I Am Not Done Yet as possible as yeast as imminent as bread a collection of safe habits a collection of cares less certain than i seem more certain than i was a changed changer i continue to continue what i have been most of my lives is where i’m going — Lucille Clifton Published in Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969-1980, 1987
As Possible As Yeast
As imminent as bread1. This is a mirror to self.
A series of sticky notes I will leave on the walls inside my body. To remember the trees outside the window of my writing room make more than I can imagine, possible. To remember no matter how much I self-isolate, love is waiting for me. To remember whenever overwhelmed in the messy room of my mind I can find my forgotten basket made of sweetgrass I braided years ago and one by one pick my faith up off the floor, fold my worry and tuck it away, collect my fears, reassemble my safe habits, organize my desire, toss out my shame, dust off my pleasure, hang up self-doubt. Now I can see the carpet which is just soil littered with biodegradable seed packets smelling of evergreen which read, “remember”. We continue to continue in order to remember fermented fears can become bread.
The Lesson Of The Falling Leaves the leaves believe such letting go is love such love is faith such faith is grace such grace is god i agree with the leaves ― Lucille Clifton Published in Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969-1980, 1987
I Agree With the Leaves
The year of the Great Shift changed me.
I left a job in September 2020.
I left a relationship in June 2021.
I moved to Dawn, Virginia in July 2021.
After 18 months of spiritual solitude spent leaving and returning, I learned my trauma was dead, nutrient rich plant matter I could compost2. The leaves having served their purpose of absorbing sunlight for my safety slowly began falling to the ground. My canopy vulnerable with fractal fragility, I was terrified all it would take was one good storm to wipe me out. After so much time spent in winter, the leaves of self-sabotage, the pine needles of unworthiness, the conifer cones of despair created a blanket of fear on my forest floor. But just like conifer cones, these seasons of depression bear seeds. The storm passed and I survived it only by rooting myself into the ground. Long walks anchored me like tap roots, my meditation practice took the shape of a heart root, and exercise became my lateral roots soaking up water from the surface. Over time, I remembered this soil was always there. When I stopped running, when I stopped being absolutely terrified of the wildness of my spirit, I started to notice the plant matter on my forest floor decomposing — making the soil of my soul richer, more fertile, more alive with possibility. I remembered pine needles help a garden retain its moisture. Hydrated with hope, I struck black gold and it only took a lifetime to remember to never rush winter3.
class Season {
constructor(need, goal, affirmation) {
this.need = need;
this.goal = goal;
this.affirmation = affirmation;
}
}
let spring = new Season("financial wellness", "publish weekly newsletter", "I am worthy of the abundance on the other side of my fear")
I’m initializing this new season with a fresh set of needs, goals, and affirmations. Read more about object-oriented programming (OOP) and classes in JavaScript here.
Every week, I hope to share the fruit from the garden of this emergent wild space with you.
In every season, no matter the weather.
I continue to continue,
Ayana
Much love to Kameelah Janan Rasheed at Orange Tangent Study for bringing this poem to our collective attention. I’ve been holding it close in this season of deep transition.
This just feels true. I first heard the language of the earth’s ability to “compost trauma” from Leah Penniman of Soul Fire Farm during an interview in the Apocalypse Survival Skill #4: Braiding Seeds episode of the How to Survive the End of the World podcast.
I remember being so, so grateful for Katherine May’s framing of winter as a generative season while listening to the On Being podcast episode, titled How ‘Wintering’ Replenishes, as we all tried to recover and reassemble from 2020. I listened to that episode while walking in the Japanese Garden at Maymont in January and found many more reasons to continue.