i've often stated that i can become invisible . . . not meaning the societal and political invisibility common for single mothers of color who somehow miss the nation's respectful nod despite the fact that we nurture the most valuable resources this country has to offer with little to no assistance from those who will eventually reap the benefits of the lives we birth and love. not that invisibility.
i have no cause to trouble that. whether the nation sees me or not, i am charged with the responsibility of mothering my children. and i am proud of the choice to meet the challenge. i often look at my daughters from a short distance as they rummage through the 'frig for sustenance or as they prep for a school day . . . i marvel at their physical health, the round cheeks, the strong limbs, the confidence in their voices. and i am amazed.
i have no idea how i managed to bring them into the world and sustain them here, even in the midst of what some would consider nervous break downs and strange choices, escape routes to nowhere but a full sized bed 250 miles away from them where i crashed for two years one weekend a month with the permission of my parents (thank y'all). though the one who owned the bed had no interest in my children -- they were invisible to him when he held me -- that brief and silly respite from the truth of my charge, and its weight, saved me from an oblivion beneath scattered drawings of stick figures and legal discourse mapping the failure of my first round of wedding vows.
there were eviction notices, court hearing dates, letters of resignation, and plenty of nights when i screamed through tears while the children slept . . . it is so intense to fight for air in your own lonely bed and rail against your heart's rebellion against its beating.
that was what forcible invisibility met when it found me. i refused.
the invisibility i claim is one i enforce. there is a space of defense against warring energies that requires that choice . . . i slide under the radar of hostile enemies to my truth and its brazen pout and sometimes silly smile nostalgic of a school girl crush on . . . life.
my phone numbers are always changing; sometimes there is no voice mail, a phone that just keeps ringing. no one knows where i live, except for a few who i trust to call before they come, or at least wait for a kind welcome felt through intimately crafted intuition: there are those souls who know me well, and can feel when i need them. no need for words.
but i can do invisible, seeking refuge in the whispers of spirit guides and egun . . . they hold vigil as i lay my body down on the floor in front of them. my life is the petition. and i am invisible at the river. if someone walked by, gazing at its bank and the swirl of the waters just beyond it, that one would not see me, though there might be a faint sigh passing the ears.
and there have been safe houses - doors with only one key owned by me.
slowly, i lose the contact information for countless beings i once called friends. and they lose me. it always surprises me when they return. i never understand why. my sloppiness is humbling. really.
three nights ago, someone cautioned a friend of mine to keep me from disappearing. this was spoken in my presence. and even then, i could feel myself sliding into ether . . . the friend who received this message later told me that its not that i cannot be seen but that it seems that my eyes erect a barrier between my most true self and the other, masking what is behind my eyes, the soul's window, and creating a picture of one caught inside some distant vision on the horizon. i don't always want to do this. it is just that having left my heart exposed to many and discovering its hunger lingering despite the juiciness offered to quench the thirst of those i chose to know (kind of), i became accustomed to veiling my soul (excpet when making art for survival and sanity's sake), giving just a taste and then becoming invisible, trusting that the mask and mirror would be enough.
and usually, it is. we are a self obsessed and bound people mostly. so who would truly care if what they got was subterfuge? unless, of course, there is some one longing for a true love . . .
a two step? i'd gladly share and forego the veil of smoke, daggers, and fire water i can spew to pass the time . . . sometimes wisely . . . but i've got to know, somehow trust, that the beautiful mess i've got brewing is gonna be felt and tasted with an abandon that i've not known in years.
trust. it is dangerous to do that, you know? except, of course, with god, and even then . . . it is all just a toss up but god gonna see me regardless. there are no tricks for that ONE. but a human? we'll see . . . i've taken more ridiculous risks.