Poetry/Writing

The strength in our differentness.

Did you know that the kinds of life that flourish in ecotones (narrow Places on the edges where different ecosystems meet) are often unique to that small space?

The denizens tend to be flexible, hardy, innovative, and especially resilient because they have adapted to thrive in the borderlands between different environments. 

Being highly sensitive, multipotentialed, body-wise, womxn of deepening years, these are all traits that place us firmly on the edges of what society names "normal." As womxn with these traits, we spend most of our lives in social and cultural ecotones. 

We are different. I love that about us.

We're good at adaptability, innovation, flexibility... It is the water we've been swimming in, after all. 

For example, I'm a poet and a mentor for womxn of deepening years. And, yes, they're linked. 

Becoming a poet is an ecotone adaptation to the rigid, linear, thought-only based approach shoveled into my child mind in early life.

Rigid, linear, thought-only ... I am none of those things. I sense. I feel. I think holistically. In spirals and spheres and fractal systems.

Writing poetry lets me circumvent acculturated behaviors and invite in my sensitive, body-wise, multipotentialed ways of knowing.

It helps me stand in the strength of my differentness, and hold fertile space for other womxn of difference as they discover their own adaptive, innovative strengths. 

And that, my amazing friend, is how mentoring and poetry are linked.

Different site graphic (1).jpg

Why is this important?

Because you may have something similar happening. A creative adaptation that seems unrelated to your work or to what you’re trying to create in your life, yet may be one of the best tools to help you stand in the strength of your differentness.

It would be good to know what that/those is/are, right? It would be good to understand how interwoven your interests and explorations are so you understand how they weave webs of knowledge, support, perhaps even healing for you.

So, maybe take a moment and think about it...

Was that an "Ah-ha!" I heard? (With any luck, we’re both wearing cheeky grins right now.)

driven by the ache

Life has turned me upside down these past months, keeping me up deep into the night. Pulling my focus in too many directions. Challenging the ways I’d envisioned my life being at this time.

It feels like I’m a woman out of time, out of synch, out of rhythm. It’s a strange and lonely feeling. So, of course, I wrote about it to try to make sense of it. Or, at least, to move it through my body and ease the restlessness…

restless mind

roams and prowls

like the restless

steps of the ginger

cat pawing at the 

faded ivory door

this night is 

scratchy with 

cricket song and 

katydid calls

rasping itself across

my awareness

prodding me toward….

something

its urgency is 

both endless 

and obscure

I wish I knew

what it wants

but I don’t speak

sodden night

or cricket

or katydid

anymore

maybe that’s 

the sand rubbing 

at my soul

maybe this language

I’ve lost - these night

songs whose meaning

I can feel at the 

edge of my 

understanding

but not translate

maybe that’s the

loneliness the 

bleeding loss

the ache of missing

that’s tangled in 

my stumbling fingers

pushing me to

keep trying to

keep typing to

keep flinging 

words onto 

this 

screen

maybe there’s 

no maybe 

but

maybe soon

I’ll remember

driven by the ache © 2019 Tracie Nichols | all rights reserved

Work-at-home-nomad

Work-at-home nomad

I’ve become
a work-at-home nomad.


No longer
desk sitting
(at least not exclusively)


traveling
to the places
where I feel
the land calling


places where
my body’s presence
pulls me to
wild communion


body leading -
mind and heart
passengers,
scribes illuminating
muscled semaphore


making wordscapes
from a wordless
commingling
of Place and
Presence.

© 2013/2019 Tracie Nichols

Sometimes

sometimes
riding life's
currents requires
a wider stance

a lower center
of gravity

spacious
fluid
joints

sometimes
rubbing along
life's twists is as
comfortable as
tender new skin
abruptly meeting
sharp, shifting
gravel shards

sometimes life's
molten, shaking growth
spurts ask us to be
something we've never been

that's OK

every mountain
and river and valley
was once a flat and
easy walk

think how glorious
they are now...

sometimes - © 2018 Tracie Nichols

Poet's Rebellion

Despite having blogged fairly prolifically over the past decade, lately I haven't wanted to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys) in that way. I mean, the aversion has been almost visceral. I haven't even wanted to journal. And though I've never been wildly consistent about journaling, it's always felt like home.

Trusting my voice, my internal guidance system, has been an unfolding and daily practice throughout my life. So, it took a bit for me to realize that I wasn't just being lazy or crazy, or avoiding writing. My body wisdom was adjusting how I move through my days to meet my emerging, changing creative rhythms as a crone. I didn't want to write the way I had been writing because my writing needs to take on a different cultural role.

An oh-so-wise pre-crone friend reminded me that, as crones, we've moved outside the confines of patriarchal attention and expectation. We've been dismissed, therefore we're off the radar. Which is bullshit, yes. Their loss, definitely. And...it also offers us maneuvering room those still being tracked don't have. We're in a position to be uniquely subversive.

When I finally wrote again this morning, what flowed from my heart to my fingers was a poem I've called Poet's Rebellion. Because confining my words to well-regulated structures? Yeah. Not happening.

constraining my
wet-from-the-muse-womb
words to structures
breaks me a little
each time

to confine them in boxes created
by a culture gone mad
with categorizing and naming and
keywording and tagging

I
simply
cannot

each word
each breath-infused
syllable
is a tiny fragment
of livingness

and yes life,
she has rhythms and
patterns and
life-giving structures
that teach unfolding
generations how to
create life anew

but - oh my aching heart -
they are life-giving structures
not the stranglehold of
stagnating expectations found
in so many corners
down so many virtual alleys
in this conform or
be shunned culture
in this conform
and die slowly
society

to type letters
and coalesce them into
wordscapes meant to free
is both smile-inducing gift
and shoulder-bowing responsibility
to give them life
then shackle them to
the weight of “musts” and
tangle them in the bindweed
of “isms”

I
simply
cannot.

Poet’s Rebellion © 2019 Tracie Nichols