I had a very cool day of odd happenings yesterday. I am reticent to share. What I think and perceive, and put in to words, does not always come across as I have meant to the reader.
This is both beautiful and curious. Also the reason I hated taking poetry classes in college. I did not want to dissect any poems, to get to what the author had intended. I wanted to keep the feelings the poem mean to me. How I descry the poem, how it relates to me. (side note, this is also why I hate music videos, I do not want to think of a video when I hear a song, I want my own mental musical video of memories to come to me. Exception: I do know the Thriller dance.)
Since I live much of my life through the transparency of the written word, the reader has only to take what I say. The rest is up to the reader to fill in the blanks.
Often these blank spots are incorrect. I let it slide. Let the reader think what they want about me, but take my words and make them your own. That is always what I hope for. Even when I am just telling a story, or parable.
Take the following as a parable:
Yesterday morning I decided, with some encouragement, to go to the lake. I have not been all summer and it was a beautiful day. I would venture alone. Spontaneous decision.
On my way, about a mile from my house, and ten from the lake I sat at a red light, windows down, no music playing.
A homeless man on the corner yelled to me to get my attention.
"Hey! You have not forgotten about me have you?"
I looked at him and did not recognize him. I talk to enough homeless people to know this was not one of my regulars. I engage with homeless people near my house, and on almost every corner. Usually they never ask me for anything but the ears I have to listen for the amount of time a red light can run.
I smiled and yelled, "How could I forget about you?" Even though I am certain we have never met.
He smiled and said "It has been a while since I have seen you, I just wanted to make sure!"
I asked him how he was, and he said he had no complaints, hesitated lifted his cardboard sign and said he could complain but he wont. I replied with a lame, "Well it is a beautiful day!"
He looked right at me and said, "You should go to the lake! Yeah, that's what I think you need to do, go to the lake!"
The light turned and he yelled, "Don't forget about me!"
I had nothing obvious in my car saying HEY I AM GOING TO LAKE EVERYONE! No bathing suit on, no towel on the front seat, and he could not see into my car from his distance anyway.
I laughed and said out loud, "Hey God, are you talking to me through homeless people again? Because if you are I think that is kind of ironic, and not ironic at the same time. Okay not talking to you because I do not believe in you."
I drove the rest of the way in silence.
When I arrived I noticed no one else was there, just as I like it. Took my towel, my floatie, and headed out to the dock I love the most.
After baptizing myself in the water (dunking three times) I climbed the ladder to lay down and listen to the sounds around me.
After a while I heard a woman's voice gently saying, "Excuse me?" as she walked closer to me.
I sat up and said hi.
"Im sorry I do not mean to interrupt you, I just wanted to thank you."
"Thank me for what?" I asked completely confused.
"You have inspired me to come here alone. I have lived here almost my entire life and I have never come to the lake alone, seeing you made me think I could do it."
She appeared to be slightly older than I am, and I went on about the virtues of coming to the lake alone, especially during the week. I even dared to say she was allowed to lay out topless, as it is permitted.
That lead to a humorous conversation about age, gravity and breasts.
She wandered back to her family and I resumed gathering sun rays. I looked at the water just in time to see a man emerging in full scuba attire.
I said the most logical thing I could think of.
"Looking for dead bodies?"
He laughed awkwardly and said "No." Then he lifted up an under water metal detector. He began to tell me about all the things he had found. I suggested he look on the other side of the dock where the bottom is not covered in mesh.
My new female friend with permission to come to lake alone came over to join the conversation.
The scuba diver held out his findings, bottle caps, pennies, sunglasses. He also had a penny that had been through one of those machines that smooshes it and marks where it was from. Later he gave me this penny to keep.
The penny was smooshed in Hawaii. I like to think it was someone's good luck coin, that now can be my good luck coin.
I kept an eye on the time during the conversation as my time there was only going to be for one hour.
The woman and I exchanged names and emails. I imagine I will write to her with encouraging lake going words and she can find some independence through my permission. I know it is strange, but she needs my permission, or inspiration. Why else would she come up to me in the first place?
Before I left the woman said, "I found this, I think it belongs to you, or that you need it, it's a necklace."
The scuba man said, "Oh yeah, I found that earlier and put it on the dock, means nothing to me."
I stood up and reached for the necklace, the woman saying, "I think it is something spiritual, that's why it belongs to you."
I took the gentle string and beads and immediately saw that it was a rosary. Not one mass produced. This one was lovingly hand made, each bead chosen, even the cross was beaded in a way that I could not figure out.
I laughed. "I collect rosaries, how funny you found it!"
"I knew it was something spiritual."
Scuba man wished me a farewell as I gathered my things and said maybe we would meet again. He explained he does not live here and he and his buddy (who I never saw) only came down for the day.
I wished him well on his huntings. I hugged my new friend promising to email soon, slipped the rosary on my neck and left.
I was smiling like a fool. Everything seemed to connect and I have no idea why. I thought again about the cosmos, and how it has taken me looking out further to find connection like my fellow monk Giordano Bruno.
He looked at the cosmos, I have also looked. And yet a lucky penny and a gentle rosary came to me from the depths of a lake that I love.
Everything connects.
Friday, September 9, 2016
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Glimpse of a Hermits Life Redux
*Yes this should be a footnote, but I am a rule breaker so I am putting this up here instead. Rarely do I pull a blog. Rarely do I edit. But when I read this particular blog I saw some egregious mistakes that I had to correct. I also want to convey just how excited I am by all of the things I have been learning.
For so very long I have looked down, or at least at eye level. Water has always been my baptismal font into humanity. It may remain that way, but I have discovered another way. I had to look up and beyond anything my eyes could see to feel a connection to the here and now.
A connection that feels so profound I do not know why everyone isn't drinking my Kool Aid! The further I go in my research the more I can see a connection between science and faith.
I am far from the first one to see such a connection. Nor am I ready to genuflect to the skies.
A monk some 400 years ago deeply loved God. His name was Giordano Bruno. He was burned at the stake. Not a pleasant or fast way to die, much less humane.
His crime? He believed Earth was not the center of the Universe. His love of science only resolved further his love of God. They were not separate. Unless you happened to live in a time where the Catholic Church believed they were the center of the universe. A side note: It took until 1992 to admit that even Copernicus was correct, however Bruno is still listed as a heretic.
Yes, yes I digress. It is something that so excites me I want to share it. And I do not have to share the facts, or what some might find mundane.
I can share all this with a smile. With an act of kindness, with a wave hello, or a hug.
Maybe in my next blog I will talk about how trees and plants communicate with each other and how we share our DNA.
For now, I will remain (as I was recently deemed) Your beautiful Buddhist Nerd
This has been a particularly unusual summer for me. I did not walk any train tracks with my friends resulting in finding a dead body and thus the meaning of friendships.
I did not go to the beach and let my feet get sucked further in the sand, resulting in undertow fascination.
I did not step on to a plane, train, or even used my barely running car. I have not even walked barefoot in the yard, or had a debate on humidity.
For some reason people love to claim they have the most humidity. (Unless you live in New Orleans you are best to keep quiet on the subject of frizzy hair).
My kayak dry docked, fat bathing suit has yet see water.
So what have I been doing all summer?
My head has been swimming with ideas, creations, and research.
Asking questions I never asked before. So many questions I feel like a four year old asking "why?" about everything!
The start of the summer was Mathematics. What a beautiful a language and I can only grasp an infinitesimal part of it.
I can tell you that now when I look at my cat half curled , feet sticking out I see an imaginary Fibonacci Sequence drawn around him.
After some period of time, math lead me to Astro Physics. Seems like a logical jump.
Each day I am learning something new and different and mesmerizing. Everything is so amazing I am itching to bore my friends about it all at a dinner party (A dinner party I would a) Not be invited to, and b) Not attend, hermit that I am).
As I have previously written about, I have also been meditating.
I began to meditate to feel connected with the earth and my fellow earthlings. I meditate to clear my mind, or take a mental vacation. Each time is different.
I had yet to feel connected to anything but my nostrils until I had a rather profound self discovery.
Meditation is repetition of sound, thought, or breath to get to a place where you can see your thoughts, love them and let them go, or sit with the painful ones, as I have said before.
My meditation has changed. I close my eyes and immediately I am engulfed in the Universe. Galaxies, dark matter, neutrinos, antineutrinos, the icy rings of Saturn, black holes, white holes, string theory, and the list goes on.
I am in a parediolia state. I see things that are there, and are not there at the same time.
It is a place that is both full of light and stygian at the same time.
The more we learn, the more we are able to say we do not know for sure.
It is within this vast space (literally) that I am able to feel connected to my fellow beings. I feel at one with all of it, with the questions, with the trees, with the feel of earth, and the unknowing and brutal space above.
I do not call it the heavens, because trust me if you had any idea what goes on beyond our white puffy clouds, it is anything but heavenly and serene. It is bombastic and brutal, and always changing.
That is the good stuff. The stuff I feel at one with.
Glimpsing the universe or multiverse, how can I not take a moment to smile at the clerk working hard and wish them a great day.
To the other hermits that I connect with, how can I not sit and listen to what interests them?
My summer has been spent asking the big and little questions.
Why are we here?
Where do we come from?
My mother used to say I was planned. I do not believe her. All evidence points to she may have wanted another baby, but my father did not.
As to why are we here? Why not?
The puffy clouds part and the sun shines through making our skin warm, and people smile. The song "Let the sun shine in..." is much more poetic than, "Let the conduction, radiation and convection shine in."
This summer I have remained a hermit, mainly out of lack of finances.
But I did find a way to travel. Through space, through thought, and more thought, and back again.
All to connect with myself.
And you.
For so very long I have looked down, or at least at eye level. Water has always been my baptismal font into humanity. It may remain that way, but I have discovered another way. I had to look up and beyond anything my eyes could see to feel a connection to the here and now.
A connection that feels so profound I do not know why everyone isn't drinking my Kool Aid! The further I go in my research the more I can see a connection between science and faith.
I am far from the first one to see such a connection. Nor am I ready to genuflect to the skies.
A monk some 400 years ago deeply loved God. His name was Giordano Bruno. He was burned at the stake. Not a pleasant or fast way to die, much less humane.
