There's always more.

June 15, 2017 Candace Morris 0 Comments


A tsunami has begun to form. We stand at the receding shoreline, desperate to change what we fear might be the impending future, watching the water rise in the too-close distance. It's hard to see anything good anymore. We feel helpless, unable to shhh the ocean floor like we'd calm a baby, our hands are instead full of other hands, the hands of our gathered beloveds, standing chained together by the light of her.

Good. Bad. Whatever is to come, we cannot stop it. That hasn't changed. That will never change.

Fear mounts, but so do we. We saddle up our weary but persistent souls, curious about the unknown trek. There is every hope, but still, we are scared. More scared than ever before. Breathing like we are being chased by a predator, yet there is no threat to fight. We have no weapons to pick up, no ground upon which to stand.

We wish for physical combat instead. Would expelling our bodies' energy make it easier to exist in this pain? I look at us, my friends, I see our riot gear, but we've been abandoned by our opposers. Dumbfounded by the total, utter absence of an enemy.

Are we knocking at the last door?

What will happen? What will happen? What will happen? Sticking, repetitive, answer-less questions.

Is it the end of the world?


Last week, we received some seismic-shifting news about Kelly. The cancer isn't responding to targeted treatment, so the doctors want to go wide. There is fluid in her lungs (well, until they extracted it a few days ago), a new inflammation on the liver. Chemo is back on the table. We await scan results. It's scary news, but that's all it is. It's not a prognosis. Not by a long shot.

It's hard to walk the line between being a good friend (trying to read what she needs so we aren't demanding that she always know what she needs in every given second, supporting her without smothering her, not demand that she comfort us right now, protecting her boundaries), and being good to yourself (letting yourself feel it all, investing in solitude, pursuing ease, protecting your boundaries). I have walked around in a daze the last few days. I can't focus and I don't really care about anything else. My world has stopped and yet, I can't say why. She is here, I can call her, I can drive to her house, I can hear her custom owl-hoot-hoot text tone interrupt a corporate meeting, making me smirk for the collision of the two worlds.

Here's what I am finding comfort in:

The moment. I have her. She is here.

Music. Oh music - it can reach inside places and shift everything. I helps me feel both the weight and the weightlessness of the situation...the always persistent cosmos...the gorgeous, fleeting, terrible human experience...all of it.

Writing. I decided Friday morning when the news first came in that I needed to write (and probably go back to seeing a therapist regularly as this is likely beyond my scope) for no other reason than it's the only only fucking thing I CAN do. I know the power words possess to shake up our the way we act and behave, how they help us find our way back into the bravery we were born with, and how they can remind us to marry the inner and external self - in ourselves and in others.

Because with humans, what you see (even when you see with your third eye) is never, ever what you get.

There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.

There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.

There's always more.
There's always more.
There's always more.







You Might Also Like

0 comments: