Do not reduce me to survivor

I feel the ground trying to insert itself back under my feet and I’m angry about it. 

I crave this undefined in-between. 

I’m jealous for my own company, the quiet, and the possibility.  The veil torn, life and death sleeping in the same room all along.

I think about the little girl who leans down to her newborn baby brother, whispers, “Remind me what it’s like.  I’m beginning to forget.”

I lived in the holy of holies, the temple of suffering, the heaven of the presence. 

I lived in the, “this is the way, walk in it,” for four clear months. 

Everything dissolved to essence.

I knew my place in the family of things. 

To nurture Phoenix.

To radically mother, radically defend, radically OCCUPY- one foot in the hospital room, one foot in the doctor’s hallway, one foot in my home, one foot in the world. 

My roots turned to limbs.

And I held, and I held, and I held.

I contained multitudes.

And now?

Do not reduce me to survivor. 

Do not drop the heavy scarlet theatre curtain back down with the clunk of finality. 

This work is never over.

I fought too hard to tear it down.

It cost too much.

I will not return to business as usual, my cold car, the traffic, the dirty windows of my house. 

I refuse.

I will not diffuse this knowing back to doing.

I am groundless.

And for the first time in my life, this does not shut me down.

I open, and I open, and I open.