His crime? He believed Earth was not the center of the Universe. His love of science only resolved further his love of God. They were not separate. Unless you happened to live in a time where the Catholic Church believed they were the center of the universe. A side note: It took until 1992 to admit that even Copernicus was correct, however Bruno is still listed as a heretic.
Yes, yes I digress. It is something that so excites me I want to share it. And I do not have to share the facts, or what some might find mundane.
I can share all this with a smile. With an act of kindness, with a wave hello, or a hug.
Maybe in my next blog I will talk about how trees and plants communicate with each other and how we share our DNA.
For now, I will remain (as I was recently deemed) Your beautiful Buddhist Nerd
This has been a particularly unusual summer for me. I did not walk any train tracks with my friends resulting in finding a dead body and thus the meaning of friendships.
I did not go to the beach and let my feet get sucked further in the sand, resulting in undertow fascination.
I did not step on to a plane, train, or even used my barely running car. I have not even walked barefoot in the yard, or had a debate on humidity.
For some reason people love to claim they have the most humidity. (Unless you live in New Orleans you are best to keep quiet on the subject of frizzy hair).
My kayak dry docked, fat bathing suit has yet see water.
So what have I been doing all summer?
My head has been swimming with ideas, creations, and research.
Asking questions I never asked before. So many questions I feel like a four year old asking "why?" about everything!
The start of the summer was Mathematics. What a beautiful a language and I can only grasp an infinitesimal part of it.
I can tell you that now when I look at my cat half curled , feet sticking out I see an imaginary Fibonacci Sequence drawn around him.
After some period of time, math lead me to Astro Physics. Seems like a logical jump.
Each day I am learning something new and different and mesmerizing. Everything is so amazing I am itching to bore my friends about it all at a dinner party (A dinner party I would a) Not be invited to, and b) Not attend, hermit that I am).
As I have previously written about, I have also been meditating.
I began to meditate to feel connected with the earth and my fellow earthlings. I meditate to clear my mind, or take a mental vacation. Each time is different.
I had yet to feel connected to anything but my nostrils until I had a rather profound self discovery.
Meditation is repetition of sound, thought, or breath to get to a place where you can see your thoughts, love them and let them go, or sit with the painful ones, as I have said before.
My meditation has changed. I close my eyes and immediately I am engulfed in the Universe. Galaxies, dark matter, neutrinos, antineutrinos, the icy rings of Saturn, black holes, white holes, string theory, and the list goes on.
I am in a parediolia state. I see things that are there, and are not there at the same time.
It is a place that is both full of light and stygian at the same time.
The more we learn, the more we are able to say we do not know for sure.
It is within this vast space (literally) that I am able to feel connected to my fellow beings. I feel at one with all of it, with the questions, with the trees, with the feel of earth, and the unknowing and brutal space above.
I do not call it the heavens, because trust me if you had any idea what goes on beyond our white puffy clouds, it is anything but heavenly and serene. It is bombastic and brutal, and always changing.
That is the good stuff. The stuff I feel at one with.
Glimpsing the universe or multiverse, how can I not take a moment to smile at the clerk working hard and wish them a great day.
To the other hermits that I connect with, how can I not sit and listen to what interests them?
My summer has been spent asking the big and little questions.
Why are we here?
Where do we come from?
My mother used to say I was planned. I do not believe her. All evidence points to she may have wanted another baby, but my father did not.
As to why are we here? Why not?
The puffy clouds part and the sun shines through making our skin warm, and people smile. The song "Let the sun shine in..." is much more poetic than, "Let the conduction, radiation and convection shine in."
This summer I have remained a hermit, mainly out of lack of finances.
But I did find a way to travel. Through space, through thought, and more thought, and back again.
All to connect with myself.
And you.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Did I Do Something Stupid?
The other day I accidentally burned a small hole in the blanket on our bed. It is not an expensive blanket, or even the one usually kept on our bed.
I will interject here to say please hold off on your advice to me to quit smoking. And stop smoking in the house, and especially stop smoking in the house and on my bed. I know it all.
Back to the tiny hole.
I tried to arrange the blanket so the hole was hidden, at the foot of the bed. No go. It is too centered due to my bed-making skills of turning down the blanket and the top sheet together. That adds length which makes the hole fairly well centered.
I was watching TV and my eyes kept going to that hole. It was taunting me so much I had to go find my small and very unimpressive sewing kit. I searched every place I could think of and the sewing kit would not reveal itself.
I went back to watching TV.
The hole kept screaming at me.
I stomped out of bed and realized the sewing kit was in my office. I victoriously stomped back to my room, sat by the hole and opened my kit.
No needles. Not one. Not even the ones I keep for my sewing machine.
I put the sewing kit on my dresser and moved the papers on my bed over the hole.
While watching TV, I imagined the hole and what it would look like when I finally did find a freaking needle.
It will still be there. A flaw. A noticeable one. A tiny little closed up hole. A small void stitched together.
It wont be perfect. It will never be perfect again. No matter how many ways I make the bed I will notice it. This flaw.
I had the thought that we were born flawless in a zipped up plastic bag from Target and then slowly we get little flaws that happen along the way. A scar from a skinned knee, or a surgery. Invisible scars carved on our insides from life's pains and pleasures.
Proof positive that nothing is perfect.
we all still try to be perfect.
I meditate, I cleanse crystals in salt water under a full moon, I go to therapy. I am flawed.
My life is full of tiny little sewn up patches. Everyone has them. We just do not always see them.
Sometimes we are compelled to draw attention to our patches.
The house is not clean, and we quickly apologize to our friend who rang the doorbell.
"Sorry, my house is a mess"
You begin to look around and notice the mess when at first all you saw was your friend.
If you have a good enough friend they reply, "Please, I don't give a shit. Let's have coffee." and you step over whatever unmentionable was previously mentioned.
I have a quilt that my grandmother made me. I do not use it anymore. It is safely tucked away inside a plastic zippered bag that another blanket arrived in.
The quilt is beautiful, and old now, and has a few small holes and tears in it. It is loved and it is fragile. Too fragile I have decided. So it is only brought out as a last resort blanket. I am always happy to see it and always look for the corner where my grandmother embroidered her name and the date.
Some day we will all be too fragile. We will all be fraying at the ends, and so stitched together we could be in a Tim Burton movie. Now we are not.
Now we patch up.
And if we do not have the tools to immediately patch up, well, currently my dog is doing a fine job of covering the offensive hole.
That is good enough for me.
I will interject here to say please hold off on your advice to me to quit smoking. And stop smoking in the house, and especially stop smoking in the house and on my bed. I know it all.
Back to the tiny hole.
I tried to arrange the blanket so the hole was hidden, at the foot of the bed. No go. It is too centered due to my bed-making skills of turning down the blanket and the top sheet together. That adds length which makes the hole fairly well centered.
I was watching TV and my eyes kept going to that hole. It was taunting me so much I had to go find my small and very unimpressive sewing kit. I searched every place I could think of and the sewing kit would not reveal itself.
I went back to watching TV.
The hole kept screaming at me.
I stomped out of bed and realized the sewing kit was in my office. I victoriously stomped back to my room, sat by the hole and opened my kit.
No needles. Not one. Not even the ones I keep for my sewing machine.
I put the sewing kit on my dresser and moved the papers on my bed over the hole.
While watching TV, I imagined the hole and what it would look like when I finally did find a freaking needle.
It will still be there. A flaw. A noticeable one. A tiny little closed up hole. A small void stitched together.
It wont be perfect. It will never be perfect again. No matter how many ways I make the bed I will notice it. This flaw.
I had the thought that we were born flawless in a zipped up plastic bag from Target and then slowly we get little flaws that happen along the way. A scar from a skinned knee, or a surgery. Invisible scars carved on our insides from life's pains and pleasures.
Proof positive that nothing is perfect.
we all still try to be perfect.
I meditate, I cleanse crystals in salt water under a full moon, I go to therapy. I am flawed.
My life is full of tiny little sewn up patches. Everyone has them. We just do not always see them.
Sometimes we are compelled to draw attention to our patches.
The house is not clean, and we quickly apologize to our friend who rang the doorbell.
"Sorry, my house is a mess"
You begin to look around and notice the mess when at first all you saw was your friend.
If you have a good enough friend they reply, "Please, I don't give a shit. Let's have coffee." and you step over whatever unmentionable was previously mentioned.
I have a quilt that my grandmother made me. I do not use it anymore. It is safely tucked away inside a plastic zippered bag that another blanket arrived in.
The quilt is beautiful, and old now, and has a few small holes and tears in it. It is loved and it is fragile. Too fragile I have decided. So it is only brought out as a last resort blanket. I am always happy to see it and always look for the corner where my grandmother embroidered her name and the date.
Some day we will all be too fragile. We will all be fraying at the ends, and so stitched together we could be in a Tim Burton movie. Now we are not.
Now we patch up.
And if we do not have the tools to immediately patch up, well, currently my dog is doing a fine job of covering the offensive hole.
That is good enough for me.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
May I Offer You a Cup of Chaos?
Something interesting came up in therapy. Yes, I go to therapy, get over it. If you still hold a stigma against therapy then I suggest you go immediately.
As I said, something came up in therapy, I was talking a bit about my partner and I. I noted that I do not mind chaos. Chaos is easy. With chaos you can pick one thing out of the eye of a chaotic storm and deal with it.
In the mathematical way they can not even truly define chaos to make it chaotic. Yes if you google it you will see an animated double pendulum. watching it is hypnotic, but by using two perfect starts (the pendulum), they are already not making it chaotic. Thee chaos theory claims each time it starts you will always get a different response. Yet we know that not to be true, or else why would people waste money on lottery tickets. eventually the same result will occur.
When I was a teenager my room was always a mess, there was a certain chaos to it, yet I was always able to find what I needed. So there was no real chaos to it.
In that house of my formative years, there was a chaos of people. Any time day or night you could find someone to talk to. Or two or three people that did not even live in the house sitting together talking. This was not odd to me. I would say hello, or not, and go about whatever I was doing.
Just chaotic people floating around in a chaotic house.
Permit me if you will, (Ive always wanted to use that line!) to say there is no chaos.
Oh yes, I said it. Now I will scream it so you really grasp the blasphemy of mathematics.
