Yang-Yin Poem
The fighter in me taught me to fight
Taught me to hang on when the Sun was too hot
the fields too dry
the water too little
The fighter in me taught me not to let things lay;
to pick up sharp, broken pieces
and handle them with grace
so that I may piece together a reflection
I understand
The warrior in me showed me that I can defend this temple
a fortress impenetrable
that can stand on her own
no you many not hold my hand
no you may not help
I can do it
I can do it
My fighter grew tired
pushing walls out around me
so far out that eventually a beautiful moat appeared
that no friend nor fiend could wade through
I grew lonely
the warrior tired of pushing
my fighter tired of the fight
my soul so thrust in overdrive
I recognized no part of me
I grew silent
the warrior grew sleepy, body forced into rest
and in that space
small stirrings of my womb began to whisper
I could fight no longer
but I could write
I could fight no longer
but I could sing
I could push and climb and scrap no more
but I could lift paint to a canvas and my voice to a note
and begin to pour a soft kind of salve onto the walls I had so steadfastly built
And when I believed I was losing sight of the Self that I knew
painting the walls with softness
A thousand tiny flowers pressed up gently through the soil
where I’d waged my last battles and whispered:
“Give us a chance to grow”
What could I build when I was not fighting?
What could I grow when I was not tearing down?
What could I unleash into the world that would heal more wounds
than any walls could have prevented?
I did not know.
And so the flowers whispered on:
What if you were soft?
What if were gentle with yourself
the way you are with children
What if you gave that little you
a chance to grow?
what would you know?
And so I did what scared me most —
I lowered my bridge
crossed the moat of my own making
and walked out towards what I had avoided for as long as I could remember:
Companionship
Exposure
Connection
I will always have a warrior’s spirit
in my nature
in my blood
But I now choose to create from my experience
a path for teaching
no walls of mud
Although at times I try to hide
within the confines of my fears
I choose move forward
open by choice
guided by womb-stirrings
growing at the borderlands of love
I show up here
I am here
I am here
