Out of mind, out of heart
Sometimes thought, emotion, feeling - they are too much, and so I delve into the senses, into observing, simply being. And find beauty there.
My words feel untamed, but asleep. Resting peacefully on the rug. They were used, formed, shaped and re-shaped into a eulogy for my dearest’s grandfather. An honour to be asked to write it, to take a man’s life of disparate stories, memories, joys and shadows, and weave them together to create a single tapestry.
I felt I was reaching through the curtains of time, some heavy velvet, others a wispy cloth barely there. The layers of life folded and creased together until my present day lay alongside his childhood, almost a century ago.
Is this what writing is? A form of time travel? A way to remember things that we had forgotten had even had a shape in our minds and hearts? I travelled back to farms, watched children being born who I know now as adults, I walked roads I’ve never been on, getting to know a man who I will never again speak to, never again get to ask questions of.
And all the while, I travelled back to the month my father passed, seeing the shape of memories long forgotten, tiny details I didn’t even know were there. Tears flowed, for my father, for the grandfather, for the ones left behind who told me the stories, took me to the places and introduced me to the people. Who shed their tears in the telling, whose grief was a tangible creature, demanding attention. We laughed often, though. The memories deserved that. We needed that.
And so, my own words have been sourced and shaped this week by things external to myself, by what I can see and hear and touch. The words from my heart, shaped in my mind, have all gone into creating a tribute for a life lived to the fullest. Grounding myself in the senses has been the greatest medicine, the best healer, showing tiny details of the world around me each day, while everything beneath the surface roiled and swelled and flowed, the great ocean of my internal world.
I’ll share some of those snippets, some of the poetry I managed to write before the eulogy beckoned. I reminded myself often, this last week, to flow, to do what felt right at that moment, to cry, to find solace in simple things, to remember how beautiful the world is. Perhaps you need this reminder, too.
Out of mind, out of heart
To get out of my head and my heart, I’ve been using an exercise shared by
in this post. It’s been tremendous lately, profound in a way I totally didn’t expect. Here are some snippets from what I’ve noticed. I love doing this exercise. I highly recommend it!14th Aug I am dried dandelion heads, wet with rain I am my hair, trailing across my bare arms I am the notebook cover pressing down against my fingertip I am smudges, blue and grey, in the sky I am the corner of the teabag sticking up from my tea. 11th Aug I am swollen hands in the heat I am a pile of discarded clothes on the chest of drawers I am the damp, hot smell of a summer evening I am the bright orb of the setting sun I am the empty blue sky above. 10th Aug I am a quiet house I am the hollow sound of my pen writing on these pages I am the blue trouser leg hanging over the side of the laundry basket I am outside glimpsed between the blinds I am aching neck muscles 9th Aug I used to be skin brushing against paper I used to be the black alder tree, flapping about I used to be the taste on my tongue I used to be the feathery seedheads caught in the cobwebs I used to be the detritus gathered against the bin. 8th Aug Now I am hazy clouds, making the world toned down Now I am the thin, cheap ribbon of this notebook Now I am hydrangea flowers, wilted shut Now I am the hollow, wooden sound of my mug on the table Now I am the music passing by in a car.
Tiny poems
has been running her seasonal poetry 'challenge’ (that’s a strong word, it’s more inspirational than that!) and I managed to do a few days before my words left me. Here are some. Layer
Day 7 of #tinysummerpoem
What sits beneath my skin
Beneath the masks and layers,
Ready to be exposed?
What will you see first?
Will you look closer?
See beyond my words, my actions,
See through to the weave and weft,
The deep scars, towering peaks
And gentle slopes that are the
Landscape of my soul.
We are all layers.
Will you look deeply,
Beyond?
Sit
Day 3 of #tinysummerpoem
May I sit?
Can I ask a question?
I've a few I've been saving.
Was it that place where that happened?
Or the other place?
I thought it was that year,
Mum thought it was this year.
Was that brother there,
Or was I even there?
Have I painted a picture in my head
From stories and words and ideas.
Let's sit a moment longer.
This gentle breeze, this mountainside,
This sunset and warmth,
It reminds me of you,
The days I'm trying to remember.
The questions I have to ask.
The ones you'll never again answer.
Light
Day 1 of #tinysummerpoem
The light is fading
A glorious paintbox spilled across the sky
Colouring the night before it dies
A last breath of defiance
Of creativity and courage
Of beauty and hope
In the face of a darkness.
Remember it ends.
The shadows fade.
The light returns.
The paintbox is opened
And we start anew each day
Each sunrise
Each sunset.
What will you paint?
The scarlet of your road rage
The indigo of your deepest secrets
The vibrant grass green of your brightest hopes
The steady gold of your heart, your love.
I will take my brush
And paint
All
The
Light
In my heart
Hi there! I’m Karen, and here at On the Outside I write about navigating life with my compass of curiosity, courage and connection, going via adventure and healing. I live amongst the south Welsh mountains, with a hoard of books, a garden full of foxgloves and goldfinches, drinking tea. Basically, a hobbit. Wandering, not lost.
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This is part of
’s Sparkle on Substack Essay Club. This is essay 15/24. Go here to read more about it!
There is something so brave, so trusting, in sharing poetry, intimate writing like this. Every time I read what you write, I feel I am honoured with an enormous gift you place in my hands - your trust that I would read and respect what you wrote. Beautiful, as always. Thank you for trusting your readers. XX
Beautiful & heartfelt, Karen.