THERE IS NO CHAOS!
Wow, that felt good!
The man who invented Chaos Theory even blew his own theory by giving it a nickname.
The Butterfly Effect.
One small action can cause much larger actions (or reactions) down the road.
Doesn't sound chaotic to me at all. Sounds logical.
I woke up thinking about my house. At the moment it is chaotic, I am the only one here, but it is chaotic. Books need to be put away, cat puke picked up, a serious mop job, laundry and on and on and on.
While thinking about my house in its chaotic state I came to the understanding that I know nothing.
Sit with me on this for a moment. I know nothing.
I do not know how to mop, even if I mop every day. I do not know how to raise children, yet I raised five, I do not know what I want to be when I grow up, and I am 48.
This thought first startled me. I mean whoa! I know nothing? My brain began to try and immediately dispel the "I Know Nothing Theory".
Brain: You know how to type
Me: I was taught yes and my fingers move deftly across they keyboard, yet I still cheat and look down once in a while.
Brain: You know how to make coffee.
Me: Laughing, yeah, ask Mer about that one!
Brain: You know how to drive a car
Me; Most of the time I do not recall even driving, so who is driving the car then?
Brain: You know how to love.
Me; No, I know that I DO love, I also hurt the people I love, my love is full of defect limitations even I am unaware of it at the time I am making them.
On it went, as I got out of bed and yes did make coffee, and yes remembered at the last second to put the lid on the machine.
Love and communication and being human is full of flaws and chaos. A perfect form of chaos that can be cleaned up, swept up, made up, put together.
I can take an example of my current chaos and trace it back to the very moment it began. It may have been weeks, or years ago. I can trace it.
Knowing there is no true chaos, knowing a small action I made at some random point helped to shape who I am now, means I know nothing.
I know, I know, you are currently screaming inside all the things you do know. About your job, your life, making pancakes. Is any of it perfect? If it is not perfect, than you know nothing.
Please do not strive for perfection. It is unattainable. Or at least I think so, I do no know so.
I have been working on loving myself, and others without conditions. I am learning how to love without expecting it in return. I am learning how to forgive myself, and keep on loving the people I have hurt, myself included.
These are all learning practices.
To practice, not to master or know fully.
Waking up to realize I know nothing, wast amazing!
Think of all the things there are yet to discover but never really know!
Try today to realize you know nothing.
Look at one small action you do, and really see it, be there with that action. What does your hand feel when you brush your daughter's hair?
What is your mind thinking when you fill your cup of coffee? Can you hear it splash?
What is getting dressed like? Are you in a hurry? Too much of a hurry to take a tiny moment to appreciate the material on your skin?
I think of a day where I have to do mundane things, looking at all of it as a moment in time that wont repeat itself exactly.
There are no small actions.
I will mop, but I will never exactly repeat the action, even if I do it every day. There will always be a bit of chaos in it. How remarkable that we humans get to do these tasks and see them as different and chaotic every single time we repeat them?
How cool is it that we are the ones that know nothing of ourselves or our world that we created?
What an amazing chance to see the world around us. There is no task too small for us not to take notice of it, feel it, think about it, and even appreciate it!
Try it! Do not take my word for it.
I know nothing, and that is awesome!
As I said, something came up in therapy, I was talking a bit about my partner and I. I noted that I do not mind chaos. Chaos is easy. With chaos you can pick one thing out of the eye of a chaotic storm and deal with it.
In the mathematical way they can not even truly define chaos to make it chaotic. Yes if you google it you will see an animated double pendulum. watching it is hypnotic, but by using two perfect starts (the pendulum), they are already not making it chaotic. Thee chaos theory claims each time it starts you will always get a different response. Yet we know that not to be true, or else why would people waste money on lottery tickets. eventually the same result will occur.
When I was a teenager my room was always a mess, there was a certain chaos to it, yet I was always able to find what I needed. So there was no real chaos to it.
In that house of my formative years, there was a chaos of people. Any time day or night you could find someone to talk to. Or two or three people that did not even live in the house sitting together talking. This was not odd to me. I would say hello, or not, and go about whatever I was doing.
Just chaotic people floating around in a chaotic house.
Permit me if you will, (Ive always wanted to use that line!) to say there is no chaos.
Oh yes, I said it. Now I will scream it so you really grasp the blasphemy of mathematics.
THERE IS NO CHAOS!
Wow, that felt good!
The man who invented Chaos Theory even blew his own theory by giving it a nickname.
The Butterfly Effect.
One small action can cause much larger actions (or reactions) down the road.
Doesn't sound chaotic to me at all. Sounds logical.
I woke up thinking about my house. At the moment it is chaotic, I am the only one here, but it is chaotic. Books need to be put away, cat puke picked up, a serious mop job, laundry and on and on and on.
While thinking about my house in its chaotic state I came to the understanding that I know nothing.
Sit with me on this for a moment. I know nothing.
I do not know how to mop, even if I mop every day. I do not know how to raise children, yet I raised five, I do not know what I want to be when I grow up, and I am 48.
This thought first startled me. I mean whoa! I know nothing? My brain began to try and immediately dispel the "I Know Nothing Theory".
Brain: You know how to type
Me: I was taught yes and my fingers move deftly across they keyboard, yet I still cheat and look down once in a while.
Brain: You know how to make coffee.
Me: Laughing, yeah, ask Mer about that one!
Brain: You know how to drive a car
Me; Most of the time I do not recall even driving, so who is driving the car then?
Brain: You know how to love.
Me; No, I know that I DO love, I also hurt the people I love, my love is full of defect limitations even I am unaware of it at the time I am making them.
On it went, as I got out of bed and yes did make coffee, and yes remembered at the last second to put the lid on the machine.
Love and communication and being human is full of flaws and chaos. A perfect form of chaos that can be cleaned up, swept up, made up, put together.
I can take an example of my current chaos and trace it back to the very moment it began. It may have been weeks, or years ago. I can trace it.
Knowing there is no true chaos, knowing a small action I made at some random point helped to shape who I am now, means I know nothing.
I know, I know, you are currently screaming inside all the things you do know. About your job, your life, making pancakes. Is any of it perfect? If it is not perfect, than you know nothing.
Please do not strive for perfection. It is unattainable. Or at least I think so, I do no know so.
I have been working on loving myself, and others without conditions. I am learning how to love without expecting it in return. I am learning how to forgive myself, and keep on loving the people I have hurt, myself included.
These are all learning practices.
To practice, not to master or know fully.
Waking up to realize I know nothing, wast amazing!
Think of all the things there are yet to discover but never really know!
Try today to realize you know nothing.
Look at one small action you do, and really see it, be there with that action. What does your hand feel when you brush your daughter's hair?
What is your mind thinking when you fill your cup of coffee? Can you hear it splash?
What is getting dressed like? Are you in a hurry? Too much of a hurry to take a tiny moment to appreciate the material on your skin?
I think of a day where I have to do mundane things, looking at all of it as a moment in time that wont repeat itself exactly.
There are no small actions.
I will mop, but I will never exactly repeat the action, even if I do it every day. There will always be a bit of chaos in it. How remarkable that we humans get to do these tasks and see them as different and chaotic every single time we repeat them?
How cool is it that we are the ones that know nothing of ourselves or our world that we created?
What an amazing chance to see the world around us. There is no task too small for us not to take notice of it, feel it, think about it, and even appreciate it!
Try it! Do not take my word for it.
I know nothing, and that is awesome!
Saturday, July 23, 2016
As Time Goes By
A long long time ago (532 million years or so) there was an "explosion". This explosion has come to be known as the Cambrian Explosion. It is where scientist mostly agree life form that led to us began.
Wow. Heavy shit right there. But break it down a little and you will see that the explosion took about 10 million years. That is one slow explosion.
Even slower still was the time that took place until this very moment when I am writing these words.
We had to change grow, change, grow some more, add some wisdom teeth (that are now becoming extinct, and not by extraction alone. More and more people are being born without them, they are no longer necessary.) Cool right?
No more videos on YouTube of post-wisdom-teeth-removal people on drugs claiming to be Mylie Cyrus. That speaks of evolution right there.
This "explosion" is much like the Big Bang that (obviously) occurred before it. Without that, there would have been no Ediacarans, and without our Great Uncle Ed (x532 million) there would be no us.
Okay, so the Earth and universe changes. It has to keep up with the times, and we with it. So we go from the ooze to the stars to look for answers.
The problem is, that star you wished on as a chid probably did not exist anymore. It is a dead star. Not to be confused with a Death Star (which I literally know nothing about!).
So in all innocence you looked up and wished on nothing. even if we can see the light, it is just a trick. We are looking into the far far past.
So where does that leave us?
In the present. I am deeply grateful that people are dedicating their lives to trying to figure out what "It all means". By land or by sea, or by stars that do not actually twinkle.
The twinkle in your eye is more real than the twinkle of a star (due to the distance and the earth's atmosphere and our perception.)
Again, I ask, "Where does that leave us?"
It leaves us not alone is the best answer I can come up with. I am not talking about aliens, or God here. You can talk amongst yourselves on that matter.
We are left here, surrounded by other people. We make tribes, families, friends. We find our tribe mates in gas stations, Universities, online.
We are humans that gravitate to each other for comfort, love, affirmation of our existence.
Out of that some of us create little humans. Born, chosen, in a dish, from a foreign country.
Or we choose not to have little humans. We still have our tribes that support us on our endeavors whatever they may be.
I have a friend who is determined to sing karaoke in every single state. That is just as lofty a goal as a monk who endeavors to find the place where sin does not exist and God resides in him.
Some days my goal is to get out of bed.
We are not done evolving. We are basic humans. We make mistakes. Some call our mistakes karma, some call it sin. We turn to our books, our computers, and eventually each other for help.
Mapquest will only take you so far, and half of the instructions are just to get out of the neighborhood you already know!
A long time ago I had a philosophy teacher in high School. One day he drew a long line on the chalk board like this:
_________________________________________________________________________________
He then said the start of that line is the beginning of the World and the end of the line is the end of the world.
Okay. Cool. That doesn't seem to hard to grasp.
The he took his chalk and said "I will now show you YOUR lifespan. He did the following:
_________________________________.________________________________________________
Can you see it? A spec. Even smaller than that really but I am limited by the keystrokes I am offered.
