Encounters With Wildness

Deliver Us to Change

The plum tree is shivering

leaves more and more fragile each day

touching this grey sky

We require this friction 

shuddering shed, change

Change delicately

Change traumatically

Change ecstatically

At some point this leaf turned lace

will let go

something I cannot see is loosening 

For now, this beautiful shivering

     (M Fritchle 2020) 

Bless me here

and here, and here

Lay a firm hand on my heart

Until you can hear the beating

Filling the air around us

With invisible instruments of your bare hands

Draw open the top of my head

So that clouds of dense thought can escape

Grey exhaust fumes, billowing shapes and stories

When the tears come, let them run over your palms

Cup the base of my neck and let them stream down

Use them as lotion, rub them into my muscles

Take the crystal from the shelf and the feather to brush

And cleanse. Let my pelvis become platter

Holding sacred items, of power, of tenderness

But when it comes time for anointing

The blessing of oil to forehead

The confirmation of my vow to be whole

Hand the oil to me, let my fingers dip

My hand to skin, elixir warmed by my heat

I will bless myself in the end

(MFritchle, 2020)

I wrapped my arms around his chest, hands resting below his heart

As I climbed on the bike. Brenden, tall Irish boy, who I met 3 weeks ago

He pressed against the thin Ugandan man, the boda boda driver,

propriety saying Brenden takes that spot

between “his” woman and unfamiliar man.

The weight of 3 bodies on this bike, I give in to shared shifts

I give in to intimacy of my hands on his body

I give in to the risk of chaotic traffic, our legs feeling the heat

of cars passing, so close. My hands anchors

This point of contact

The heat of all of us speeding forward

Whatever happens now, I just need to show up for it

Take your feet off the ground. Flying by

young men with machine guns, another boda boda

carrying a small wooden coffin, vertical tied to the driver’s back,

a woman crouched in a field wearing a donated bridesmaid dress,

sunny yellow against burnt orange earth

bikes stacked so high with bananas they have to be pushed like a cart

And my hands connecting to a body

Surrender in a way I had never known

If we crash, there is no ambulance

If we break down, we walk

Whatever happens, take this ride

Heart beating, mind not knowing

Look at these faces speeding by, these fragile bodies

Raise your hand, smile

This is always so, choosing to trust

someone you barely know, your bodies at risk,

separate pasts irrelevant in this coming together

Keep your hand open, spread it wide over a heart

This moment we depend on each other

                (Melissa Fritchle, 2020)

There is no doubt that I will make my way

over this bridge, testing

it’s stability one foot at a time,

taking a handrail in case of moss slip

in damp air.

But I want to linger here.

I have missed the sound of river over rock,

unending shifting song.

Too many times

I have moved ahead without noticing

how many colors of stones lay

sunlight dazzled,

letting the lace of leaves brush over

and pass.

If I take this time

my skin will open to leftover rain

and I will enjoy the pleasures of heating up

and cooling down

and my bones will stack

into a shape of calm.

Lifting my eyes to the path continuing on

the other side of this bridge

I am tired.

Let me linger.

Let me dangle feet over edge

and feel the path there on either side of me.

Let me wonder at how this bridge was built,

how wood can seem to curve and hover,

how I do not understand the structures of support

even as they hold me.

I will not stay at this bridge, I know.

But I might take these shoes off and press my toes

into cool air and watch what is moving

as I sit still.

I might imagine

curves in the path ahead, steep steps and sprawling meadows.

I might not think at all.

Let me linger.

Let this bridge be my rest.

Let the river voice become lullaby

            Don’t rush

            Don’t rush

            Don’t rush

            Don’t rush

(Melissa Fritchle, 2020)

I am thinking of the hummingbird

dipping into the flower,

dark orange petals

vibrating cups offering up

this sweetness.

I feel its hard heartbeat

and the hum of my own wings,

a motor

of lightness and choice.

And the stone

brushed smooth

against grains of its broken fellows,

glistening now wet and cool

as it tumbles

up and down, deeper in

and on the surface now,

at the edge of the wave,

sometimes settling on the solid shore

waiting to be regathered by ocean

breath.

The violets sturdy heads

in my garden, rising in the shade

proudly, brazenly,

light lavender frills surrounding

purple inner petals

lyrically reflecting the breeze

on such a thin and tender stalk.

I yearn to be with all of this,

to wonder and be affected,

so that I might open my own being

by living as unhidden

as I dare,

and possible be remembered

when one is thinking

about compassion.

            (Melissa Fritchle, 2020)

There will be a time

when your spirit is curled up

tight

inside the snail shell of your body,

an easily cracked layer of heat

that you pull away from, begrudging

this time of waiting it out

curled in, still, unseeing.

There will be a time

when you stand in the shower

on quivering legs,

acts so simple, now a challenge

and the warm water sending

colors and movement behind your eyes,

a spring superbloom of sensation

you can barely register.

