9.2.18 First day of amaryllis flowers in my unwashed back window
It is important not to hold a funeral for power. I mean these words for when you feel you haven't got any. Especially then.
You may feel so much dead wood, already resigned to the end of everything, but pare yourself back carefully enough, patiently enough, and there is always green, sap-rich. Or if not green, an ember. Something alive. Find it and you can blow on it gently, care for it and nurture it, and no one can take it from you.
I remembered this today. In the middle of seeming defeat, I remembered I can lift one finger and then another. I can raise my thoughts and my breath. I can choose. I remembered that I will never, ever be in a place or a time when all choice is gone forever, and the force of that made my fists clench and my grin widen and my teeth show.
I carry power inside of me. I carry it hot and ripe. I need only point my will and move, infinitesimally small and and slow and ordinary, but forward, different, one choice after another. Even better, I do not need to wait to hone all this on a battlefield or through a story's climax. My power-show doesn't have to be public or dazzling and nobody need see it but me. I can hone it in the boring defeat of everyday. In the dishes not done and the stupor of pain and the worries and numb listing of to-dos, in rejection and exclusion. In every feeling that all this is hopeless and I am kidding myself to even try. I can hone it whenever I am stuck, in however shallow and shameful my sticking place. I don't need to save my power for a big deal because I have a limitless supply. Power is given and taken, but not all of it. Not all of it.
I let myself feel it today. That tiny spark. I stopped singing mourning songs for its loss and instead let it move my body just a little.
"See?" it said, "I'm still here."