daily momentum
towards authenticity
a foundation of the mastered
moving towards the unlearned
layer upon layer of becoming
vigorous attempts towards wholeness
attainment of enlightenment
my time has come
I submit this already-written piece for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #422 as this feels like a good fit for the theme we were given this week. It was originally written on 5/1/2019 and posted here on I Write Her.
“Uncover what your soul has never forgotten.” – Jess Kille
broken young
a tender life damaged
two steps forward
four back
healing a mangled heart
is a life’s mission
to reveal the impairment
and right the wrongs
the journey inward
reveals the hurt
and the self-preservation
of the mind and the body
the grown adult
meets the inner child
with love and acceptance
the healing begins
a panoptic view
clear, curious, and hopeful
new directions sought
Redux
daily momentum
towards authenticity
a foundation of the mastered
moving towards the unlearned
layer upon layer of becoming
vigorous attempts towards wholeness
attainment of enlightenment
my time has come
Originally posted 5/1/2019 on I Write Her.
Redux
Inspired by FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION Challenge 5/31/19 – Art
art conveys
what the mouth cannot
visual feelings
are words come to life
the beauty in the image
convey a connection
every chance to look again
is a moment to go back to a memory
This piece was painted by my friend Xaviel. I adore his art! Enjoy all his work!
Originally posted 5/31/2019 on I Write Her.
each form of flair is unique to the deliverer
their genius guided by instinct and drive
some hone in on one thing, others are multi-faceted
writing is my tool
it brings thoughts to life
the form where i express myself best
my creativity started late in life
no courage or time to express differently now
my dedication is to this passion only
each craft in our world conveys emotion
the artist is the catalyst for revelation
they enable you to feel their articulation
my attempts would fumble
meanings not delivered or landing
the outcome resembling an outtake
i leave it to those moved by expression
to enlighten me alongside them
to see and feel what they do
the choice for me is clear
i hope my message resonates for eternity
may every expressive being send their message in their way
present pleasing smile
subtly make opinion known
an assured woman
Rêver
I thought of you dying as
a dream I could not hold onto
the mote dust glittering in
slow pilgrimage, such stillness
a beneficence to one hour
marked by nothing aside
the sugar ants collating on window
where they go, I cannot say
it is as if a crystal exists somewhere
with all the answers
whilst I live among tall trees
seeking, always seeking sky.
Soulagement
It wasn’t that I woke up one day
marmalade stains on the cuff of my best white shirt
and thought “I’m better now”
It wasn’t that a bird flew past my window, green beak, violet tips on length of wing, searching sky
and thought “this doesn’t hurt anymore”
The garden wasn’t quieter, but somewhere, among tall trees thirsting for early summer
ain, where spiders chanced translucence and red ants marched relentless
I found myself and she smiled, that lopsided grin of childhood, the one lost in tree houses
and sticky hands of long ago friends
and said, “come run with me, until your lungs burn and you laugh without reason, scratching your legs and burning your shoulders in the season of NOW.”
Depth
I want to bleed violet in time with the
moon’s cycles and summon my blood
again
for it was only when I lay beneath you
seeing nothing but the blink of capture
in a room too hot to touch
that for a second I felt whole
and then it was gone
sealed away again
in wax paper and bandages
where people grow up and put
the depth of their truth.
The Bloom & the Love
Blind spots can seem like flowers
wrong turns like experienced lovers …
but when you wake without knives in your chest
breathe for the first time, feeling no fear
you’ll realize you never needed flowers
you need yourself, showing up every day
creating your own freedom by facing what
keeps you afraid & letting it know
it only has power, if you give it permission
& you don’t, not any more, not ever again
you’re done, & you’re the only one in control.
You refuse destruction & choose resilience.
You become the bloom & the love.
Revolution
Whomever said leaving a place doesn’t change anything
was not born running
was not blackmailed
was not lost, seeking escape.
Whomever said it’s not where you live
did not grow up without choice.
Sometimes it IS the place
sometimes it IS the people,
When you disentangle yourself from your past & outgrow it
when you find ways to defend yourself against ghosts
when you fight for yourself instead of against yourself
that’s when you taste freedom
& you never, ever go back to imprisonment.
Wound
Your existence might have begun in neglect
the wide yawn of mistakes and ill-timed apathy. But from that
place of scouring and shadows—you became. Just as the unwanted
feral in us, is found by a lover. Not sharing the same blood—almost
strangers, discovering a language, bound on the bread of longing
to matter.
