Quiet Grief And Unrealized Tenderness

I give the work some space, I feel something is beginning to breathe with a life that does not seem entirely borrowed from my effort alone,
I give the work some space, even when it has turned my making rigid and made my own hands afraid of the page they were longing to touch,
I give the work some space, because surrendering feels too close to insignificance if I am not careful and trusting,
I give the work some space, am I guiding this or am I strangling it with my need to claim it too soon,
I give the work some space, the making grows stranger and more alive than my earlier creation once allowed…

I listen while making, which unsettles me because I prefer the flattering myth that everything good must have been consciously earned and tightly managed by me,
I listen while making, and yet the richest passages often arrive when I am attentive rather than triumphant, humble enough to follow what freeform is instead of announcing what must be formed,
I listen while making, because the anxious mind keeps asking for guarantees while the living process keeps answering with no explanation,
I listen while making, did I soften enough to hear what the work is asking of me,
I listen while making, and more the pieces exceeds the version of it I had been trying to forcing into existence…

I stay with uncertainty, where nothing exceptional can happen without risk of looking foolish first, and that usually leads to it,
I walk with the unknown, and the fear is not merely of failing but of being seen failing before the meaning of it has had time to reveal itself,
I walk with the unknown, because all the untouched attempts I once called prudence have aged into quiet grief and unrealized tenderness inside me,
I walk with the unknown, am I willing to look foolish long enough for something real to arrive,
I walk with the unknown, and each time I keep going without guarantees, the hidden field of possibility opens a little wider than the frightened map I started from…

I stay rooted in myself, after the noise or old identities or polished explanations, and what stays is not grand at all but steady enough to keep the next honest step,
I stay rooted in myself, and I understand now that I did not want to meet the unfinished life already waiting there for my attention,
I stay rooted in myself, but I am less willing now to abandon the living day just to protect some preserved idea of who I am,
I stay rooted in myself, always asking- did I stay awake to my life today or only to my fear,
I stay rooted in myself, and fluid learning moves again the moment I stop hiding inside what I already know and let the day teach me, which was here all along…

Watchwords:
the making grows stranger
presence instead of control
the long trembling corridor
quiet grief and unrealized tenderness
the only place it ever can

Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..

As and will always be reminding you to dream:
“As you are still the Master of your destiny and the maker of your dreams…”

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