Day 20 of mono. Day 14 of being a shut-in. Day 8 of staying with Mom and Dad. The first few days of sickness, I struggled against being alone. I was very frustrated with my solitude and felt like I was in a wrestling match with my aloneness. Today, I am fighting against being unable to do things. I feel so indignant that a very easy, short field trip utterly exhausts my energy tank. I can hardly bear being so trapped in this straight jacket of fatigue.
I'm trying to take a different posture with the current state of affairs. I'm trying to be self-compassionate, to be my own friend and loving companion. But let me tell you, being grounded and caring and generous with myself is nearly impossible on my good days, let alone when I'm not at my best.
"It’s my job to care for myself. My job to tenderly wash that wound and protect it with things like boundaries and self-care and spiritual practices and lots of patience."
From "Walking, Wounded: On Being Not Okay" a short essay by Sarah Zarr. *sigh* So I'll do my best and fail and pick myself up only to fall down again. And slowly, hopefully, I'll heal.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Monday, July 14, 2014
Mending the Sole
1.
A discarded pair of vintage shoes,
vessels of an unknown fellow traveler.
They have seen miles of track;
perhaps they've jived through swing halls,
or rested idly under conference tables
passively witnessing a clandestine agreement between enemies.
Or maybe they were once positioned in a humble bow,
with one knee cocked.
These vessels were cut from the finest tanned animal hide.
2.
(Living beings struck into deadened submission -
yet still alive and able to draw forth pleasure from fashionistas with an eye for expensive leather.)
There they bend, under a knee,
behind a back,
unaware of the question popped
yet witnesses to this moment.
3.
The one question we orbit in our hip-pulling,
face-turning dance of love-making,
the question full of hope and offering,
not in touch with the devastating power of love to grind strong wheat into flour,
broken and transformed and given for sustenance to those in need -
the question comes full of need.
Masked as a happy gift, its ache resides
beneath the twinkling, blinking sharp surface of a ring.
And the shoes bear the wrinkle of this moment, this transaction.
Their fancy cut and solemn strength provide weight and age to a young heart's dream.
4.
And now these vessels sit, discarded.
Propped side by side,
heels nestled in the new soft spring grass,
leaning against the weathered telephone pole,
I observe them and track their motionless existence for three days.
Day four, a hole found on the bottom of each shoe.
These holes mark the passage of time
and the heavy heart of a traveler's life
traced from young to seasoned.
These holes were worn into the soles through days and days of
walking and waking and walking on and on through
the impoverished jungles of urban density that the authorities had planned for.
I see these two openings and recognize them as my own.
I recognize the ragged edge that whistles as the winds howl through them.
I recognize the dirt surrounding the holes,
the lack of an attempt to clean them and patch them up.
5.
I've spent the last nine days watching holes in my lover's side try to mend themselves.
The hospital bed swallowed her fragile frame
and her life force oozes out of the holes.
The holes saved her from death by shit, death by internal contamination.
They cut these holes into her and let all of the
muck come out.
And out it came.
6.
What none of us could see
as we focused our efforts on willing her brutalized abdomen towards health,
was the action and the opening that was taking place
behind the curtain of my chest.
Curtain drawn, the invisible hospital room of my soul
had a poison acid that ate away at me,
creating two creeping holes,
now reflected in a parallel sole sitting unassuming
on the side of my road.
This soul and those soles recognize a common terrain,
a common expression.
And as I ponder the miles of those treading soles
(through rooms and loves)
I feel the same miles fingering the gaping holes of my own soul.
And falling to my knees,
I weep.
7.
The cobbler tells me that these shoes are of a brand called
"Church's".
With a twinkle in his eye, he gropes them and examines them and sets to work on them.
It is no wonder these surprise companions come branded with a hallowed name;
this travel is sacred.
Here, the mundane, the dirty, the sick, the bitter,
are simultaneously at one with the holy.
This moment of sole repair has suddenly become transfixed in me
not as an errand run on a lunch break
but as the alchemy of sweet, mysterious healing.
8.
Two feet (usually ignored) under this
column of dust and chemistry,
are now shod with memory and meaning and common death.
And they are unquestioningly beautiful.
Onward we step,
into more chaos and more wearying travel.
Two holes patched,
others still oozing,
letting the muck out
and waiting
to mend.
A discarded pair of vintage shoes,
vessels of an unknown fellow traveler.
They have seen miles of track;
perhaps they've jived through swing halls,
or rested idly under conference tables
passively witnessing a clandestine agreement between enemies.