Whoa.
I better get going and do something! I am a speck. I need to gather more specks and make something of this.
But there are bills to pay, relationships to create, break, or fix. There are ideas that float around in my head that need to be written down.
"A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead really. They're just backing away from life."- Harold and Maude
I am guilty of this sin, or karmic avoidance.
I died a long time ago. I had a wonderful tribe that I put together, and then I exploded it. Now I am alive again and I have much to do, to say, to think, to observe, to mend.
My tribe contracts and expands continually.
So if I am a speck and there are other people out there worrying about where we came from and where we are going, I am free to concentrate on my tribe. My family, friends, and others who wander in and out of my sphere.
Is there any calling higher than taking care of the ones you love and allowing them to take care of you?
For some that answer is yes. Not for me. For me I choose to use my speck of time pondering people, helping where I can, making mistakes, fixing them or not.
I am deeply grateful for an explosion that took 10 million years in the making.
That time has given me the chance to be gathered up in a tribe that includes writers, lawyers, journalists, artists, lovers of art, cat people, dog people, people who know what a Death Star is, professors, teachers, musicians, hula hoopers, dancers, beer makers, people of faith, athiests, builders, readers, social workers, historians, smokers, drinkers, thinkers, actors, singers, farmers, and more.
530 million years ago we all began to come together and connect.
How cool is that?
Something happened that gave me a tribe, gave me the possibility to make contact. With anyone.
With you.
Wow. Heavy shit right there. But break it down a little and you will see that the explosion took about 10 million years. That is one slow explosion.
Even slower still was the time that took place until this very moment when I am writing these words.
We had to change grow, change, grow some more, add some wisdom teeth (that are now becoming extinct, and not by extraction alone. More and more people are being born without them, they are no longer necessary.) Cool right?
No more videos on YouTube of post-wisdom-teeth-removal people on drugs claiming to be Mylie Cyrus. That speaks of evolution right there.
This "explosion" is much like the Big Bang that (obviously) occurred before it. Without that, there would have been no Ediacarans, and without our Great Uncle Ed (x532 million) there would be no us.
Okay, so the Earth and universe changes. It has to keep up with the times, and we with it. So we go from the ooze to the stars to look for answers.
The problem is, that star you wished on as a chid probably did not exist anymore. It is a dead star. Not to be confused with a Death Star (which I literally know nothing about!).
So in all innocence you looked up and wished on nothing. even if we can see the light, it is just a trick. We are looking into the far far past.
So where does that leave us?
In the present. I am deeply grateful that people are dedicating their lives to trying to figure out what "It all means". By land or by sea, or by stars that do not actually twinkle.
The twinkle in your eye is more real than the twinkle of a star (due to the distance and the earth's atmosphere and our perception.)
Again, I ask, "Where does that leave us?"
It leaves us not alone is the best answer I can come up with. I am not talking about aliens, or God here. You can talk amongst yourselves on that matter.
We are left here, surrounded by other people. We make tribes, families, friends. We find our tribe mates in gas stations, Universities, online.
We are humans that gravitate to each other for comfort, love, affirmation of our existence.
Out of that some of us create little humans. Born, chosen, in a dish, from a foreign country.
Or we choose not to have little humans. We still have our tribes that support us on our endeavors whatever they may be.
I have a friend who is determined to sing karaoke in every single state. That is just as lofty a goal as a monk who endeavors to find the place where sin does not exist and God resides in him.
Some days my goal is to get out of bed.
We are not done evolving. We are basic humans. We make mistakes. Some call our mistakes karma, some call it sin. We turn to our books, our computers, and eventually each other for help.
Mapquest will only take you so far, and half of the instructions are just to get out of the neighborhood you already know!
A long time ago I had a philosophy teacher in high School. One day he drew a long line on the chalk board like this:
_________________________________________________________________________________
He then said the start of that line is the beginning of the World and the end of the line is the end of the world.
Okay. Cool. That doesn't seem to hard to grasp.
The he took his chalk and said "I will now show you YOUR lifespan. He did the following:
_________________________________.________________________________________________
Can you see it? A spec. Even smaller than that really but I am limited by the keystrokes I am offered.
Whoa.
I better get going and do something! I am a speck. I need to gather more specks and make something of this.
But there are bills to pay, relationships to create, break, or fix. There are ideas that float around in my head that need to be written down.
"A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead really. They're just backing away from life."- Harold and Maude
I am guilty of this sin, or karmic avoidance.
I died a long time ago. I had a wonderful tribe that I put together, and then I exploded it. Now I am alive again and I have much to do, to say, to think, to observe, to mend.
My tribe contracts and expands continually.
So if I am a speck and there are other people out there worrying about where we came from and where we are going, I am free to concentrate on my tribe. My family, friends, and others who wander in and out of my sphere.
Is there any calling higher than taking care of the ones you love and allowing them to take care of you?
For some that answer is yes. Not for me. For me I choose to use my speck of time pondering people, helping where I can, making mistakes, fixing them or not.
I am deeply grateful for an explosion that took 10 million years in the making.
That time has given me the chance to be gathered up in a tribe that includes writers, lawyers, journalists, artists, lovers of art, cat people, dog people, people who know what a Death Star is, professors, teachers, musicians, hula hoopers, dancers, beer makers, people of faith, athiests, builders, readers, social workers, historians, smokers, drinkers, thinkers, actors, singers, farmers, and more.
530 million years ago we all began to come together and connect.
How cool is that?
Something happened that gave me a tribe, gave me the possibility to make contact. With anyone.
With you.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Is This the End, My Beautiful Friend?
I once got involved in an abusive relationship. At first mentally, and eventually it turned physical. I was able to escape it. Learn from it and move on.
One thing that was said to me while in that particular relationship was; I keep writing the same thing over and over and I should just stop.
I have never been able to let go of this sentence.
I spent some time looking over this accusation, to the degree that I could, as part of the abuse she was able to get rid of my previous blog. Poof. Gone into the cyber abyss.
From what I have been able to look over, I have to say, she may have been batshit crazy, but she was right.
I do write about the same things.
Am I just running on a treadmill? Always going forward never reaching any real destination?
I like to think I have gained some insight in me and my place in the world over the years. Everyday I do manage to learn something new.
Last night I learned I could play cats cradle with my Mala beads. Not sure that is what Buddha intended but it made me laugh. "Hey Buddha check this out, I can still do Jacob's ladder!"
That lead me to think who was Jacob and why is it his ladder?
I am also able to see how many people have read my blog. Not who, just how many. The highest number to date is 259. That was my Mom's Eulogy.
259 people curious to see what I had to say about my mother. 259 people that have not returned to see anything else.
Through my writing I live a very transparent life. I let whoever reads this see my joys and pains, failures, successes.
On average it is about 35 people.
Is that enough to even call myself a writer? Why am I even continuing to do this if, in fact, I do repeat themes?
The other common thread in how many readers I have is when I post about God, or religion in general.
Are more people as confused and searching as I am and are drawn to my ongoing investigations?
I have written about God, death, life, children, cellulite, family, and the occasional kitchen appliance.
To what end?
I think people today want to read about quick fixes and short answers. We want a direct connection without pushing buttons or talking to machines.
I can not give you that. I can give you my insight to my life, which is lived in literally small spaces, and endlessly in my head.
I can give you a few definite things that I have learned:
If you want to lose weight, eat less and move more. I have no idea how to tell you to get up and actually do it.
If you are in a bad relationship, leave it. No matter how hard it may be.
If you want your vegetables chopped, use a knife, or buy some new fangled thingamajig you saw on TV at 3am.
I can not tell you how to fix your relationship with your child, friend, lover, or spouse.
I can't even get my own dogs to poop outside.
Maybe I am not a writer. Maybe I am simply an observer.
Maybe I am just the updated female version of Hawkeye writing to his father. (I am going to assume my faithful 35 get that reference).
Maybe it is time to stop writing.
Maybe it is time to write more.
Maybe it is time to see what else I can create with my Mala beads.
One thing that was said to me while in that particular relationship was; I keep writing the same thing over and over and I should just stop.
I have never been able to let go of this sentence.
I spent some time looking over this accusation, to the degree that I could, as part of the abuse she was able to get rid of my previous blog. Poof. Gone into the cyber abyss.
From what I have been able to look over, I have to say, she may have been batshit crazy, but she was right.
I do write about the same things.
Am I just running on a treadmill? Always going forward never reaching any real destination?
I like to think I have gained some insight in me and my place in the world over the years. Everyday I do manage to learn something new.
Last night I learned I could play cats cradle with my Mala beads. Not sure that is what Buddha intended but it made me laugh. "Hey Buddha check this out, I can still do Jacob's ladder!"
That lead me to think who was Jacob and why is it his ladder?
I am also able to see how many people have read my blog. Not who, just how many. The highest number to date is 259. That was my Mom's Eulogy.
259 people curious to see what I had to say about my mother. 259 people that have not returned to see anything else.
Through my writing I live a very transparent life. I let whoever reads this see my joys and pains, failures, successes.
On average it is about 35 people.
Is that enough to even call myself a writer? Why am I even continuing to do this if, in fact, I do repeat themes?
The other common thread in how many readers I have is when I post about God, or religion in general.
Are more people as confused and searching as I am and are drawn to my ongoing investigations?
I have written about God, death, life, children, cellulite, family, and the occasional kitchen appliance.
To what end?
I think people today want to read about quick fixes and short answers. We want a direct connection without pushing buttons or talking to machines.
I can not give you that. I can give you my insight to my life, which is lived in literally small spaces, and endlessly in my head.
I can give you a few definite things that I have learned:
If you want to lose weight, eat less and move more. I have no idea how to tell you to get up and actually do it.
If you are in a bad relationship, leave it. No matter how hard it may be.
If you want your vegetables chopped, use a knife, or buy some new fangled thingamajig you saw on TV at 3am.
I can not tell you how to fix your relationship with your child, friend, lover, or spouse.
I can't even get my own dogs to poop outside.
Maybe I am not a writer. Maybe I am simply an observer.
Maybe I am just the updated female version of Hawkeye writing to his father. (I am going to assume my faithful 35 get that reference).
