The Brevity of Oneness

I’ve been thinking a lot about the connection, and disconnection of our bodies and spirits. This poem further explores this thought; writing this poem really expanded my mind past the bounds of societal constraints on human anatomy, and into the realm of spiritual curiosity in relation to my earth-standing self.

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The Brevity of Oneness

by Regan Smith

• • •

I know that my soul is separate
from my body,
for there are times where my body continues
to move, continues to breathe

but my soul is three steps removed,
overlooking this body
from a bird’s eye view.

It controls this drone of
legs and arms and eyes
moving it’s gaze from
left to right,
to smile at a stranger,
and the footing’s next step

but my feelings are
locked and sprouted within this soul,
detached
from the bones and muscles.

I wonder if my body
and soul will every marry,
for they’ve been separate for
quite some time,
allowing the brevity of oneness,
for the duration of a dance,
for my mother’s embrace,
for the exhilarating
jump from plane high–
temporarily united
as we soar through air,
falling through clouds,
occupying the space
that’s only meant for
the amakihi,
the white-tailed tropicbird,
the golden plover.

My body gets bathed,
but my soul can still hold shame.

My spirit can be filled,
and overflowing,
yet the peach figure I see,
is in languish with night
still ringing around her eyes.

And I know that my body,
will fall to the earth,
decompose and wrap itself with
the roots,

but my soul will soar,
for it has shed its weight,
and reunited with the
totality of eternity.

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Photography by Farrah Emami.

That Consistent Question

Writing without rules or constraints from even punctuation, this way of the pen offers a clear channel from mind to paper, without any hinderances. This stream of consciousness uncovers my vocation.

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That Consistent Question

By Regan Smith

• • •

I pose the question that I’ve asked my mirror reflection for the past decade am I happy with what I have become when I was sixteen I whispered in the night that I wouldn’t make my twenty-first birthday due to the death of my own hand whether that was an overdose of substance or overdose of the absence of food or the overdose of dark thoughts causing my own undoing but I am standing here strong and tall learning each day to love the bones and body I was born into knowing that I was created for a purpose with this moment held sacred and close to my heart and I can say with confidence that I’m happy with what I have become a life alive with breathing lungs that lose breath from laughter with arms that hold those I love and a voice that declares freedom and breakthrough and words that I can share with another sixteen year old girl that whispers to herself in the night

Voices

I wanted to try my hand at some digital illustration and experiment with free verse. This poem is inspired by what manifests in my mind, a mess of beauty, darkness, and ultimately the light that brings contrast. It’s as though thoughts and experiences evaporate, condensing to clouds and expel rain in the form of dripping ink. This piece is titled, Voices.

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Voices

by Regan Smith

Here.

I wrote this poem this morning, when the family was sleeping beneath comforters in various rooms, and the robins began swooping from barren branch to barren branch. Its title is today’s date, though its theme is the name of this post.

Here. Moving past an adverb, this word is a state of presence that tugs at me to stay within the moment. In a time where anxiety can run rampant, this word reminds me to put it into perspective, and take what’s in front of me. What’s here, and find the light in it.

• • •

April 6, 2019

Today, the Colorado mountains
surround me, lungs treated
with rich oxygen, rejuvenated
from the pines, untouched
by man’s machine.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back home,
where my residence’s finale
in this town has only begun.

Then, I’ll be flying clear
to the other coastline,
soaking in D.C.’s museums
and art, and eat guac from a
once-familiar Mexican restaurant,
I first visited a year back.

From there, I’ll become lost
in thought, 30,000 feet
above the ground; traveling
from Nashville to Atlanta,
allowing an hour to breathe.

And while Colorado is not
my home, I’ll return here
in less than 30 days,
leaning against a white wall
looking out the window
into the thick of pines;
limited cell service,
endless writing.

But for today,
I’m in the Colorado air,
bird’s call almost tangible,
their echo lingering throughout
the valley; I wish my
father well, as he buttons up
his coat and shifts his lunchbox
to the other hand,
admiring the sky.

And I’ll watch the deer graze upon
the land–my mother’s almost
emerging flower plants.

And now I admire the sky,
and how it meets the cities,
on all parts of the earth.

Warmth + Gratitude

n o v e m b e r 1 7

A candle flickers in my peripherals, with its fragrance filling the air. Lavender. The same scent steams from my—laced with peppermint leaves. The warmth swirls within my mouth as I relax in to my chair. My eyes are met with a polaroid photo that I pinned to the wall. It’s of my mother and I at my brother’s summer wedding. Even the polaroid photo catches the radiance in her smile. 

I’ve always wanted to emulate my mother, and at a young age defined success as being a mother with many children. But I’ve grown to recognize that it’s her bright spirit I long to mirror, how she illuminates every scene. 

