Stomping Ground

Blithe Anderson
Dec 24, 2020 · 1 min read
Photo by Tara Robinson on Unsplash

When I jog, I metabolize my grief. It comes out in staccato burps from my heavy chest. “It’s not comfortable, but you can do it.” That’s the eternal message from the cardio gods.

When I was a kid, I left my body during dance recitals and experienced my performance with the audience. I couldn’t take all those eyes. Now it’s part of my daily dance with grief.

The phrase grief-stricken doesn’t really cut it for me. I feel grief-inundated. Grief-blanketed and enclosed. It’s bigger than my body. And it takes up home in my chest.

I’m meeting unknown parts of myself. Mounds of buried humanity. Digging up the soul. It’s an actual gold mine. She is (I am) (We are) entering this world again, foot firmly planted in the soil.

The grass almost glows, it’s so green. Wet earth consumes the heartache. We digest it together; we’re divine female partners. She holds me and I breathe her in.

Assemblage

A work of art made by grouping found or unrelated objects.

Blithe Anderson

Written by

In a partnership with the English language; on a mission to dispel myths, bridge gaps, and draw boundaries.

Assemblage

A collection of things or people. An object made of pieces fitted together. A work of art made by grouping found or unrelated objects. A publication on Medium.

Blithe Anderson

Written by

In a partnership with the English language; on a mission to dispel myths, bridge gaps, and draw boundaries.

Assemblage

A collection of things or people. An object made of pieces fitted together. A work of art made by grouping found or unrelated objects. A publication on Medium.

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