Maybe it is time to stop writing.
Maybe it is time to write more.
Maybe it is time to see what else I can create with my Mala beads.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Being Present is a Present
I notice the multitude of rosaries hanging on the side of my bed are covered in dust.
I take them off, untangled them, try to recall where each one came from and why it is special.
After laying them out I dust them off on the the tapestry we now use as a bed cover.
The prayer beads around my wrist kept getting in the way, reminding me to be present in my present, even if it feels annoying.
I recall that I need to bring in my crystals that have been soaking in salt water under a full moon that recharged them.
On my path to retrieve my crystals, I pass a crucifix on the wall.
Oy. This should be making my head hurt.
But it doesn't.
I look down at my hands to the ring on my thumb that has the words "Inhale" and "Exhale" engraved. I do as they say.
My eyes wander to my dresser. I look at the photo of my mother and I. A rosary, purchased from the place where she (and my father) are buried, drapes over the frame.
A small statue of an an angel sits in front of the picture.
The last gift she ever bought me.
My eyes drift further to another small statue; a Dia de Muertos figure riding a motorcycle adorned with shocking blond hair.
A gift to my love from her mother because it looks like my love. All things being equal she rests on my dresser.
A dish my mother used for soap in her bathroom now holds the recharged crystals, and a small carved turtle.
Meredith's paintbrushes stick out of a vase that is filled with sand and shells from Naples, Florida.
An even smaller replica of sand and shells sits in my bathroom, and one in the living room.
Reaching the end of my visual journey is a photograph of Meredith's Grandmother. A woman I will never meet. That fact does not prevent me from conjuring stories about her.
The more I learn of her, the more human she becomes, and my stories become just that. Fiction.
Fiction floats around my room and inside my head as I gaze at each object. A clock from the 1930's. How many people looked at it and realized they were late for some event? Does it chime or make any sound? Did women with long cigarette holders watch it on New Year's eve waiting to kiss someone?
In the 1970's was the clock lost to a box carefully taped and labelled "Dad's Stuff", only to reopened and treasured again 30 years later?
After putting my dust free rosaries back where they hang (unused), my eyes go back to the sand and paint brushes.
The sand makes me smile the smile of bittersweetness. I will never go back to that sand again. I will not throw all the kids in the car and make the 24 hour journey to spend days in that sand.
I will never walk the ramp of the airport to see my Mom waving with both hands as she always waved. Hello or goodbye, both hands were always waved, like a believer in a tent church revival who waves in opposite direction than the rest of the flock.
I am at peace with this.
I am surrounded by objects that scream their memories to me, some fiction, some fact. All come from the past.
All reminding me to live in the present.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I take them off, untangled them, try to recall where each one came from and why it is special.
After laying them out I dust them off on the the tapestry we now use as a bed cover.
The prayer beads around my wrist kept getting in the way, reminding me to be present in my present, even if it feels annoying.
I recall that I need to bring in my crystals that have been soaking in salt water under a full moon that recharged them.
On my path to retrieve my crystals, I pass a crucifix on the wall.
Oy. This should be making my head hurt.
But it doesn't.
I look down at my hands to the ring on my thumb that has the words "Inhale" and "Exhale" engraved. I do as they say.
My eyes wander to my dresser. I look at the photo of my mother and I. A rosary, purchased from the place where she (and my father) are buried, drapes over the frame.
A small statue of an an angel sits in front of the picture.
The last gift she ever bought me.
My eyes drift further to another small statue; a Dia de Muertos figure riding a motorcycle adorned with shocking blond hair.
A gift to my love from her mother because it looks like my love. All things being equal she rests on my dresser.
A dish my mother used for soap in her bathroom now holds the recharged crystals, and a small carved turtle.
Meredith's paintbrushes stick out of a vase that is filled with sand and shells from Naples, Florida.
An even smaller replica of sand and shells sits in my bathroom, and one in the living room.
Reaching the end of my visual journey is a photograph of Meredith's Grandmother. A woman I will never meet. That fact does not prevent me from conjuring stories about her.
The more I learn of her, the more human she becomes, and my stories become just that. Fiction.
Fiction floats around my room and inside my head as I gaze at each object. A clock from the 1930's. How many people looked at it and realized they were late for some event? Does it chime or make any sound? Did women with long cigarette holders watch it on New Year's eve waiting to kiss someone?
In the 1970's was the clock lost to a box carefully taped and labelled "Dad's Stuff", only to reopened and treasured again 30 years later?
After putting my dust free rosaries back where they hang (unused), my eyes go back to the sand and paint brushes.
The sand makes me smile the smile of bittersweetness. I will never go back to that sand again. I will not throw all the kids in the car and make the 24 hour journey to spend days in that sand.
I will never walk the ramp of the airport to see my Mom waving with both hands as she always waved. Hello or goodbye, both hands were always waved, like a believer in a tent church revival who waves in opposite direction than the rest of the flock.
I am at peace with this.
I am surrounded by objects that scream their memories to me, some fiction, some fact. All come from the past.
All reminding me to live in the present.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Rodney Was Right
I sit at home watching the news, watching the aftermath of five police officers that were killed in Dallas. Several more injured.
As I was watching my youngest child was attending a vigil for people who have been killed by police officers. Mostly black males.
There will be somber funerals for the police officers, flags draped over coffins carried. Bagpipes, salutation and tears.
For the Black community there will be (and have been) cries of injustice and outrage.
And vigils.
I was a young mother living in LA when a man was pulled from his car and brutally beaten. The man was black, the officers were white.
Again I watched the news of what was happening miles from my house. The helicopters flying overhead toward a blockade to keep the rioting contained. Not stopped, but contained.
On the second day of the riots my friend came over and we went to the beach. Never once seeing the absurdity of the smoke of violence in the air as we safely played in the water. I am white, I was not in danger.
Racism did not seem like an issue that impacted me. My naiveté protected me.
I had on few occasions encountered racist remarks when I was dating a handsome black man. It took years and brutality to make me see color. Prior to the riots I was colorblind.
What I did see was lie after lie of reporting. My personal outrage was directed at the media, and at the guards who were placed around Beverly Hills and my neighborhood, where absolutely nothing was happening. No fires, no looting, no rage.
The fires kept burning, and the police stood by in their riot gear and watched.
I wrote a letter to my child, my 8 month old baby telling her about the riots. Someday she would read that letter.
I had no idea she would read it 25 years later on a night when two more black men were shot by police and 7 policemen were shot in Dallas.
My daughter told me she read the letter and in it I expressed to her that I had hoped by the time she saw my words that the world would be different.
Would be better.
It isn't better. Hatred continues and lines have been drawn, and riots still happen. They are no longer confined to one area in California.
They are in Chicago, Baltimore, Dallas.
People are angry. Anger towards the police, anger from the police.
"People, I just want to say, you know, can we all get along? Can we get along? Can we stop making it, making it horrible for the older people and the kids? … It’s just not right. It’s not right. It’s not, it’s not going to change anything. We’ll, we’ll get our justice … Please, we can get along here. We all can get along. I mean, we’re all stuck here for a while. Let’s try to work it out. Let’s try to beat it. Let’s try to beat it. Let’s try to work it out." ~ Rodney King
These words spoken may not be as eloquent as "I have a dream.." They are simple words spoken with pleading and passion, and a true sense of asking "Why?"
I have a friend who lives in Dallas, and even though I knew in my heart he was safe, I called just to make sure he did not suddenly abandon his reclusive ways and take a stroll into gunfire. we spoke at length about the racial issues and tensions that exist today. He has hopes that the upcoming generation will see things change and the world will be more colorblind.
I see the country as being in labor, experiencing all the pains that start and stop while in the birth process.
I hope that when the birth occurs we are not colorblind. I hope we are able to see and celebrate the differences.
Without fear, judgement, anger, apathy, or ignorance.
That is a lofty goal as an outcome for this country.
We are in labor. We have the chance now to give birth to something greater than ourselves, to stop and think.
To educate.
But what do I know?
I am just a white girl who grew up in a guarded wealthy white town that feared changed.
But if I could manage to escape those confines, and agree with Mr. King, why can't we all?
Why can't we all just get along?
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Did I Lose My Head With John the Baptist?
I love my "personal space". Mine is not even that big, maybe a buffer of about a foot. I have been known to create a wall on my bed with my laptop, purse, and a pillow to create my own Tara, my own plot of the sheets that I swear are all mine!
Usually the wall breaks down by the paws of one gigantic orange kitty. Or I take the wall down once my love is in bed with me.
There are times in life when we have no choice about our personal space. One of them is flying.
Smaller seats. Narrow aisle. Which arm rest belongs to who?
(If you are a first class flyer please stick with me on this, I promise it is not a rant about bad airline food.)
Whenever I fly I prepare myself with a space protecting armor. I try to get a window seat, if that fails, I go for the aisle.
I prepare to sleep the entire flight, if that fails I download a movie and bring headphones.
On a recent flight I made it down the aisle to my seat. Not the window. My other two rowmates were already seated and buckled.
Once I was situated the strangest thing happened. The man next to me turned to me and introduced himself, hand held out to shake and everything.
Who does that?
I knew immediately that any personal space was not going to happen on this fight.
He told me his name; John. Cheerfully he added "I am a Pastor".
Oy.
This particular flight was taking me to my aunt's funeral. Not a traditional kind of funeral, my family rarely does that. A celebration of her life. I did not make up my mind to go until that morning. I was fearing it would be too emotional for me. At last minute I decided to take the chance and go.
My mind was already coming up with bible verses to use in defense of my life as John and I began to talk. I was unapologetic when I told him I am very happily in love with a woman.
I waited for Leviticus to be tossed my way. Instead John just smiled and said nothing.
As we talked I found myself opening up to him, telling him about my life, my struggles. I was rather shocked. I talked about myself more freely with Pastor John, than I have been able to with my therapist, and I pay him!
I am interested in religions. As a whole I believe they all pretty much suck. But I remain interested. Yes I talk to the Mormons when they come knocking (naturally singing songs from the Broadway show in my head the entire time).
I have a sweet lady who drops off the Watchtower for me to read every week. I will never be a Witness, but I like to read about it.
I was once very good friends with a Catholic priest. I even wrote a homily for him.