I step into deeper, digressing thought. My features are a fifty-fifty blend of her’s and my father’s. I love that. So perplexing how genes can mix and fuse and swap and join together. God never misses a moment to showcase His artistry.

I see my mother’s strength, and recognize that it’s fortified. It originates in her intimate encounters with The Creator. She’s an incredible showcase of her strength, for it’s in her nature. Her strength is her speaking openly, sharing words, hurt, her testimony–all to help and relate to others–meeting them where they are at, only to bring them to a higher place, bringing heaven down for us to dwell within. I’m so thankful for her golden heart.

During the trip for my brother’s wedding, we visited the California sand dunes. I stole this time to be still within the present, hiding away in the divots between the dunes. Here, I wrote this poem. 

My Mother

Eyes lining each petal, 
the soft and vulnerable centers, 
taking notice of every bundle of hydrangeas, 
black eyed susans and hummingbird sage. 

Your mind sketches them in charcoal, 
paints them with acrylics, 
writes them into a book, 
with a matching movie,
while treasuring this time. 

Your eyes
brighten by the ocean, 
by the mountains, 
by the coming-of-age of the brother of mine. 

Your heart is always heavy for others, 
but forever increases in capacity, 
unbroken by burdens, 
free like the swallows skimming over sand. 

My face is beginning to resemble yours 
with the passing years–
cheekbones prominent,
my almond-shaped eyes.

I pray that my spirit’s maturation, 
does the same.

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 2

I retreated from the warmth beneath the bedtime covers and was greeted by the morning. Its light gently descended out across our home—spilling across the carpet and cabinets. My body was bathed in peppermint as the cool air brought a refreshing bite to my skin.

It’s Thanksgiving morning. Ricky is in the bathroom—water-on, water-off—brushing his teeth in preparation for his work day.

I read a while, and take Rollie (our little min-pin mix) outside. The frost has melted away, but the air is still pure. I think that’s my favorite trait of the end of year months, that morning’s renewal bleeds into later within the day. It’s free from the scorching, harsh heat, not weighed heavy from humidity. 

I brew some tea and refill the vase that holds goldenrods and peach roses. They were waiting for me in cellophane wrapping when I arrived home from work earlier this week and have since expanded out their petals to full-bloom. 

I fold laundry, the little load of white shirts, towels, socks. I dwell on the day’s purpose–the day of giving thanks. I name all things I’m thankful for, regardless of size: 

The overflow and outpour of Love, and how it spills and splashes about. 
The husband who kisses me before leaving our home for the day. 
My family who generously shares in conversation, despite our coast-to-coast distance. 
These quiet mornings, gifted with the intent for my mind to rest. 
These warm and freshly folded linens.

My heart is full, soul soothed, and my mind is in a posture of gratitude. 

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 4

The moment I began writing affirmations, the sun debuted for the day. My skin, my shirt soaked up its warmth. After a few seconds, it withdraws, idling back behind the clouds. This cool, autumn afternoon, is to be spent sipping on a muggy coffee drink. 

I move onto the second string of affirmations, and the sun peeks out again. It’s an honest moment, and my hand and pen become a dancing shadow on these bright white, lined sheets.

This simple gesture has shed light on the significance that saunters about. Fullness.

Update No. 3

Morning Air, Morning Light is officially available for preorder! 

For the past three years, a bevy of my creative attention has been devoted to the collecting, writing and editing of this piece. Morning Air, Morning Light is a poetry collection with words stitched together depicting a sequence of events: memories recorded, experiences documented, restoration tangibly read. This tiny book holds all the moments I felt pulled to press to paper, the words that saved my life.

Revelation embarked while writing and healing was tangibly held in the palms of my hands, though conceived through simple obedience—placing my pen to paper. 

The collection is comprised of four chapters: Nightfall, Lavender, Golden Gaze, and the title chapter, Morning Air, Morning Light. In anticipation for the book’s release, a poem from each chapter has been paired with a film in collaboration with Elizabeth Miller, with music created by my talented husband, Ricky Smith. These videos will be released throughout the progression of this month, leading up to the launch. 

Morning Air, Morning Light can be preordered here and will be released on September 5, 2018. On this date, I will be performing several of the collection’s poems at a Listening Party and will be selling and signing copies. 

I haven’t kept a regular cadence of updates–rather relaying a sporadic script of status regarding my debut poetry collection, but you can find the other posts regarding its progress via Update No. 1 and Update No. 2 (you'll find that I was wildly off my timeline). 

To help spread the word of the Morning Air, Morning Light movement, join our Launch Team or preorder a book for you and a friend! The ultimate vision is to be able to share this simple healing and hope to those that find themselves within a void, offering a small drop of tranquility to exponentially expand into overflow.