"Haha, look at your pants!" laughed one of the wilderness girls as I appeared out of the darkness, through the tall grasses, and marshes of the meadow. I walked towards her with my "cookie monster" jacket on (a blue fluffy jacket), headlamp beaming out of my forehead, and dressed in red, white, green plaid pajama pants. Navigating a tornado of a crisis at the moment, I had forgotten that yes - I was romping around a meadow, in the dark, still wearing my pajama pants.
"I was all nice and cozy in my sleeping bag, staring up at the stars, when I heard the sound of footsteps running on the road and saw a head lamp go by."
That signaled a turn of a events.
"Unconventional" is one way I could describe moments out in the field. After that: "raw", "fragile", "rich, & "magical". Hearing myself explain the situations we find ourselves in, I can find myself laughing, bewildered, fearful and at times wanting to let all the thoughts in my head explode for just a second. There are extremes of joy and fear we encounter; vulnerable moments we traverse together. Pajama pants reflect the immediacy of our attention and concern at times.
Recently, the same client mentioned above challenged us to write a rap about "Therapy". I don't listen to rap very often, but above is one of my favorite rap songs (perhaps a softer rap). Thank you, Frank Ocean. The live version is a bit different from his recorded one, but I like it because you can see his emotion. (I think this one also relates to some of the clients we work with in the field.)
She said that we would probably write "Therapy is blah blah blah". I can't say mine is a true "rap" - because I don't have a beat yet (for one). I think it's a mixture of myself, inspired by this girl, and thoughtful of therapy. Here's what I came up with:
My face smiled
inside of my mother
for nine months I grew
pushing, squirming, kicking -
moving - rearranging herself
making room for myself
pain connected ourselves -
until the final cut.
I breathed as my mother’s face lit up,
sparked by my cry -
I wish I could remember.
Up we grew -
my parents did, too -
they watched me walk
heard me talk
while my feelings hide
I laugh and I cry -
looking for a place for me
to cut myself free
and decide who I am
and am not meant to be.
I’ve built wall after wall
keeping them out there
as I stay close to me
I want to get out -
I can’t see
why I’m here
no one seems to care
wish I could remember -
what good is it to share
I feel pain I hope means I’ll be born
into something new
I’m trapped in this body, and -
I don’t know what to do.
I want someone to listen -
to listen and hear -
to the words
I’ve got to say
I just want to say
be tied to you again -
let me breathe.
Often we talk about how sharing vulnerable moments in the field is an honor. It was an honor to hear this girl's rap; it was amazing. And when I read my own, I felt honored that she liked it and sat cross-legged, tying up a blade of grass, seeming comtemplative. I thought about how music, poetry, art - these creative movements - can communicate more deeply than words in a normal sentence seem to be able to do.
The-rap-y.
Often we talk about how sharing vulnerable moments in the field is an honor. It was an honor to hear this girl's rap; it was amazing. And when I read my own, I felt honored that she liked it and sat cross-legged, tying up a blade of grass, seeming comtemplative. I thought about how music, poetry, art - these creative movements - can communicate more deeply than words in a normal sentence seem to be able to do.
The-rap-y.
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| The Field |