John the Pastor, turned out to be Baptist.
I was sitting next to John the Baptist at 39,000 feet.
I did wonder why he chose me to chat with and not the person on his other side. I looked over and she had claimed her personal space and was sleeping with headphones.
I waited for the question. I knew it was coming and when asked I gave my usual reply. Once I have fine tuned over the years that usually placates the person asking.
"What do you believe in Amy?"
"I believe in love and energy."
It is an honest answer.
At some point I told him something I do not usually share with people. I am haunted by the number 3:16. I have started to collect photos of whenever I see it. The mileage in my car when I happened to glance at it. 316 miles. The time on my phone. Even the moment my daughter walked across the stage graduating from college, it was exactly 3:16.
It has become a little secret joke. As if Jesus himself were taking the time away from his busy schedule to send me little hints that I might need something in my life, something higher, dare I say, I might need God?
John the Baptist told me how he was not supposed to be on that flight, he had taken a trip that was planned for him and not by him. How he talked with his wife about not going, but at last minute decided to go. He naturally turned to God and told Him "I don't know why you are sending me, but I am in your hands."
I have prayed with strangers in public before when they have asked. Mainly because I am polite and I respect other people's beliefs and well meaning efforts.
John asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus into my heart.
To my own shock I said yes.
We prayed.
I cried.
I have no idea why I cried. Was it because this stranger took the time to actually listen to me? Was it because I had reached my limit of emotional overload and it had to come out? Was it because I was lacking sleep?
I made a joke about him not asking for water when the attendants came around because I did not want to be Baptized by Ozarka.
John showed me the verse following 3:16 and said, "I bet you stop seeing that now."
Maybe.
The descent began and we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch.
I am not sure if I lost my head, or he, like his namesake had, but I knew if nothing else I made a friend.
The weekend had some rough spots for me, but I used those times to escape to my room for a few minutes.
John sent me a few text messages that he was praying for me.
I was surrounded by my family who all expressed their love for me. I made a new family member, part of our tribe. I laughed. I cried only once. I was able to give a small respectful speech that I do not call a eulogy.
I looked around and realized how lucky I am. How precious is life and love and I felt good. Deeply warm.
My last night there I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the clock.
It was 3:17. I smiled and fell back into a dreamless sleep.
(Feel free to look up John 3:16 and 3:17, also Pastor John Klink at solidrockibc.org)
Usually the wall breaks down by the paws of one gigantic orange kitty. Or I take the wall down once my love is in bed with me.
There are times in life when we have no choice about our personal space. One of them is flying.
Smaller seats. Narrow aisle. Which arm rest belongs to who?
(If you are a first class flyer please stick with me on this, I promise it is not a rant about bad airline food.)
Whenever I fly I prepare myself with a space protecting armor. I try to get a window seat, if that fails, I go for the aisle.
I prepare to sleep the entire flight, if that fails I download a movie and bring headphones.
On a recent flight I made it down the aisle to my seat. Not the window. My other two rowmates were already seated and buckled.
Once I was situated the strangest thing happened. The man next to me turned to me and introduced himself, hand held out to shake and everything.
Who does that?
I knew immediately that any personal space was not going to happen on this fight.
He told me his name; John. Cheerfully he added "I am a Pastor".
Oy.
This particular flight was taking me to my aunt's funeral. Not a traditional kind of funeral, my family rarely does that. A celebration of her life. I did not make up my mind to go until that morning. I was fearing it would be too emotional for me. At last minute I decided to take the chance and go.
My mind was already coming up with bible verses to use in defense of my life as John and I began to talk. I was unapologetic when I told him I am very happily in love with a woman.
I waited for Leviticus to be tossed my way. Instead John just smiled and said nothing.
As we talked I found myself opening up to him, telling him about my life, my struggles. I was rather shocked. I talked about myself more freely with Pastor John, than I have been able to with my therapist, and I pay him!
I am interested in religions. As a whole I believe they all pretty much suck. But I remain interested. Yes I talk to the Mormons when they come knocking (naturally singing songs from the Broadway show in my head the entire time).
I have a sweet lady who drops off the Watchtower for me to read every week. I will never be a Witness, but I like to read about it.
I was once very good friends with a Catholic priest. I even wrote a homily for him.
John the Pastor, turned out to be Baptist.
I was sitting next to John the Baptist at 39,000 feet.
I did wonder why he chose me to chat with and not the person on his other side. I looked over and she had claimed her personal space and was sleeping with headphones.
I waited for the question. I knew it was coming and when asked I gave my usual reply. Once I have fine tuned over the years that usually placates the person asking.
"What do you believe in Amy?"
"I believe in love and energy."
It is an honest answer.
At some point I told him something I do not usually share with people. I am haunted by the number 3:16. I have started to collect photos of whenever I see it. The mileage in my car when I happened to glance at it. 316 miles. The time on my phone. Even the moment my daughter walked across the stage graduating from college, it was exactly 3:16.
It has become a little secret joke. As if Jesus himself were taking the time away from his busy schedule to send me little hints that I might need something in my life, something higher, dare I say, I might need God?
John the Baptist told me how he was not supposed to be on that flight, he had taken a trip that was planned for him and not by him. How he talked with his wife about not going, but at last minute decided to go. He naturally turned to God and told Him "I don't know why you are sending me, but I am in your hands."
I have prayed with strangers in public before when they have asked. Mainly because I am polite and I respect other people's beliefs and well meaning efforts.
John asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus into my heart.
To my own shock I said yes.
We prayed.
I cried.
I have no idea why I cried. Was it because this stranger took the time to actually listen to me? Was it because I had reached my limit of emotional overload and it had to come out? Was it because I was lacking sleep?
I made a joke about him not asking for water when the attendants came around because I did not want to be Baptized by Ozarka.
John showed me the verse following 3:16 and said, "I bet you stop seeing that now."
Maybe.
The descent began and we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch.
I am not sure if I lost my head, or he, like his namesake had, but I knew if nothing else I made a friend.
The weekend had some rough spots for me, but I used those times to escape to my room for a few minutes.
John sent me a few text messages that he was praying for me.
I was surrounded by my family who all expressed their love for me. I made a new family member, part of our tribe. I laughed. I cried only once. I was able to give a small respectful speech that I do not call a eulogy.
I looked around and realized how lucky I am. How precious is life and love and I felt good. Deeply warm.
My last night there I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the clock.
It was 3:17. I smiled and fell back into a dreamless sleep.
(Feel free to look up John 3:16 and 3:17, also Pastor John Klink at solidrockibc.org)
Monday, June 13, 2016
toes
I sit awake in bed, thinking of all the dead.
Not just my own, but those other people I have known
senseless
time lost
winter frost
has not yet even hit.
What do I do with this pile of shit
running through my brain?
I wish it would rain
and wash away the hate
I cant escape
dancing brought no relief
to 50 people seeking
50 people speaking
50 People loving
50 people dead
I thought I did not care
Just another tragedy
in life that isn't fair.
My mom wrote once in her diary
before God took her mind away
that I look at life blind
not seeing what is so easy to find.
And maybe it was true
maybe me you
saw things another way
in a time and in different day,
Now there is so much hate
daughters, brothers, lovers
pick up the phone and call your mothers
If you can.
Want to be mad?
Shake a fist at the sky?
Cut a wrist and see blood cry?
Hate the oppression
obsession with immigration
put down the gun
pick up our nation
we are one world
and one people
trapped together
under this steeple
Love does not always win
when so many see sin
put on your blinders
and then see me
right behind ya
I will give you a hug
if you reach out your arms
We can sleep in late and ignore the alarms
But the sirens need to stop
sirens and cops
rushing to never ending scenes
of spilled blood to be cleaned
Put down the guns
throw away the ammo
This aint no game yo
Now if you will excuse me
time to write another
eulogy.
Not just my own, but those other people I have known
senseless
time lost
winter frost
has not yet even hit.
What do I do with this pile of shit
running through my brain?
I wish it would rain
and wash away the hate
I cant escape
dancing brought no relief
to 50 people seeking
50 people speaking
50 People loving
50 people dead
I thought I did not care
Just another tragedy
in life that isn't fair.
My mom wrote once in her diary
before God took her mind away
that I look at life blind
not seeing what is so easy to find.
And maybe it was true
maybe me you
saw things another way
in a time and in different day,
Now there is so much hate
daughters, brothers, lovers
pick up the phone and call your mothers
If you can.
Want to be mad?
Shake a fist at the sky?
Cut a wrist and see blood cry?
Hate the oppression
obsession with immigration
put down the gun
pick up our nation
we are one world
and one people
trapped together
under this steeple
Love does not always win
when so many see sin
put on your blinders
and then see me
right behind ya
I will give you a hug
if you reach out your arms
We can sleep in late and ignore the alarms
But the sirens need to stop
sirens and cops
rushing to never ending scenes
of spilled blood to be cleaned
Put down the guns
throw away the ammo
This aint no game yo
Now if you will excuse me
time to write another
eulogy.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Baby! I Know Your're Asking Me to Stay
Anyone who knows me closely enough knows that I struggle with things besides depression, weight loss, and holding on to jobs. I struggle with God. The Big G.
Is there one?
Is it Aliens?
I have no freaking clue. Because of the fact that most people who do believe in God have faith, this makes conversations a little bit harder. Usually ending in, "You just have to believe."
Huh.
I know my bible fairly well, reading mostly out of a research frame of mind, and also it is useful when you are gay to have the multitude of things the bible says you shall not do on hand as a retort to one line in Leviticus.
Me and my polyblend clothing are happy together. I am also just as happy wearing only cotton.
For some personal reasons I decided yesterday to pray.
It went something like this:
"Uh, hey God, it's me. Okay wow that was a Judy Blume start. Sorry. Not that I don't like Judy Blume, I do. Good work with that one God.
Okay ummm, I guess you are kind of busy (thinking IF he is even there).
So, yeah, uh, a lot of bad shit has been happening around me lately. My dear friend was killed, my mother died, my aunt died, my friend has breast cancer (and I am sorry but REALLY? She is a school teacher!)
yeah God, forget this, I just want to tell you to fuck off.
I am sincerely pissed at you.
