from in pursuit of the unicorn 1980
On Sunday I’ll turn 31. A year ago, I had a big party/ritual for my 30th. I prayed for love and healing and home.
Spirit bless my unanswered prayers. I am here. I am humbled. I am uncertain about almost everything but love. That I love my family. My friends. My dog. The Hudson Valley.
Right now I am very sick. I know a lot more about what is wrong than I did last year. But knowing does not equal an easy cure or treatment plan. In a lot of ways knowing – as in diagnosis – has rooted me back into its original etymology: dia for apart and gnosis for knowledge. The knowledge of diagnosis has been achieved by reducing me to parts, by making me into a constellation of separate scars, stars, and genetic anomalies. Where is the self? The points of physical pain or the dark matter inbetween? Black cosmos of unknowing or precise pinprick of mortal fire?
Many parts of this past year have challenged my foundational spiritual and psychological beliefs. It has made me feel very far off from my prayer for love and motherhood that I planted last birthday.
That being said I want to create a different type of chart for my birthday this year. One not composed of blood levels and uprooted data but comprised of the experiences that make my life shine. Here are the images that make my life a poem. That make 31 years more than enough. That make it glow in the night sky.
Here is my constellated self.
1. The soft pressure on my face paired by a deepening silence, as if someone had folded the blank air over on itself, before I realize a deer is watching me from the edge of the forest.