Light Levels

Poetic musings, updates, and community news on the new moons.

Light Levels (a personal note)

I am writing to you while looking at a bushel of electric yellow marigolds as the whole of my little living room fills with the nostalgic aroma of wilting wildflowers (foraged remnants of the recent Poetry Séance—you’ll find a gush of gratitude around this offering in the orbit section). Truthfully, I am looping around this thought that I “should” be writing a more evergreen, clarified concept of a small essay to send, with most of myself removed from it, but I am learning that so much of poetics asks us to include ourselves and our contexts in our writing so here I am trying it on. It’s pretty uncomfortable. But it’s also Leo season, and as a Leo sun myself, I figure this new moon in my sign is as good of a time as ever to practice being a touch more… in the light.

Unsurprisingly, I’ve been thinking a lot about light. As a sun/moon/season enthusiast, I am usually thinking about light but lately I am thinking about it in terms of how low it can become in the body, how much energy and awareness it takes to conjure it back when it dims. In both my work as a poet and as a teacher (of movement, sporadically of poetics) I consider the body a vessel that contains light. Light as in life force, energy, creativity, you-ness, purpose, Love… whatever radiates from us, whatever simultaneously keeps us full of our unique presence.

Here's the part where I let you in to my personal context: for a tumble of months, I’ve been (oh, what are they kids calling it these days?? how should I frame this?) **struggling. Amongst our dire collective context, the confluence of some health concerns, the seemingly constant stress of keeping kibble in the cats’ bowls as a writer and yoga teacher while the search for additional/foundational/aligned work stretches on and the rejection letters pile up, the surprisingly persistent ache of an opened heart—well it’s all kind of gotten to me, and it’s affected my capacity for hope and courage and endurance which is all pretty necessary for this whole living-in-the-world-thing.

So at the beginning of the month, I went out to a mountain lake for a reset and you know what that lake and the cliffside and the summer sun showed me? The container of my own body, and how low in light I was. Well no wonder it’s been a struggle—I am functioning with light levels lower than I have felt in years. The next step was pretty clear and simple: I had to (have to) call my Light back.

Even though I’d love if I could fill back up with the snap of my fingers (I’ve tried), it’s a slow, methodical, and deeply imperfect process. I write with no agenda, I submerge in cold water, I move and sweat and dance, I absolutely unravel to tears sometimes, I let my chosen family know how I’m feeling, I take time to be quiet and listen to the landscape, I pull up my generosity and support others as best I can, I lean into my silliness, I stay attuned to joy. When joy finds me, I hold it close. I watch other poets and artists share themselves and my own bravery glimmers from deep within me. I reach down and grab that glimmer, I cup it in my hand, I share it in the ways I know how to.

I remember Light as an ever-flowing, certainly renewable resource, but one that needs intentional replenishing. I remember my practice of pulling it up from my belly, pooling it in my hands, sending it out to someone who needs it. I remember it as my very own, particular in hue and frequency, as I remember to draw inspiration from watching others fill up with theirs, and radiate, and shine.

I remember there is no other task for Light except to illuminate. I remember that we are each an essential pinprick within this illumination and all we have to do is carry what Light we have forward. I’m still uncomfortable sharing this, just as I’m uncomfortable with my level of inner-sun as of late but I hope that the splash of vulnerability comes across as a reach, as a “hey I see you” who might be a little dim too, as a reminder that we’ve all experienced various levels within ourselves but the Light never… fully goes away. It will flicker, it will fade. But it can also be called back. And I’ll bet you know, intuitively, how to do just that within yourself.

However bright or dim your Light is these summer days, I am reaching into my own reserves, and sending a beam to you.

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In the Orbit…

• A note of gratitude to everyone who came out last Sunday for The Poetry Séance. Wow, y’all—what a crowd. Behind-the-séance-scenes, I am thinking deeply about how to sustain and grow this series to support more artists, to bring audiences closer to this weird and beautiful thing that is poetry in real-time-and-space, to honor this ancient and sacred art form with care and intention. Currently, it’s a labor-of-love… but I’m dream-scheming ways to build this offering, to garner funding, to bring the PS out of Seattle—so please stay tuned. Artists, our final community reading (open sign-ups) of the year will be October 26th (spooky/horror themed, obviously). Details flying in soon.

• The radiant Jay Aquinas Thompson is hosting an evening of poetry, prose, music, and dance called Resurrections, exploring how we rebuild, renew, and explore ourselves in times of violence, loss, and grief. Come by Common Objects this Sunday 7/27 to witness this wonderful lineup, 7p.

• Unpoetry hosts Poetry Lab at Vermillion on 7/30, 8p.

‘Til the next moon ~