It's not often that I feel the need to put an explanation up about a poem I publish. Writing like this already feels...I don't know...maybe a little self indulgent as it is. In the case of Somewhere though, it feels appropriate to speak more about the one it's addressed to. Not speaking of her more feels too much like keeping the Sun and stars in my pocket, and that's hardly fair.
I'll preface this introduction to someone I love, by talking about someone else I love, first. I was speaking to a dear friend yesterday. One it's always a privilege to learn from about love and life, and who's going through it these days, far more closely to the bone than anyone should ever have to.
We were discussing how when you're a storyteller or artist of any kind, even an amateur one, if the world or the story of your own life (or both) feel like they're unfolding painfully or out of control, your art can sometimes have this strange, beautiful ability to come in and seem like it’s saving you. Specifically by helping you articulate things there aren’t always a conventional expression for.
Art is a love language all its own, I think. There's an infiniteness to it; it can be anything. It's the novel you escape into. The song or the story or the character that feels like someone somewhere, just gets you and wanted you to know it. It’s that picture you get lost in and somehow manage find yourself, too, and every manner of creation in between. Everyone has their thing, I know. A safe space and pressure release that makes them feel held, relieved, and seen.
But art, in my experience, is a ride-or-die like no other. One that often turns up to wingman you powerfully, in a way that's unique to you, in the moments you need it most.
It doesn't mean what's created out of hard moments or brutal feelings, is perfect. It rarely is. To some those creations can feel unedited, unpolished. Raw and still bearing too many sharp edges. But it's such an unfettered act of honesty. Of intentionally confronting truth. And if life is teaching me anything these days, it's that speaking the truth of yourself from the right place doesn't have to make sense or be nice or palatable to others to be exactly what you need to nourish and heal in yourself.
Whenever I feel lost, most of the time, my own path back into my own body follows a melody line. Some kind of physical or intellectual pursuit I can throw myself into, where I don’t have to be the me that constantly feels all these things. But this time round - after losing my voice then doing the work to begin getting it back, along with my heart - it was to write.
This is one of the things that came out of that space. A poem to name from namesake.
Her name was Mavis. Her pineapple-based stir-fries were absolutely terrible, her hands were so soft, her smile was more infectious and joyful than Heaven's own sunshine, and her love was without condition. She might not be physically here anymore but she's still the first person I tell everything. Good, bad, all of it.
She’s one of the few people in life who have most taught me that real love isn’t shiny, or pristine, or perfect. At all. It’s not easy or convenient. Sometimes to the outside world, it can even seem utterly nonsensical in its depth and expression.
But the reality is that real love is a beast of phenomenal hope and struggle, with kindness for its heart’s own blood. It laughs and weeps equally in the face of time. It takes faces you expect and some you don’t, but it turns up regardless - even when it's not completely sure what to do - with the courage to wade in when fear creates a mess, and a tender but formidable willingness to get its hands dirty.
I miss my grandmother and treasure her, more everyday. And I hope wherever you are, whatever you’re going through these days, you have someone who’s your Mavis too. Because there’s no day they can't or don’t make more beautiful with the echo of their gratitude, kindness and hope. Even when the day is hard, in a world where no hero is perfect.
Either way, Somewhere is for you, Nan. I love you and I hope somewhere my words find you the way you always somehow find me - and all of us - right when we need you, even all these years later. What even is time, anyway.
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