Or maybe they were once positioned in a humble bow,
with one knee cocked.
These vessels were cut from the finest tanned animal hide.
2.
(Living beings struck into deadened submission -
yet still alive and able to draw forth pleasure from fashionistas with an eye for expensive leather.)
There they bend, under a knee,
behind a back,
unaware of the question popped
yet witnesses to this moment.
3.
The one question we orbit in our hip-pulling,
face-turning dance of love-making,
the question full of hope and offering,
not in touch with the devastating power of love to grind strong wheat into flour,
broken and transformed and given for sustenance to those in need -
the question comes full of need.
Masked as a happy gift, its ache resides
beneath the twinkling, blinking sharp surface of a ring.
And the shoes bear the wrinkle of this moment, this transaction.
Their fancy cut and solemn strength provide weight and age to a young heart's dream.
4.
And now these vessels sit, discarded.
Propped side by side,
heels nestled in the new soft spring grass,
leaning against the weathered telephone pole,
I observe them and track their motionless existence for three days.
Day four, a hole found on the bottom of each shoe.
These holes mark the passage of time
and the heavy heart of a traveler's life
traced from young to seasoned.
These holes were worn into the soles through days and days of
walking and waking and walking on and on through
the impoverished jungles of urban density that the authorities had planned for.
I see these two openings and recognize them as my own.
I recognize the ragged edge that whistles as the winds howl through them.
I recognize the dirt surrounding the holes,
the lack of an attempt to clean them and patch them up.
5.
I've spent the last nine days watching holes in my lover's side try to mend themselves.
The hospital bed swallowed her fragile frame
and her life force oozes out of the holes.
The holes saved her from death by shit, death by internal contamination.
They cut these holes into her and let all of the
muck come out.
And out it came.
6.
What none of us could see
as we focused our efforts on willing her brutalized abdomen towards health,
was the action and the opening that was taking place
behind the curtain of my chest.
Curtain drawn, the invisible hospital room of my soul
had a poison acid that ate away at me,
creating two creeping holes,
now reflected in a parallel sole sitting unassuming
on the side of my road.
This soul and those soles recognize a common terrain,
a common expression.
And as I ponder the miles of those treading soles
(through rooms and loves)
I feel the same miles fingering the gaping holes of my own soul.
And falling to my knees,
I weep.
7.
The cobbler tells me that these shoes are of a brand called
"Church's".
With a twinkle in his eye, he gropes them and examines them and sets to work on them.
It is no wonder these surprise companions come branded with a hallowed name;
this travel is sacred.
Here, the mundane, the dirty, the sick, the bitter,
are simultaneously at one with the holy.
This moment of sole repair has suddenly become transfixed in me
not as an errand run on a lunch break
but as the alchemy of sweet, mysterious healing.
8.
Two feet (usually ignored) under this
column of dust and chemistry,
are now shod with memory and meaning and common death.
And they are unquestioningly beautiful.
Onward we step,
into more chaos and more wearying travel.
Two holes patched,
others still oozing,
letting the muck out
and waiting
to mend.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Morning mood
We weave in and out of days.
A mood arises, untraceable.
Did it come from the furrow of blankets,
seeping into you, and I am the mirror?
Or did I find it in my hands,
hands digging in my dank darkness?
Did I pull it out, offering it as a
tainted gift?
The cloudy morning's opening strains
are our life's music, not set to logic.
The melody finds us in unknown territory,
lifts our eyes (in recognition),
and sings us home.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Passing Time
1.
Music sounds out in the empty living room.
The clicks and sounds that mark a day's passage
Roam through the apartment;
Sometimes the weight of melancholy is too much to bear.
2.
The car has been through a lot.
It sits mocking the world's superficial preferences,
all mess and ill-fitting hood and broken antennae.
Last summer it disappeared from the curb where it was parked.
A week went by. It served as home and dumping ground and
Canvas for his desperate prayer of survival.
With police chasing and nowhere to hide, it was abandoned in a driveway.
Now the car sits in mine (stolen property recovered), biding the years with me.
Little by little, it is breaking down.
Yet I tend to its parts, oil its motor,
replace wiper blades.
This simple act of faith,
Of caring for an ugly and
dying car,
is my participation in redemption.
3.
Do the window panes collect their dust
as a way to remember that the year is passing?
Objects speak constantly to us
As we pretend not to notice.
The faithful kitchen table
is work surface and G-d all at once.
Our hungry mouths betray our need.
And we come and we have need and we are filled
and we have need and we go on
and we go on, just passing the time.
Music sounds out in the empty living room.