There will be a time

when you are so, so tired

and impossible words float

like clouds

and you will not grab for them,

but sink slowly.

There will be a time

when you hear fear in the voice

of someone who loves you

and a sister calls to tell you,

with all the power she has at her command,

that you are not allowed to die,

and you are fed extravagantly

by neighborhoods of love

and slowly simmered broth.

There will be a time

when whatever this is passes

like the sound of storm drumming on roof

becomes silence and birdsong,

and the tight clench that you were

loosens,

and you will know that you were lucky

every day running forward and back,

so amazing.

And whatever is next is welcomed.

                        (Melissa Fritchle 2020)

Spirit is a Storm

Spirit is a storm.

It sweeps through, often unexpected,

causing me to bend,

everything shaking,

pulling on my roots.

The sound of it coming down

on the temporary shelters we craft

Everything

a drum, a drone, a wild hiss

calling me to alert.

I close my eyes and hear it on my skin.

After

I am washed, shorn of the brittle,

softened to my most pliant growth.

I am fed, love like water drawn in.

My skin, all points of connection,

tingle without the dust of days past.

A bird begins singing

Into a crisp sky.

Every part of me leans towards the sun

willingly.

(Melissa Fritchle, 2020)

   (For Allen)

The driveway has risen in cracked waves,

concrete ledges,

unexpected edges to trip on. Now a mountain range

of man-made stone. This is because

of the roots of the growing

pine tree taking its space underground,

not concerned with smooth landing spots

for tires or things traveling long distances.

We agreed that the tree is more precious than the driveway,

and I love this about you.

We will spend the day, me with hose to tamp down dust,

you with concrete grinder, loud enough to shatter,

 both covered in clay of melting manufactured rock

to smooth what we can.

We are living in nature’s place.

The tree may crack our foundation

and the coyote may eat our beloved cat.

We are visitors here

asking for accommodation. Being more honest

now about the ways our bodies are vulnerable

and need protection.

That place on my abdomen where the skin has puckered,

a scar arising from a burst stitch years ago,

proof of the pruning of rogue cells colonizing like seeds,

the white crease on your chin, a crack from getting too close

to the power of the ocean, furious churning that spun you then.

Why resist the chaos of nature?

It asks us to engage, to come close but don’t expect stability.

We will adapt.

We will build and repair.

We will let go.

I took my father’s ashes and rubbed them into an oak,

sprinkled the ground, adding to fallen leaves, fresh grass starts.

I gathered him in my hands and burst him into the air,

Go towards ocean, go towards sky.

His fine white dust highlighting the lines in my palms.

Again covered in dust, making adjustments, doing what I must

to keep my feet on this earth.

Do you see?

I am willing to get dirty,

to feel the earth as massive, myself as small.

The broken branches, taken down in a storm are cut and stacked

and will give us fire, brightness in our yard

under the sky that is turning dark again.

Then morning,

when we get to wake up together and take stock, asking

“what can we do to stay warm?” and “how can we be brave enough

to not ask for too much to be paved over for our comfort?

Thank you for living in the broken with me.

                        Melissa Fritchle (2020)

I am feeling transcendent today

Strange and floaty

I feel a pulse in my neck, a tide in my spine

Soon I know I will be pulled back into my contained self,

Edges and nerves, flesh and ego.

But now, is this retreat or homecoming?

I am tired of questions, words to express this

I want to be a flower

Drawing earth and sun and rain into my very self

Unfurling

Able to be illuminated in afternoon light

Translucent, temporary

I want to unfurl and unfurl

Until I am as large as I can be

And then feel the petals drop

                        (Melissa Fritchle, 2019)

She who loves creation

has feathers in her hair, donated, dropped,

they whisper against her neck and shoulders.

Unlike me she doesn’t feel a need

to speak or say,

all vision, all witnessing,

wonder softens her face.

She knows where the animals are

In the underbrush; their fluttering hearts,

their ribcages ripe

for other teeth to crush.

She doesn’t flinch and when prompted

will taunt, tenderly,

“You can love the wolf,

its wild quiet paw prints,

its howl reverberating to a distant mate.

But can you also love

the chickens slaughtered

into blood and feathers and bone chips?

Can you also love

the farmer who spends days building

fences and nests, hoping

to protect and provide for the family?

Who is the dreamer

And which dream do you privilege?

What is suffering

and what is survival?”

At dusk she watches silhouettes harden, coalesce

into dark against light, until engulfed into

night shadow.

We will not escape new beginnings

However narrow our vision gets.

No oracle, the plot doesn’t concern her,

the bleeding as blessed as the whole.

The abundance of air creating music enough

for her to dance, now, anywhere.

I know her flesh tastes of mushrooms and salt water

and smoke, served on a rose petal.

She inspires me to burn incantations into bone.

Sometimes when I look at her through the corner of my eye

she is the night sky

scattered with stars.

Look one just went dark.

Can you see?

                        (Melissa Fritchle 2020)