I was alone and expecting to run across remnants from a homeless camp recently evacuated due to the desert rains. My mind still, my feet moving one at a time as I watched them kick through the sand. One of those moments where you are happy to not be thinking. You are just walking alone. The wire rope was fully buried in the Santa Cruz Wash, except for one small frayed end that alluded to its existence. I sank to the sand and began moving handfuls away. The warmth was soothing and I was comforted by the slow movements through the soft sand to slowly uncover the wire.
This heavy crushed knot in the heart of the rope. So permanent that I had to honor the trauma and leave it. But there has to be balance after trauma. The legs trying to find perfect balance, trying to hold the whole up, but so easily tipped over. Balance has to occur in more than the body, balance in the spirit. So the chaos that springs out of the knot is integral to helping the piece stand. But it is also disordered, unraveled and at moments dangerous.
Now standing, the rust and decay covered the entire form. There is a desire to appear unaffected, and so the decay has to be cleared away. But it gets stuck in the edges. And how do you clear away the decay of the mind and spirit.
This piece for me speaks to the efforts to begin movement again after a long period of "being buried" in grief and being static in my own life. There is no way that the injury to my heart can be removed, and at the time I could not even try to conceal it. Standing in uneven balance was the best I could hope for.