The clicks and sounds that mark a day's passage
Roam through the apartment;
Sometimes the weight of melancholy is too much to bear.
2.
The car has been through a lot.
It sits mocking the world's superficial preferences,
all mess and ill-fitting hood and broken antennae.
Last summer it disappeared from the curb where it was parked.
A week went by. It served as home and dumping ground and
Canvas for his desperate prayer of survival.
With police chasing and nowhere to hide, it was abandoned in a driveway.
Now the car sits in mine (stolen property recovered), biding the years with me.
Little by little, it is breaking down.
Yet I tend to its parts, oil its motor,
replace wiper blades.
This simple act of faith,
Of caring for an ugly and
dying car,
is my participation in redemption.
3.
Do the window panes collect their dust
as a way to remember that the year is passing?
Objects speak constantly to us
As we pretend not to notice.
The faithful kitchen table
is work surface and G-d all at once.
Our hungry mouths betray our need.
And we come and we have need and we are filled
and we have need and we go on
and we go on, just passing the time.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Kyrie: a storm, a shooting, a phone call.
Today, a tornado that was up to 2 miles wide in places ripped through a small community outside of Oklahoma City. Lives were lost, homes shattered, hearts devastated by this storm. Just yesterday I was reveling in memories of holing up in the basement with my parents and my blanket, safe from the storm. I loved that feeling of having everything important to me, just the essentials, right next to me within arms reach. For so many people today, that luxury was ripped away from them. The pain in Oklahoma today saddens me.
And then I learned that the "firecrackers" I thought I heard last night were not firecrackers after all. I was just drifting off to sleep after a full day of errands, household work, and soccer. Right before midnight, we heard pops in the distance. First a set of fast ones, then about 5 more, slower, deliberate. The dog started scrambling to hide. We told ourselves that it was just some kid setting of firecrackers, put doggy in her box, and tried to get some sleep. Today I learned that those sounds were not just a kid playing around. A woman was shot in the leg when two different groups exchanged gunfire just 1 block away from where I live. That is the third shooting within a one mile radius of my home since I have lived here. We will no longer walk the dog at night. Hearing those bullets fly sent a chill down my spine. And yet, I am privileged. I can move away. I can conceptualize a safer neighborhood.
I look at the children playing outside and think about their futures, about their eyes and minds as they survive on these streets. Where will they go? How will they survive this? My philosophy about why gangs exist, why people own guns, and the violence of the prison industrial complex is not daunted by the felt danger I am experiencing, but rather it is reinforced. More guns, more criminalization, more police, only leads to more violence and more death. True rehabilitation, equitable wages and work, education, and holistic support are better ways to address "criminals" rather than throwing them in cages for years. It is just too convenient for us to build more cages, put the "bad guys" in them, and then deal with the cost later. The cost is not only a price-tag of somewhere around $35,000 per year, but of continued systems of inequity and violence. Being grounded in social justice philosophies maybe matters the most when bullets whiz through the air mere blocks away from home. But these philosophies are not bullet proof, so no more nighttime dog walks.
A few minutes after reading about the shooting on the Central District news blog, the phone rang. SPU was calling, asking for money, giving me some "campus updates". They mentioned the new president, a new dorm. They asked me for money. Then I told Andrea, a sophomore, that when my girlfriend and I attended the annual Christmas party in December, that we got harassed by SPU students. We attended the event with 2 other gay SPU alumni couples...a total of 6 of us fabulous graduates who are making our school proud, serving in the private and public sector, living out the ideals of the mission of SPU. Yet as we took part in the night's activities, someone yelled "That's disgusting!" at us when we posed for a picture, kissing. It was saddening and embarrassing to SPU that this happened. I emailed the president, welcoming him to the post, introducing myself and the ways I was involved, and explained what happened. He did not respond in an inclusive way, but rather brushed off my challenge to work towards making SPU more inclusive. So when Andrea asked me for money, I respectfully declined and asked her to share my story with her boss, to let her know that I would be happy to give, as soon as SPU changes their policy to be inclusive of ALL students, regardless of who they are.
My heart is heavy. At a loss. There is homework to do... the chapter is titled "Middle Adulthood: Cognitive, Personality, and Social Development". How can I concentrate on the pages of a textbook with this world around me that is brimming with need? How can I read these lines in black and white on a page when everything is gray and there are no easy answers, no safe places to hide?
The storm rages on...and I will hold on for dear life to the essentials. Maybe, just maybe, not one tragedy, not one "criminal", and not even one good ol' alma mater is beyond the hope that within incredible darkness our love can shine bright like the light of the moon.