The Ghost on Stage with me
hasn’t learned the convex rule of eye-make-up-removal
taking hard cloth to watering eyes, wiping roughly in hope
I think, of removing everything not just glitter and tears
caught in the fine wax of whatever concocts a glow
as faux as caught breath with applause, when all along
you burned for that, consumed like fire-eater
the singing praise whiskering around old stage and
your aching bones, keeping, it is said, death from the door
by always wearing your finery and never ever
letting your mask slip.
Masked Flight
They took all the cold from the land
even the frost that has become eternal and hard
as precious stone
until we couldn’t remember any longer what cold
felt like and only the determining sun and its
light, unable to keep out, hungry
for our secrets, folding itself in specters and
shallows, a filigree without beauty
turning my stomach sour when I thought too long
and let my guard
slip. There is an odd resistance to becoming
an old version of yourself
how, in the periphery of the pantomime
you learn unexpectedly, what began the march
and what ended it.
~~~
Candice Louisa Daquin is an immigrant of French/Egyptian descent. She worked in publishing in Europe before immigrating to America to become a Psychotherapist. She edits for Raw Earth Ink, Tint Journal, The Pine Cone Review, Writers Resist, Life & Legends, Parcham Literary Magazine & Queer Ink.
Her piece, Phantasma, featured in 2022, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Daquin’s debut novel The Cruelty, can be found HERE. You can find her reblogs, features, and interviews on TSI HERE.
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you may feel like a wallflower
fading into the background
clinging to be incognito
but still, you are beautiful
Recently, I was searching on Google, and came across a post from Barbara Harris Leonhard that I had not visited before. It was posted August 30, 2020! I was a bit flustered that I hadn’t seen it when it was initially published, so I could give Barbara the proper thank-you for her post, not only for referencing my work but also for the valuable information she offered about generational trauma. I will leave the repost here, along with the link to Barbara’s podcast.
My tender years were filled with daily harshness and critical evaluation. No wonder I grew up feeling less than someone. My mother was very demeaning and cruel to me, making my alcoholic, absentee father resemble a saint. My life, like all others, had its own set of hurdles to overcome. I’ll be the first to admit – it was a daunting task.
In November 2012, she died in Asheville, NC, at the age of 71. She was hit by a speeding truck as she was jogging home. Yes, she was jogging. The man who hit her only had one brake working on his vehicle; otherwise, I’m guessing he would have been able to stop in time. She was dead on impact but resuscitated. Still, she was brain-dead at the scene and would be until she finally expired four days later. Her heart was strong. Probably because she was a runner, that’s why it took her so long to let go. Maybe if she’d lived as unhealthily as my father, she would have died within fifteen minutes like he did when we took him off the ventilator in 2014. But it doesn’t matter now. They’re both gone, and that’s not a bad thing.
This past September, I went on an excursion held in Asheville, NC. It was the first trip back since my mother had died. It was a much-needed mini-vacation and nature retreat of sorts. I got to spend some quality time with a dear friend for three days as well. I expected some emotions to well up, but not prepared for how deeply it would affect me. Amazing how seven years later, the learned self-loathing from my past reared up its head. I thought I was past it.
During the excursion, I met so many loving and caring people. Quite different from my upbringing. One in particular – France Dormann – who connected with me right at the beginning. She had a rather emotional epiphany as we talked. She said to me, “What’s beautiful doesn’t need to disappear.” It’s not up to me to discuss the details surrounding what made this so tremendously valuable for her, but I will share why it was for me.
Her words echoed so much of what I dealt with in my childhood and even into my adulthood. What was beautiful about me did disappear for a long time. After you get told all of your youth, you aren’t good enough, worthless, crazy, and a problem child. Well, you believe it. But not anymore. Once and for all, I realized my mother was wrong. Totally wrong. This was my takeaway from what France said and what made this so beneficial for me.
After years of denigration and lack of connection, I felt as if I could finally reclaim that part of me worthy of praise and love. And oddly, I found it in the same place where the woman who lavished me with all the criticism came to die. After a few days to process the events, I felt lighter, as if an invisible weight had lifted. What is strange is I thought I’d worked through so much already, and had come to a place of peace. Obviously, not.
So much healing took place on this trip. The bonus being I was within arm’s reach of so many wonderful and supportive people. I cannot tell you how many tears I shed and how many meaningful hugs I received, but it was enough to wash away the mother’s sins, who had inflicted a tremendous amount of torment on her daughter. And for that, I’m grateful for the torrent of tears and the love of my friends. My past will no longer own me.
Originally posted 10/24/2019 on I Write Her.
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