Why not give me breast cancer? Kill me and bring back all these other people. I am nothing special.
I think people will eventually figure out how to do their own damn hair.
Instead YOU chose for a sweet farmer, an amazing mother, a fantastic brilliant aunt, and let us not forget a father or two in there.
Wow, okay I am angry.
I do not want to do this.
Uhh, Amen."
Hmmmm
That did not go well.
Oh but people will tell me it did! That all I did was reach out! That God can handle me yelling at him! Rejoice! Amy has found God!
Uhhh, no. I didn't.
I found anger and more unresolved issues.
This morning I woke up extra early due to dogs that are one more pile of poop away from being put up for adoption.
I got my headphones out and set off to conquer Mount Dishmore.
What did I choose to listen to? Godspell.
I sang, I soaped, I danced, and was wholly (not holy) in the moment of just being there. Being with the warm water, the music in my ears and head, each dish, cup, looking at it, feeling it. I was there!
I may not have been at Woodstock but damn was I THERE doing dishes! No acid needed.
I felt euphoric.
Naturally I can attribute this to endorphins from the dancing. Nothing at all relating to God. Unless God gave me the endorphins.
Please note that I did not bring up religion. That is enough to make me even more angry. I am of the "Whatever works for you" gang.
I do not know if I am going to pray today.
I do not know if I will ever have, find ,and hold on to the slippery elusive thing called faith.
Even if George Michaels says I have to have it.
Is there one?
Is it Aliens?
I have no freaking clue. Because of the fact that most people who do believe in God have faith, this makes conversations a little bit harder. Usually ending in, "You just have to believe."
Huh.
I know my bible fairly well, reading mostly out of a research frame of mind, and also it is useful when you are gay to have the multitude of things the bible says you shall not do on hand as a retort to one line in Leviticus.
Me and my polyblend clothing are happy together. I am also just as happy wearing only cotton.
For some personal reasons I decided yesterday to pray.
It went something like this:
"Uh, hey God, it's me. Okay wow that was a Judy Blume start. Sorry. Not that I don't like Judy Blume, I do. Good work with that one God.
Okay ummm, I guess you are kind of busy (thinking IF he is even there).
So, yeah, uh, a lot of bad shit has been happening around me lately. My dear friend was killed, my mother died, my aunt died, my friend has breast cancer (and I am sorry but REALLY? She is a school teacher!)
yeah God, forget this, I just want to tell you to fuck off.
I am sincerely pissed at you.
Why not give me breast cancer? Kill me and bring back all these other people. I am nothing special.
I think people will eventually figure out how to do their own damn hair.
Instead YOU chose for a sweet farmer, an amazing mother, a fantastic brilliant aunt, and let us not forget a father or two in there.
Wow, okay I am angry.
I do not want to do this.
Uhh, Amen."
Hmmmm
That did not go well.
Oh but people will tell me it did! That all I did was reach out! That God can handle me yelling at him! Rejoice! Amy has found God!
Uhhh, no. I didn't.
I found anger and more unresolved issues.
This morning I woke up extra early due to dogs that are one more pile of poop away from being put up for adoption.
I got my headphones out and set off to conquer Mount Dishmore.
What did I choose to listen to? Godspell.
I sang, I soaped, I danced, and was wholly (not holy) in the moment of just being there. Being with the warm water, the music in my ears and head, each dish, cup, looking at it, feeling it. I was there!
I may not have been at Woodstock but damn was I THERE doing dishes! No acid needed.
I felt euphoric.
Naturally I can attribute this to endorphins from the dancing. Nothing at all relating to God. Unless God gave me the endorphins.
Please note that I did not bring up religion. That is enough to make me even more angry. I am of the "Whatever works for you" gang.
I do not know if I am going to pray today.
I do not know if I will ever have, find ,and hold on to the slippery elusive thing called faith.
Even if George Michaels says I have to have it.
Friday, April 1, 2016
Challenge Accepted
Dear Ms. Evers,
I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking. It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic. People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read. Turn on the TV! Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all! That is what the masses want now. They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.
Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy? If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed. Not suicidal, of course. We do want a three-book deal with you.
Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.
Best of wishes,
Wesley Wyndam-Price
Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart
My Dearest Wesley,
It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details. If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.
You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful. Or maybe it was the hyacinths.
All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.
I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.
I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales. On the other hand I do need a new car. Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?
Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany? I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well. You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.
I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf. Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?
I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif. Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel. Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement. What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?
Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?
Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist? That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up? A fictional character in my solipsistic world?
If so, then all is moot.
Good day,
Amy Evers
I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking. It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic. People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read. Turn on the TV! Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all! That is what the masses want now. They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.
Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy? If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed. Not suicidal, of course. We do want a three-book deal with you.
Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.
Best of wishes,
Wesley Wyndam-Price
Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart
My Dearest Wesley,
It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details. If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.
You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful. Or maybe it was the hyacinths.
All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.
I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.
I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales. On the other hand I do need a new car. Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?
Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany? I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well. You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.
I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf. Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?
I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif. Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel. Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement. What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?
Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?
Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist? That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up? A fictional character in my solipsistic world?
If so, then all is moot.
Good day,
Amy Evers
Sunday, February 14, 2016
You Are Like Nobody Since I Love You.
How do you convince someone you love them? Actions. Most people might think words, and for some it would be words.
I believe in actions.
So why all the poetry in life? The sonnets, the psalms. Keats, Neruda, Cummings,Barrett Browning, they would all fight me pen and ink to the death over love.
They would win.
Today is, in my opinion the lamest holiday ever created by man and Capitalism. Couples rushing about to buy flowers or chocolates to prove their love. Engagements will take place on bended knees, babies will take their first birth in 10 months hence.
My partner has a long history of bad birthdays. Being caught cheated on, broken up with, ankle sprains, etc. Because of this she is not the fondest of her day of birth. I have tried over the last 4 years to make it special, but one something is ruined, it always feels stained or contrite.
For me that is Valentine's day. In high school roses were given out, white for friend, red for love, pink for...I have no idea. Or maybe it was yellow. Every year I sat in homeroom with the popular girl alphabetically before. Every year I watched as her desk filled up with roses. Every year I wished I had a different last name. Something with a Z that would have seated me in the very back row and corner.
I recall one Valentine's Day where my husband I argued, in front of the children. The argument was about me spending too much money.
One year flowers were delivered to my work, only I did not want them. For starters I hate roses (my middle name be damned).
One year I broke up with my boyfriend in the parking lot of a video store.
Why?
He couldn't decide what movie he wanted to rent and his lack of power gathered up into a ball of weakness I could no longer take.
I see a common theme when I look back. It was always me. I spent too much money. I did not have a lot of friends in high school. I did not tell the woman I did not want flowers (or anything) from her.
I was the cause of my argument today, on this Valentine's Day. It was my taking my words to betray her.
Words. I am fully capable of using words to hurt. Anyone is. Most people do; not every fight takes place in a bar.
But that fight in a bar is followed up by actions. Physical pain, a possible arrest, court fees, time off from work maybe. All actions.
This is where I lack. I am not saying I should be given a ticket for being a shit partner on Valentine's Day. I am saying I need to use my actions to show my love. I should do something, anything after an argument to show my sorrow at making someone hurt.
Is picking up dog shit and cleaning the table enough to undo what I said? No, but I will do it anyway.
Is writing a blog about it enough to erase the words from her head? No. But I will do it anyway.
A day of forced love and I have no feelings for it that I would surround with the most passionate of soliloquy's. I am a writer and I could create a tome full of adjectives for love and forgiveness. I could write a love note worthy of being tucked away in a special place to be discovered by some not yet born grandchildren.
They would gaze upon the words and sigh wishing for a love as wonderful as ours. These future relatives would elaborate in their minds the missing pieces. They would never know that it was not enough. It was written out of sadness. They would never know the actions that took place prior to the tome.
But I do. And she does. And now, you know. I betrayed my love with words, and am desperately looking for actions to make it all better.
I will hold the guilt longer than she will hold the pain. I have, as I write, already been forgiven. Tears shed by us both, apologies uttered through a snot filled nose. There is always a probationary time after forgiveness. Just because a bandage has been applied it does not mean the cut has stopped hurting.
If I kiss the cut will the pain go away? Or will it just sting and bring all the pain to the surface?
If I stay close to you will you move away?
Can I make you laugh again?
I have to find the actions. Find the actions of proof that I love her, actions to prove to my children I am here and I love them.
Words are so easy, so complacent.
Words are what I am good at.
I once used words so venomous to get someone out of my life.
It is Valentine's Day. My only sanction is that she too feels no fondness for this day.
So it was just an argument that happened on this auspicious day where we must use words and actions to show our love for one another.
My thoughts have been so self centered I could put Ayn Rand to shame. I drove myself inward to a dark place where I did not want anyone there with me.
My actions have been robotic and cruel and completely void of emotion.
It took this argument today to wake me up, to make me see what my self reflection has done to those I do truly love.
It took my actions to look in her eyes and feel her pain, and not my own. To see what I have caused.
Wont it take action to see her eyes light up again?
It is not often I am living outside my head, today I have.
Scary place.
Then again so is the grey matter I shuffle around to find the words to berate myself or others.
I will not use my own words to write a love letter worth keeping for the ages.
I will steal what someone else has said, and only hope I can live up to it with ations.
"So I wait for you like a lonely house
til you will see me again and live in me.
Til then my windows ache."
- Pablo Neruda
I believe in actions.
So why all the poetry in life? The sonnets, the psalms. Keats, Neruda, Cummings,Barrett Browning, they would all fight me pen and ink to the death over love.
They would win.
Today is, in my opinion the lamest holiday ever created by man and Capitalism. Couples rushing about to buy flowers or chocolates to prove their love. Engagements will take place on bended knees, babies will take their first birth in 10 months hence.
My partner has a long history of bad birthdays. Being caught cheated on, broken up with, ankle sprains, etc. Because of this she is not the fondest of her day of birth. I have tried over the last 4 years to make it special, but one something is ruined, it always feels stained or contrite.
For me that is Valentine's day. In high school roses were given out, white for friend, red for love, pink for...I have no idea. Or maybe it was yellow. Every year I sat in homeroom with the popular girl alphabetically before. Every year I watched as her desk filled up with roses. Every year I wished I had a different last name. Something with a Z that would have seated me in the very back row and corner.