And then I learned that the "firecrackers" I thought I heard last night were not firecrackers after all. I was just drifting off to sleep after a full day of errands, household work, and soccer. Right before midnight, we heard pops in the distance. First a set of fast ones, then about 5 more, slower, deliberate. The dog started scrambling to hide. We told ourselves that it was just some kid setting of firecrackers, put doggy in her box, and tried to get some sleep. Today I learned that those sounds were not just a kid playing around. A woman was shot in the leg when two different groups exchanged gunfire just 1 block away from where I live. That is the third shooting within a one mile radius of my home since I have lived here. We will no longer walk the dog at night. Hearing those bullets fly sent a chill down my spine. And yet, I am privileged. I can move away. I can conceptualize a safer neighborhood.
I look at the children playing outside and think about their futures, about their eyes and minds as they survive on these streets. Where will they go? How will they survive this? My philosophy about why gangs exist, why people own guns, and the violence of the prison industrial complex is not daunted by the felt danger I am experiencing, but rather it is reinforced. More guns, more criminalization, more police, only leads to more violence and more death. True rehabilitation, equitable wages and work, education, and holistic support are better ways to address "criminals" rather than throwing them in cages for years. It is just too convenient for us to build more cages, put the "bad guys" in them, and then deal with the cost later. The cost is not only a price-tag of somewhere around $35,000 per year, but of continued systems of inequity and violence. Being grounded in social justice philosophies maybe matters the most when bullets whiz through the air mere blocks away from home. But these philosophies are not bullet proof, so no more nighttime dog walks.
A few minutes after reading about the shooting on the Central District news blog, the phone rang. SPU was calling, asking for money, giving me some "campus updates". They mentioned the new president, a new dorm. They asked me for money. Then I told Andrea, a sophomore, that when my girlfriend and I attended the annual Christmas party in December, that we got harassed by SPU students. We attended the event with 2 other gay SPU alumni couples...a total of 6 of us fabulous graduates who are making our school proud, serving in the private and public sector, living out the ideals of the mission of SPU. Yet as we took part in the night's activities, someone yelled "That's disgusting!" at us when we posed for a picture, kissing. It was saddening and embarrassing to SPU that this happened. I emailed the president, welcoming him to the post, introducing myself and the ways I was involved, and explained what happened. He did not respond in an inclusive way, but rather brushed off my challenge to work towards making SPU more inclusive. So when Andrea asked me for money, I respectfully declined and asked her to share my story with her boss, to let her know that I would be happy to give, as soon as SPU changes their policy to be inclusive of ALL students, regardless of who they are.
My heart is heavy. At a loss. There is homework to do... the chapter is titled "Middle Adulthood: Cognitive, Personality, and Social Development". How can I concentrate on the pages of a textbook with this world around me that is brimming with need? How can I read these lines in black and white on a page when everything is gray and there are no easy answers, no safe places to hide?
The storm rages on...and I will hold on for dear life to the essentials. Maybe, just maybe, not one tragedy, not one "criminal", and not even one good ol' alma mater is beyond the hope that within incredible darkness our love can shine bright like the light of the moon.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Loosening the Hinges
I dubbed these rooms that I have called home for the past 19 months "The Romping House" in honor of the way that a certain little doggy tends to make her way from place to place in this apartment. Just 4 more nights sleeping here at The Romping House until the hinges that open and close the doors will never feel my touch again. I feel unhinged with all this uncertainty ahead, and many of the items that signal "certainty" to me are boxed up in little stacked containers, cluttering the wall space, the hallway. Something has been opened up and the wind is whistling through, the doors are unhinged and an unexpected future is unfolding. What keeps me steady through the winds of change? What will I find in the rooms that will contain my future? What new sights will signal "certainty" to me in the days to come?
This solid wooden roll-top desk has been with me since I was 11. 16 years of traveling together through the days. It holds old love letters, secrets, bank statements from 2004, a collection of unsharpened holiday pencils from mom, some paper weights from uncle Pat, and all of my files. I never seem to sit at it to work on things, but I need it just the same, to tell me that I am solid, that I am home.
Then there are the 2 crates full of give-away items. I see the pitcher (old, yellowed, sticky with oil) that my mom poured apple-sauce out of during my childhood picnics on the porch. I see a cutting board that I purchased on my first trip to Guatemala, age 19, the decal fallen off, the wood stained with mildew. These are the things people let go of, that will be adrift in a sea of Goodwill's donations until the end up thrown out and deemed unsell-able, or on the shelf of some stranger, blind to their beginnings.
