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.

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).

Work

What I'd give to work for the Sun!

I put in an application recently.

Not for the glamorous position of 

Associate of Rising, nor the coveted

Key Grip of Sunsets. My humble 

submission was for "Companion During Cloud Cover".

No word yet; the file is somewhere

in her email archive, surely.

Instead, they've placed me behind

this bastion, this desk of wood,

behind glass, behind brick.

Here I waste, inserting chunks, 

deleting bleeps.

Weekly reimbursement (death?)

requests, in an endless parade, shaking

my fist at the sky;

What I'd give to work for the Sun!

Resignation brings freedom

About a week or so ago, I just resigned myself to having an awful July. What is it about this month that gets my hopes up? It's "actually summer" in Seattle after the fourth of July, so I guess I just think I should be having the time of my life, in every moment of every day. It's like a month of perpetual Friday nights. I learned a while back how much I hate Friday nights due to the pressure to have fun. Usually I can't, or don't, because I'm exhausted from the work week. I guess the same goes for this miserable summer. The thing is, I looove summertime. It's my favorite season. I love staying out late, going to outdoor movies, going camping, visiting farmer's markets, etc. The sun cheers me up! But this month has been characterized by challenges, moping, and a hatred of all people out in the world having fun. Some of my barriers include things like having a staph infection, attending 2 weddings, not going on vacation, starting grad school, and working on a big project that is due soon.

So last week I realized, when I took stock of the ingredients that make up my life this month, that I should just give up on having fun. Just totally stop looking forward to anything. Make no plans. Don't anticipate future enjoyment. For some reason, when I allow myself to let go of those desires, I find that I am able to be more present. Sometimes this means I go home the long way, or call a friend to say hi, or just simply sit on the back stoop in the sun, looking at the dog sitting in the garden. I'd rather practice this present resignation rather than get trapped in the frenzied search for fun. I'm going to attempt to prowl around less, hunt for nothing, and be slow. So don't tell me that you hope I have a better August, because it'll probably be about the same as July, but perhaps punctuated by blackberries.

But sometimes one of your favorite people in the world comes to crash at your apartment for the weekend and is accompanied by good music and a new fresh wave of activisty air. :)

thoughts from the past

I just found this post in my drafts folder. I think it is from December 2010, ish. Interesting to look back on these thoughts now. I am just now realizing that the thing that I used to look back on to say to myself "I got through that, I can get through anything." does not feel as significant. I think that a year from now, I'll look at these current few months of my life and say "I got through that, I can get through anything." And then, sure as rain, I'm certain life will bring more challenge, more difficulty, more pain, more hardship. There's no way to avoid suffering and misery. So what to do?

Dec 2010:

Sometimes I lose track of myself. This has been happening often, actually. Perhaps it's a part of grieving. I think I'm out of the throes of the deepest grief, I seem to have some momentum in my life, and I think in response to this my mind went the direction of thinking that things would smooth out now, that I would know what to do, where to go, that I'd have direction. Not so. How could I expect to be on my feet, sure of myself and my relationships just 2 months after such a change? I miss the solidity, the unquestionableness of where I stood with her, with others. That's gone now, and I'm left adrift without an anchor. Perhaps that's why I've been daydreaming of getting a tattoo of an anchor. I'd like to find something to attach myself to. Something solid. Sometimes I pick a person to be my anchor. This doesn't work out so well. People don't stay put, don't do what you want them to. That's for the best; I wouldn't want a relationship or another person to be my solid ground. Sometimes she ended up being that for me, which wasn't the best. But overall we figured it out when that happened and adjusted. We were good at navigation, at adjustments. I liked that about us. We were even good at adjustments through the end, through the final stage of navigation. Now we're struggling a bit when we see each other, not quite knowing how to relate.

I miss knowing where I stood in the world relationally. True, there were parts of that world that didn't accept my place in it and my relationship in it. But I knew where I stood, who I was with, what I was doing. Now I feel all over the place, helpless, lost. Eventually through my actions and my choices, something else will become my solid ground, the thing that I lean on at the end of the day, count on when the going gets tough. I can let that anchor emerge naturally without making a conscious choice. Or I can put effort into directing myself to a certain anchor. I'd like to think the latter is a better idea. However, I have seen lots of people religiously, dogmatically, fervently try to anchor themselves on what is "right" or "good" or whatever and it sometimes ends up causing the world a lot of pain, and them a lot of stress. Even "love" as my solid ground feels scary. I'm wary of using that word so casually. Love is hard, it's annoying, it's work, it breaks you down, it shatters your dreams, it lays waste of the self, it requires strength and a sense of strong peaceful solitude, security in your individuality. Love isn't something I'm ready to say that I can obtain or mark as my anchor, as my True North. However, I believe that it was love that has led me through these past 2 months, that has allowed me to let go and be open to whatever adventure life brings me next. I suppose there are 2 sides of love here; love which I generate and have control over offering and then love which exists outside of me, whether or not I acknowledge it, is powerful being my imagination, and is out of my control. Ultimately, it's my goal to seek to want to center my life on that greater Love. But honestly, I'm spending lots of effort being scared and protecting myself from that kind of surrender and loss of control.

give out

it's an ongoing conversation
figuring this all out

just want to give it all
to all
and have a bit leftover
the leftovers don't sustain forever
preserve a bit more next time, self
again and again that pure joy
comes from sweet music
and a bit of sun

rain's gonna return
get out the jacket
and the protection once more
but stay a little while
small voice of contentment
of serenity
i am listening to you speak softly
and following your lead

a situation

perhaps i am just one of those people
who continually finds themselves
in situations

(every time you see me, my friend, i have an "update"
a new thing to report about them or her or whatever)

what does that mean?
by virtue of being human, we exist constantly in a situation
it's called being alive, yes?
i am not a special person.

conflicted, feeling, holding back.

getting "no" or "not yet" so much these days
makes me perhaps act out irresponsibly in other ways?

so i do things like shave a tiny bit out of my eyebrow
wear a key i found on a ride around my neck
i have no reasons for these things

but i feel they hold meaning regardless
and someday perhaps i will hike a mountain
the path to the top will show me how
the green moss covers all
and time passes over the slumbering world
even when i stay watchful
too watchful
the bold moon shines on
even when i stay bottled
too bottled
the ocean gushes forth

cycle is stuck. stopped in my tracks, i am.
come on, dear blood.

wind, rain, battering the windows
post-midnight rattles of the kerri-mind.
snowstuck and ready for the acceleration of summer.
last winter, my new job got me through
2 winters ago, it was learning to cook
this winter, it's my bike and music

friendly love is all?