I recall one Valentine's Day where my husband I argued, in front of the children. The argument was about me spending too much money.
One year flowers were delivered to my work, only I did not want them. For starters I hate roses (my middle name be damned).
One year I broke up with my boyfriend in the parking lot of a video store.
Why?
He couldn't decide what movie he wanted to rent and his lack of power gathered up into a ball of weakness I could no longer take.
I see a common theme when I look back. It was always me. I spent too much money. I did not have a lot of friends in high school. I did not tell the woman I did not want flowers (or anything) from her.
I was the cause of my argument today, on this Valentine's Day. It was my taking my words to betray her.
Words. I am fully capable of using words to hurt. Anyone is. Most people do; not every fight takes place in a bar.
But that fight in a bar is followed up by actions. Physical pain, a possible arrest, court fees, time off from work maybe. All actions.
This is where I lack. I am not saying I should be given a ticket for being a shit partner on Valentine's Day. I am saying I need to use my actions to show my love. I should do something, anything after an argument to show my sorrow at making someone hurt.
Is picking up dog shit and cleaning the table enough to undo what I said? No, but I will do it anyway.
Is writing a blog about it enough to erase the words from her head? No. But I will do it anyway.
A day of forced love and I have no feelings for it that I would surround with the most passionate of soliloquy's. I am a writer and I could create a tome full of adjectives for love and forgiveness. I could write a love note worthy of being tucked away in a special place to be discovered by some not yet born grandchildren.
They would gaze upon the words and sigh wishing for a love as wonderful as ours. These future relatives would elaborate in their minds the missing pieces. They would never know that it was not enough. It was written out of sadness. They would never know the actions that took place prior to the tome.
But I do. And she does. And now, you know. I betrayed my love with words, and am desperately looking for actions to make it all better.
I will hold the guilt longer than she will hold the pain. I have, as I write, already been forgiven. Tears shed by us both, apologies uttered through a snot filled nose. There is always a probationary time after forgiveness. Just because a bandage has been applied it does not mean the cut has stopped hurting.
If I kiss the cut will the pain go away? Or will it just sting and bring all the pain to the surface?
If I stay close to you will you move away?
Can I make you laugh again?
I have to find the actions. Find the actions of proof that I love her, actions to prove to my children I am here and I love them.
Words are so easy, so complacent.
Words are what I am good at.
I once used words so venomous to get someone out of my life.
It is Valentine's Day. My only sanction is that she too feels no fondness for this day.
So it was just an argument that happened on this auspicious day where we must use words and actions to show our love for one another.
My thoughts have been so self centered I could put Ayn Rand to shame. I drove myself inward to a dark place where I did not want anyone there with me.
My actions have been robotic and cruel and completely void of emotion.
It took this argument today to wake me up, to make me see what my self reflection has done to those I do truly love.
It took my actions to look in her eyes and feel her pain, and not my own. To see what I have caused.
Wont it take action to see her eyes light up again?
It is not often I am living outside my head, today I have.
Scary place.
Then again so is the grey matter I shuffle around to find the words to berate myself or others.
I will not use my own words to write a love letter worth keeping for the ages.
I will steal what someone else has said, and only hope I can live up to it with ations.
"So I wait for you like a lonely house
til you will see me again and live in me.
Til then my windows ache."
- Pablo Neruda
Saturday, February 13, 2016
But...Oh...
Do you have a moment in your childhood that you recall so vividly you could direct a scene of it in a movie? Hopefully all of us have many of those.
One of mine is when my mom came home with a surprise for me. Standing in the dining room she handed me the DOUBLE album of Grease! It was not my birthday or any holiday, she just gave it to me. Memory being what it is I had probably nagged her for weeks to get it for me; conveniently I do not recall doing this. Just my mom walking in with something behind her back and handing it to me.
Immediately we put it on. my kitchen chairs became bleachers, the carpet in the living room became the beach, the sofa of course was a car.
I sang my heart out to learn every single song. I pined and sighed looking at the album (the inside was full of pictures like a yearbook).
In my head I was there. I hand jived, I was left at the drive in, there were worse things I could do. I loved them all. Well, especially Rizzo. Much like Danny being the "bad boy" Rizzo was the "bad girl".
Recently I had the pleasure of watching a new rendition of Grease with a few of my kids. They had seen the movie as young children, and now we replicated that moment adding wine and cheese. I was dubious, but it was great.
About a year ago I entered into a discussion about the movie with a friend. She hated it. Said it was sexist. Pointed out how Sandy had to change for him, pointed out lyrics ("Did she put up a fight"), pointed out how Danny was an asshole until he saw Sandy with teased hair and sewn on pants, and numerous other atrocities of the film that make it bad for young girls to see.
Huh.
Fortunately, I had a backup that still remains my favorite movie. Gone With the Wind. Again, in some debate over movies my friend could not believe I would say this. Scarlett is a manipulative bitch, and Rhett offers nothing for her.
WHAT?!
I could use the argument (and did) that Scarlett and Rhett were identical in their actions, with the exception of Rhett being more polite to all ladies.
Danny was conflicted the entire movie and went out of his way to change as well (he did letter in track).
I reminded my friend it was a certain era for both movies, set in a different time. I may not have been consciously aware of this when I was a child watching Scarlett flirt with the Tarleton twins, or steal two husbands.
I may not have (yet) known a pregnancy scare like Riz. Even Kenickie tried lamely to do "the right thing". Did Riz accept? No. She said she would handle it.
Why didn't Rhett notice how happy Scarlett was after he carried her up those stairs? Some would call that rape. Others would find it a Fifty Shades of Grey moment.
We did not argue about the portrayal of slavery, that is just accepted in a period movie. But my friend argued that Scarlett is was and will forever be reprehensible.
And so would Sandy.
Huh.
To me these were beautiful strong women I wanted to BE (Riz not Sandy -- I was never one to be like her in the first place.)
Does this mean I am not a feminist? A word that over the years draws the brain to men hating, bra burning, hard women.
My kitchen chairs may have become bleachers and I may have a time or two taken on southern drawl or pouted like Scarlet to get my way, but I still believe in equal rights for women.
Should I have not shown these movies to my children? Do they now think rape scenes in movies are okay?
(No one was raped in Grease [Rizzo gave full consent], and Scarlet may have been drunk but being swept up and carried up those hellish stairs was romantic.)
Because of Gone With the Wind I was happy to tell people I was born below just below the Mason Dixon Line, thus making me a Southern Belle, should I have chosen to be one. Growing up in New Jersey gave me the option to be brass and brazen, again if I so chose.
If I am not a feminist because I will always swoon over these two movies, then so be it. But to me every woman has a right to choose their own character. It was Sandy who asked for help, it was Scarlett who made things happen.
I will always long for those summer nights; either holding a radish to the sky with determination, or holding my school books, with my head held high.
One of mine is when my mom came home with a surprise for me. Standing in the dining room she handed me the DOUBLE album of Grease! It was not my birthday or any holiday, she just gave it to me. Memory being what it is I had probably nagged her for weeks to get it for me; conveniently I do not recall doing this. Just my mom walking in with something behind her back and handing it to me.
Immediately we put it on. my kitchen chairs became bleachers, the carpet in the living room became the beach, the sofa of course was a car.
I sang my heart out to learn every single song. I pined and sighed looking at the album (the inside was full of pictures like a yearbook).
In my head I was there. I hand jived, I was left at the drive in, there were worse things I could do. I loved them all. Well, especially Rizzo. Much like Danny being the "bad boy" Rizzo was the "bad girl".
Recently I had the pleasure of watching a new rendition of Grease with a few of my kids. They had seen the movie as young children, and now we replicated that moment adding wine and cheese. I was dubious, but it was great.
About a year ago I entered into a discussion about the movie with a friend. She hated it. Said it was sexist. Pointed out how Sandy had to change for him, pointed out lyrics ("Did she put up a fight"), pointed out how Danny was an asshole until he saw Sandy with teased hair and sewn on pants, and numerous other atrocities of the film that make it bad for young girls to see.
Huh.
Fortunately, I had a backup that still remains my favorite movie. Gone With the Wind. Again, in some debate over movies my friend could not believe I would say this. Scarlett is a manipulative bitch, and Rhett offers nothing for her.
WHAT?!
I could use the argument (and did) that Scarlett and Rhett were identical in their actions, with the exception of Rhett being more polite to all ladies.
Danny was conflicted the entire movie and went out of his way to change as well (he did letter in track).
I reminded my friend it was a certain era for both movies, set in a different time. I may not have been consciously aware of this when I was a child watching Scarlett flirt with the Tarleton twins, or steal two husbands.
I may not have (yet) known a pregnancy scare like Riz. Even Kenickie tried lamely to do "the right thing". Did Riz accept? No. She said she would handle it.
Why didn't Rhett notice how happy Scarlett was after he carried her up those stairs? Some would call that rape. Others would find it a Fifty Shades of Grey moment.
We did not argue about the portrayal of slavery, that is just accepted in a period movie. But my friend argued that Scarlett is was and will forever be reprehensible.
And so would Sandy.
Huh.
To me these were beautiful strong women I wanted to BE (Riz not Sandy -- I was never one to be like her in the first place.)
Does this mean I am not a feminist? A word that over the years draws the brain to men hating, bra burning, hard women.
My kitchen chairs may have become bleachers and I may have a time or two taken on southern drawl or pouted like Scarlet to get my way, but I still believe in equal rights for women.
Should I have not shown these movies to my children? Do they now think rape scenes in movies are okay?
(No one was raped in Grease [Rizzo gave full consent], and Scarlet may have been drunk but being swept up and carried up those hellish stairs was romantic.)
Because of Gone With the Wind I was happy to tell people I was born below just below the Mason Dixon Line, thus making me a Southern Belle, should I have chosen to be one. Growing up in New Jersey gave me the option to be brass and brazen, again if I so chose.
If I am not a feminist because I will always swoon over these two movies, then so be it. But to me every woman has a right to choose their own character. It was Sandy who asked for help, it was Scarlett who made things happen.
I will always long for those summer nights; either holding a radish to the sky with determination, or holding my school books, with my head held high.
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