so comfortless?
In two days, I go to Ana Forrest’s advanced teacher training.
Usually it would mean so much to prepare
with bright colored pants and just the right outfit.
Get my body in top shape ready to invert,
lunge, and export me to ego places.
But not now
Nothing worldly matters
when the hearts of mothers
are ripped open
and the sacred ones are dimmed from this world.