Vulnerable

a p r i l   28

My mouth lays mute due to my marinating mind. I make myself a muggy glass of Yellow Pau d’Arco tea with a dollop of Tupelo honey. I flip through my journal as my lavender and basil plant begin to soak in the morning’s maturation, and translate the past month’s journal entries to the digital screen. 

They illustrate the transition and unsteadiness that has taken grasp. Transition through a new job title, though a promotion, has been stretching me in aspects of time and mental capacity. Unsteadiness through members of my family being scattered across the states, and the fear of loss of connection that rises within me. With Ricky’s family, we’ve been trying to alternate months to see his mother, who recently fell ill at the start of this year, and visit to support his father—who is now her primary caretaker. 

I know that I’m not alone. Every soul is facing some degree of adversary at this point, at every point. But I like to admit mine after I’ve pulled the gold from the circumstance, once the tough feelings are eased by a calmer current standing. Writing the heaviness off my chest fills me with a certain type of discomfort—staring filled pages, full of words depicting the frustration and turbulence that has carried into my home, my heart. 

But I’m learning that it’s necessary. 

This endeavor allows a written timeline of growth; for miracles are only miracles when the outcome is contrasted with what was once current. I’m finding that there’s a special vulnerability that’s held in the broken sentences, the words that don’t link up quite right. So below holds my current standing through the month’s journal entries: raw, brittle, honest. 

• • •

a p r i l   14

I picked up an old book today, 
and saw pen scratches in the margins. 

I recognized them;
that sloppy script was mine. 
They were poems penned by the book’s inspiration. 

Upon reading the interjections, 
I became jealous. 

I was so reckless with my writing,
writing for an audience of one—
and recently I’ve encountered some turbulence, 
causing an emptied-ink pen.

Write with vulnerability,
whispers the husband with the pure-gold heart, 
what if I can’t,
I say softly with tear stained cheeks.
 

• • •

a p r i l  22

Purple Pansies

Outside, 
across the incandescent sky, 
the boreal chickadee bird dips and ascends, 
a fluttering pattern with acute acceleration. 

Inside, 
a heartbroken husband, 
speaks softly to his wife; 
combing her hair behind her ear, 
gently kissing the top of her head, 
as the natural light shines, 
gently comforts, 
warming her skin. 

The mother who can see but not speak, 
feel but not move; 
but oh, 
how her son sings for her—
strumming until blisters burst. 

And her sister, 
places purple pansies in eyeshot, 
and plants a shephard’s hook outside the window—
dangling a glass cylinder;  
it’s filled with seeds for the round-bellied robins, 
the yellow-breasted chat, 
and the cuckoo with it’s black-bill. 

And though her head lays heavy, 
I hope her heart is heaping full—
for beauty is unfolding everywhere, 
even when things feel broken.

• • •

a p r i l   27

I’m not too sure of what I’m afraid of—
letting ink flow through flooding frustration. 

Maybe, I’m afraid that the words won’t come. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the words will come but that they won’t hold weight. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the weighty words will come, 
but that they become a burden rather than an encourager. 

honey sunset

I'm so honored to have Cheyenne be the first writer to share their words on Introspective Collective. I met her through a web of mutual poetry contacts online and connected instantly. Cheyenne is always pulling warmth and bliss into her writing, reminding me that there is beauty amongst every scene. I'm drawn to her dreamy diction she weaves into her poetry, the all-lowercase letters, and her golden heart. She's currently collecting donations for a raffle for The Rape Crisis Center; I'd encourage you to visit her site and donate if you feel drawn to do so. 

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honey sunset

by cheyenne raine

summer sun, fingertips curling
around the soft underbelly of clouds
that taste of cotton candy
and honey glazed pillows.
sometimes, i lie down in the grass
and the sun drips over my skin,
warmth. warmth. warmth.

what is yellow and tart?
my love for the open road,
where highway winds tangle
my hair and my laughter.
where rolled down windows
take the music on the radio
and my voice away (perhaps,
they go to a castle in the clouds).

i like thinking of the constellations,
summer sun faded in the afterglow of the dusk—
wait here, i whisper, let me gather the sky into my palms,
watch it spread and settle against my heartbeat.

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Cheyenne Raine is a creative in all aspects of the word–from writing, to crafts, projects, design and much more. She loves to drink tea and read/watch anything with horror and thrills. She's passionate about healing, chasing all things lovely and blissful and resides in San Antonio, Texas.

Her work (including two poetry books!) can be found on her Instagram and website. 

Pine Needle Promise

This is the first video crafted, shared on this site. I thank the very talented, Elizabeth Miller for providing such vision and beauty to these spoken words. This video is a matchless first fit for a featured collaboration, with the words scripted below the embedded video. 

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Pine Needle Promise

Tangled and thought,
coursing through chaos.

Calamity taunts time,
as the present passes.

I pause;
each pore raises from my skin,
mirroring the distant mountains.

I ascend with open eyes,
a virtuous vision.

