“It comes to me upon the strings;
when I hear it will I sing?
I can’t say it’s my creation,
stay patient what it brings.
I just keep keep on believing
passing down an old, old song.”
You Can’t Rush Your Healing
by Trevor Hall
My niece taught me a concept
when something is pretend real,
it’s realness comes from its meaning
within our game of pretend.
It’s not necessary for it to be real
to anyone else.
she teaches me things daily,
but always about validation.
about how meaning is made,
and where authority comes from.
about the right of two people
to author ideas,
and to question where
fantasy and reality separate,
or even if they do.
what passes for real
is a lot like what passes for trauma.
creation is a big concept.
who gave me these songs I sing,
the ones my body knows better than my name,
the ones given meaning
beyond questions of me?
when we enter play
to make sense of what’s real,
when our play is built from old, old places.
when we can’t be sure if the song in our head
belongs to us,
or should continue,
or is meaningless when played
for more than those of us
versed in pretend real.
or even those of us newly students.
when teachings are questioned,
and teachers in a position to change,
and traffic in our minds
slow in the face of brewing confusion.
the kind that quiet permits us to hear,
sounding between musical strings that
accompany occasions of silence.
filling us with beliefs in the blender,
creations like pretend real,
and other newer birthed meanings.