BB Grey–musings

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Journal Edition

The mind is quiet this morning.
No blaze, just a low light.
That’s okay.

The world insists we know at once,
as if understanding were a switch,
not a seed.

I dreamt a stalk rising into the sky,
a ladder of green—
something to send me up
and bring back down
what I knew could grow.

So much of what we think isn’t ours.
We move through fog not of our making.
The choice to walk through it—
that, at least, is ours.

I write to sort,
to trace the outline of a thought
my mind is slowly learning.

The tools are flawed.
The method is uncertain.
Like holding a thing I half understand.

A knife:
I see a steak knife.
A surgeon sees a scalpel.
The intents are worlds apart.

If I hold it by the blade,
I carve only my own hand,
and in the sting tighten my grip,
astonished at how red the lesson is.

Thinking is one labor.
Choosing the right tool is another.
Reading what the cut reveals
is the hardest of all.

Language deceives.
Meaning slips.
Between situation, tool, and judgment,
there are too many moving parts.
Too much ambiguity.

Some mornings I don’t want to rise,
let alone face the problem of being.

Mamá once said she felt like a slave,
so little pay for so much work.
Then she saw she was married,
paid in a currency
she’d never agreed to count.

Here I am:
reaching for the tool,
trying to read the fog,
willing to sit with not-knowing
until knowing decides, gently, to arrive.

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Stage Read Edition (breath marks)

The mind is quiet this morning //
no blaze // just a low light //
that’s okay //

the world wants answers now //
as if understanding were a switch //
not a seed //

I dreamed a green stalk // up into the sky //
a way up // and a way back down //
to bring what could grow //

so much of what we think // isn’t ours //
fog we didn’t make //
the choice to walk // is ours //

I write to sort //
to trace the outline // of a slow thought //

the tools are flawed //
the method is uncertain //
like holding something // I half understand //

a knife //
to me // a steak knife //
to a surgeon // a scalpel //
same edge // different worlds //

hold it by the blade //
and I carve my own hand //
tighten the grip //
and the lesson runs red //

thinking is one labor //
choosing the tool // another //
reading what the cut reveals //
the hardest of all //

language deceives //
meaning slips //
between situation // tool // judgment //
too many moving parts //
too much ambiguity //

some mornings // I don’t rise //
don’t face the problem of being //

Mamá once said // she felt like a slave //
so little pay // so much work //
then saw she was married //
paid in a currency // she never agreed to count //

and still // here I am //
reaching for the tool //
reading the fog //
sitting with not-knowing //
until knowing // gently // arrives //