An emerald iris is matched with mine,
the evergreen.

I met with the parade of the pines promise,
poised in the palms of the pine needles.

Piercing my mind,
honesty and authenticity—
winter to lungs,
spilling a sappy fragrance into the forest.

I get lost here.

I freeze with the winter crystals,
as the frost flowers,
tangibly touching time.

I trace gratitude through antlers angles, 
pivoting my perspective.

Wonder covers,
a sweeping snowfall—the future fluid,
rolling over rocks.

As the wind wraps my ears,
biting each breath,
I hold this harmony, 
and find freedom with each unfolding.

Credits
Poem, written + read: Regan Smith
Short film, directed + edited: Elizabeth Miller
Starring: Lauren Wang
Music: Devotion (Instrumental) by Skies Speak - Testament

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Elizabeth Miller is an independent filmmaker, based in Fort Collins, Colorado, who strives to create creative content in a variety of forms. Interested in fashion and journalism, Elizabeth seeks to share new, compelling creations that encourages the audience to think and generate meaning. With aligned vision, she share stories that are fueled by creativity and the unique perspectives that we all possess. Elizabeth's pieces can be viewed through her YouTube channel here. 

When My Heart Awakens

January 15, 2018

I woke this morning a little after 3 AM. I scrolled through photos, scripture, and sheep in attempts to resume my slumber. I felt a gentle tug to part from my bed and to begin writing, editing, learning. 

After scooping up my dachshund-min pin mix, I circled up our metal-spiral stairs. Much to my surprise, my lively eyes traced the trails of unbroken language, spoken to paper. I wrote until the morning was nursed into maturity. Here is a small passage, that I softly share with you, reader:

When My Heart Awakens

It’s exquisite. 
It’s unique. 

Obedience opens the doors to a productivity phenomenon,  
an all-awake and oh-so-alive euphoria. 

I was able to witness the darkness turn to light—
epitomized by these pages, 
this window pane. 

Outstretched shapes silhouetted the sky, 
the sun began to leisurely rise. 

The clouds are purple now, dusted with grey. 
A glow, growing richer, deeper, warmer. 

Beneath, 
the bare sky, 
screams its shine. 

I swell in spirit, 
as the fierce and fiery light anoints these pages. 

Apricot beams radiate into my art room, 
and moments later, 
entirely illuminates the ambience. 

The Unknown’s Known

Today is the day,
littered clouds, bare branches
with bright crimson cardinals—  
thankful for all preceding, 
the stretching, a solemn swallow, 
yet dancing with their song. 

In quiet prayer, 
gazing upon my future, 
equipped and encompassed by grace.  

Sun high, with sidewalk steps, 
I will be standing in the subsequent, 
a slung smile and weathered skin,
beaming back on today.

Uncapped

September 30, 2017

I wrote this letter a few days back for my husband, Ricky, as we approach another marriage milestone. Each year is a milestone, in our era, where the divorce rate is a heartbreaking fifty-percent. There is no couple that experiences only the sweet drops of honey, without encountering the sticky moments, too. I wanted to share this letter, with the permission from my love, along with some old disposable-camera photos I sifted through earlier this week. I couldn't be more thankful for our growth and the beautiful love that we reflect and ricochet, a mirror-facing-mirror. 

. . . 

I’m seated stationary on the big block of concrete that overlooks the green ivy leaves and the dingy downtown river. It’s our favorite urban escape, where we bring our twenty-pound pup on our thirty-minute lunch breaks. 

Tomorrow is our third year of being married to the other—a momentous occasion. Though our dating year was darling and the newlywed hours beautiful, this past year holds paramount. We stood together, against all odds, fighting for each other rather than opposed. A deep, saturated love is birthed when it is a committed choice, rather than a happenstance feeling. For feelings flee faster than a lightning strike, vanishing in an instant, revealing its true selfish state.

But commitment and engaging to love through all endeavors is where true love runs, rich and pure. This is the love that refines every atom, our makeup challenged and tested. How a partner acts within adversary is when honest intentions are uncovered. 

I have had both these types of love with you. 

When we got married, during the golden hour’s amble, I didn’t think my selfish love capacity could increate any further. As the breeze which defines evening from afternoon nipped at our lungs, I was wholly smitten. I was naive in the art of loving through commitment—as all those who have not pulled a witness to sign, expressing direct vision of oath and vow. 

These past few years have been heart wrenchingly beautiful, exposing and expunging all that does not mirror our maker. You’ve never stop trying to, either—the greatest trait that I unknowingly own in a husband, life partner, three years ago. It’s rare to hold a loved one who consistently strives towards conviction.

I'm thankful that you found that in you. 

You have been patient and gracious with me, honest and true. I’m thankful for this endless transparency. My heart still sings when I’m with you, and you join in—together singing praise and giving thanks. 

Your transformation as a human is unparalleled. You are my home, the recipient of all love letters, my greatest joy on this temporary earth; we hold a love no capacity can climb. 

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