Sadness abounds along with hope. I waiver from setting my sights on the horizon, where I will have new systems and a bigger living room, to looking backwards at my journey here in the Romping House that began in strife, moved towards independence and generosity, and is ending in gratitude (laced with the aromas of the zoo next door). So unhinge my future, oh sands of time, and lend me the grace to give openly and receive freely, in whatever spaces I move into next.
This solid wooden roll-top desk has been with me since I was 11. 16 years of traveling together through the days. It holds old love letters, secrets, bank statements from 2004, a collection of unsharpened holiday pencils from mom, some paper weights from uncle Pat, and all of my files. I never seem to sit at it to work on things, but I need it just the same, to tell me that I am solid, that I am home.
Then there are the 2 crates full of give-away items. I see the pitcher (old, yellowed, sticky with oil) that my mom poured apple-sauce out of during my childhood picnics on the porch. I see a cutting board that I purchased on my first trip to Guatemala, age 19, the decal fallen off, the wood stained with mildew. These are the things people let go of, that will be adrift in a sea of Goodwill's donations until the end up thrown out and deemed unsell-able, or on the shelf of some stranger, blind to their beginnings.
Sadness abounds along with hope. I waiver from setting my sights on the horizon, where I will have new systems and a bigger living room, to looking backwards at my journey here in the Romping House that began in strife, moved towards independence and generosity, and is ending in gratitude (laced with the aromas of the zoo next door). So unhinge my future, oh sands of time, and lend me the grace to give openly and receive freely, in whatever spaces I move into next.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Compression
Under a lot of stress recently. There's not enough time to live, breathe, write. Grad Skool + Full Time Work = lack of luster in my chest. Days like these I like to take to the wind with a spray can and my laptop, pretending to take the city by storm. I feel decadent, taking my damn time looking at every single letterpress-style greeting card, picking up every book that fits my fancy, buying snacks I never buy, reading The Stranger cover to cover. In the past, these things have been coping mechanisms for the pain inherent in boring postmodernism. Now they seem like a refuge, a release, a special evening all to myself. Is it hallmark of danger, when my salves become that which I crave? When my Bandaids, previously used to hold back the blood, become the first thing I reach for in a spare moment, stolen from the long weekend? Mary Oliver talks about paying attention. She just published a book of poetry; One Thousand Mornings. Or something. So I am trying to pay attention, like it's my job.
What have I noticed?
My skin has 2 dime-sized patches of dryness. Stress-induced eczema?
My shoulders seem to be pregnant with stones, tight to the point of restricting movements.
After responsibilities cease, I snatch for the easiest, most convenient, most instant pleasure.
Each area of my life trades off being neglected.
My brain is tired from absorbing information...and I haven't even done all of my reading and probably never will.
The people in my life who truly love me are cutting me slack all the time. It's a test of my ability to receive, to be okay with an unfair skew on some relationships.
It'd be good to write more. To go for jogs. To read for pleasure. To pick up the guitar in the mornings. Yet the crushing reality of work, class, sleep, rinse, repeat will rule me for the next week. Just one more week.
These days are getting shorter, the nights are taking over. Here's to the darkness, to fears, to hibernating, to hiding, to evenings spent on the raft that is a warm bed with some warm bodies in it. I'm watching the night conquer the day each day. I'm waiting for that solstice to turn the tables and bring us hope again. Until then I revel in the aloneness of darkness.
That's the way we get by (#spoon).
What have I noticed?
My skin has 2 dime-sized patches of dryness. Stress-induced eczema?
My shoulders seem to be pregnant with stones, tight to the point of restricting movements.
After responsibilities cease, I snatch for the easiest, most convenient, most instant pleasure.
Each area of my life trades off being neglected.
My brain is tired from absorbing information...and I haven't even done all of my reading and probably never will.
The people in my life who truly love me are cutting me slack all the time. It's a test of my ability to receive, to be okay with an unfair skew on some relationships.
It'd be good to write more. To go for jogs. To read for pleasure. To pick up the guitar in the mornings. Yet the crushing reality of work, class, sleep, rinse, repeat will rule me for the next week. Just one more week.
These days are getting shorter, the nights are taking over. Here's to the darkness, to fears, to hibernating, to hiding, to evenings spent on the raft that is a warm bed with some warm bodies in it. I'm watching the night conquer the day each day. I'm waiting for that solstice to turn the tables and bring us hope again. Until then I revel in the aloneness of darkness.
That's the way we get by (#spoon).
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