Not the Song, but After
I feel like 2020 has spent the year asking us a series of questions designed for a hefty session of reflective journaling.
Questions like:
When you sit still for a moment, what rises to the surface that you've been too busy to notice?
What have you been afraid to look at all this time?
Who are you without the usual trappings of daily business around you?
What can you learn from remaining in a suspended pause?
How can you savor the sensations of being held in liminal space?
And then, once we think we've paused long enough and learned the lessons and journaled and sampled the medicine held therein, there are more pauses, more waiting, more limbo, more surely-its-magical-but-damn-its-frustrating liminal space.
2020 asks: what else can you learn here? How can you savor the sensations of liminal space even more?
This year has found more ways to bring pause, to keep me waiting, to hold me here just a little bit longer than I ever could have imagined. In every area of my life, this is the theme.
Post-election, post-election-week, we are still waiting, still paused, still in limbo.
I'm getting used to softening into the hammock slung between past and future, pre- and post- before and after, learning to feel into the textures of liminal space.
After the intense sensations of election week and the wave of relief that brought the change of tides, I remembered this poem, which I suppose must now be a favorite because I often find ways to pass it along or make it relevant. And here I am, passing it along to you.
Not the Song, but After
Now everywhere the pageantry of youth
is on display:
The squeal of bike chains spinning through the gray
plays fugue to puddle-froth;
The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April
ushers spring
with lavender dripped from the upturned wing
of wind-swept Gabriel.
A youngish pair walks wired at the arms—
she casually ribbing
him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing
their step to spare the worms
stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter
rises and goes
drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows
love’s not the song, but after—
like the mute, remembered chorus of the rain
that stains the walk
long after falling, or the lifeless stalk
still hoisting its head of grain.
Uneasy now, she loosens from his hand.
Their dark familiars
stare back, reflected by the passing cars,
with speechless reprimand.
Before the chill, each chartered hell grows hotter,
yet every burn
will teach him how to run—and how to turn
her wine back into water.
There you have it, my friend. Love's not the song, but After.
I encourage you to take a moment to sit quietly and feel into the After, feel into the wake left behind by strong sensation, feel into the many possibilities twinkling at the edge of the liminal space in which you're sitting.
Leave a comment below and let me know what you find ;)
From the soft-strung hammock of the sacred pause,
Amanda
P.S. If your hand isn't exhausted yet from all the reflective journalling you've done this year, spend some time with those questions that 2020 is asking you. They also make good questions for pulling cards ;)