Where does my clench belong? In your tension, maybe; in your anxiety, in emergency mode; in the trouble you got yourself into because you didn´t know any better?
Where does it live precisely? Beyond this body, inserted in time, animated essence of past generations, the clench lives off us, in our weakened left half.
Where does my push dwell? Outside of me at first, while I resisted, when you were here and worried; now it is a compulsive background, constantly rearranging certain blueprints; a construction site running on itself.
But where in the past does the clench take in oxygen, and how can it come up for air today, still? Better call it a false promise, false potential; those meanings are unnatural to me. The limit had already been set, in the weak left half that sags earlier. Our disappointed female ancestry, with their unrealized ambitions. And I hit their limit because they could not take themselves beyond the crows’ line, the deep furrows of a neurological path.
Luckily, I won’t have to decide. I’ve been gifted with the only remedy available, the natural consequence of having fidelity to my form. I’m granting them all be. As I claim this limit and celebrate the definite passing of false potentials, they must understand we all made it this far, and now, I’ll permit this new skill to be manifest: the art of allowing the limit, the error, failure, the unglamorous presence, uninteresting participation. No glistening trumpets or grand reveals; no golden night, sparkle and velvet; just allowing nature to breed her meanings and maybe get to know her more deeply in your weakened left half, the advent of my crow’s feet, each time I resist.
