Safe Place

Dear home,

You don't exist.

Dear Blogg,

Can I talk to you straight...look you in the face, touch your hand- let you in? Home is this keyboard, home is yoga, home is dance, home is a poem. Home is not people or buildings or objects. Anymore. Just a few little traces of things once loved trailed through my memory. Lettuce wraps and hula hoops. There is a sadness in this realization, there is no place or person to feel comfort in. There is no permanent safe place. In all these fluctuations, in altitude, terrain, and culture..I feel a general unease and call to familiarity. This is discomfort, no? You can't change without being uncomfortable, no? But I want something that's for sure, that I know is there always to be the same sweet comforting melody. So I discover, that soothing never comes from outside (people can't give us what we need) but is created from within. We all have our safe places..mine is in movement. When I dance, I go to a new place.. that's safe. By the way, Downward dog is the same where ever you go.

Evolving writing relationship:
I was first recognized for writing when I was in 2nd grade, with a 2nd place ribbon. Then in college I was published in a college creative writing journal. My creative writing style has flourished when it is required and become stagnant when nothing is required. Meanwhile I have felt an extreme pressure to perform. To write to impress (results in writer's block) or write a specific story (which results in a bad story) or write with correct grammar (which has only resulted in an overuse of commas). Of course all the pressure is self imposed.
I realize I'm not a literary genius. I'd like to make peace with that now. I have to admit that reading a book only sounds good on occasion. My writing abilities may never advance past 8th grade. I think I'm ok with that. The more I have tried to say what I want to say, the more frustrated I am with the ability/knowledge that I lack in words. I'm generally simple in speech. I believe that there is poetry in every soul and I love my own relationship with that special part of me. I believe there is potency in words called up from depth that try to frame true emotion. I suppose this is the epitome of art. What do I know though?

two ears
with mountained strands
arc and crest
then twist like two
reptilian eyes
listening in on my tap tap tapping
unknowing of this conversation
warm blanket
neck and paws
wrap to fit my ankle
fetal gentle
she stretches her paws
in the night's cold
insistent rubbing
unsatisfied by head to tail touches
a rumble crackles from her throat