Best story I heard today was someone else's

This, from Tia: 

I wanted to share with you something that happened to me today.

I ate lunch at one of my favorite places in Streetsboro today. When I went up to pay my bill the girl said...

The man sitting next to you said...tell that woman thanks for smiling that smile, it's warm and it made me feel good. He said he wanted to repay you, so he bought your lunch.

I stood there a minute kind of overwhelmed with emotion, not believing that a stranger said that and then bought my lunch.

...and then it inspired me to take action.

As I looked around the restaurant there were three tables of people still eating.

The old couple that were sitting behind me, not talking to each other the whole time.

The two detectives that I see about once a week.

The two older women who I have also noticed in the restaurant before.

I could not choose just one table to buy for so I bought lunch for all of them.

I asked the girl not to tell them who paid, but instead asked her to tell them...if they could...at some point pay it forward.

I walked out to my car and drove away.

I went to the nursing home up the street, I was doing wound care on a patient had to go to the nurses station for supplies.

Donna, says you are not going to believe this. I went to get lunch at Blasioles and someone had paid for it.

She said the waitress said that it has been the craziest day.

A guy bought a woman's lunch because he said she said her warm smile made him feel good.

That woman bought lunch for the three tables of people left in the restaurant.

The waitress said the woman that bought lunch for everyone asked me to say, if you can pay it forward.

She said mentioned that to the two older woman who said...there is no one left here for us to buy lunch for.

...and the waitress said...I did just get a to go order from the nurses down the street.

Donna, just could not believe it. I did not say anything.

I walked out of that office feeling so good, a smile inspired a random act of kindness which inspired three other acts of kindness which inspired another.

...and how crazy is it that one of the nurses where I go was involved.

What if these rocks once had skins
and, in the midst of a wild westerly storm,
they all spoke to each other
and decided to skim off the outer sleeve?
And, what if, for thousands of years,
before anyone of this generation,
or 100 generations before, ever saw them,
they chose this? What if they wanted
to set their roughness out in the sun?
Expose their wide fatty hips? 
What if they found their nooks and noses
to be as wondrous as the weathering rain,
what if they wanted their long fingers
extended closer to the moon every night?

Sticks

If I were a tree, I would be the purple kind.  And though I like the ginko leaf, I do not like it enough to have that shape of leaves.  I am thinking something  more sycamore-shaped, leaves that start orange, then flame red at the end of the season.  Just like my Japanese maple, but less crinkled and brittle after they die.  They'd still be glossy, waterproof, with a sheen.  The purple tree would be in the far edge of a forest, overlooking a wide vista.  Some people would come, and once arriving, they would be stunned.  They would bring other friends, but only the one who would appreciate the hike and the final sight.  People would sit under the tree, poking at the floury soft dirt. Playing with the purple twigs. They would be silent lots of the time, but when they would speak, they would speak from their spine.  No cheek.  No hand movements.  Just words, solid truth, coming from the heartwood.

A slow drip of a day.
As if I turned the bottle of time over,
waiting for it to puddle at the bottom,
so that I could eventually squeeze some day out.
Slapping the side a few hard whacks
just to dislodge an hour or two
from the walls that contained them.
Waiting, wanting, a dollop of that Friday
feeling to start the weekend off right.

What I am thankful on this day

I could say friends, of which there are many.
My job, my work.  The life it affords me.
My home, my family.  Those things received in the past,
and that which is surely to come.  But I want to be more specific.
That ordinary litany, while true, seems like a pageant answer.
Today, what I am really thankful for are these things:
Sleeping well into the middle of the morning, my knee healing in the sleep.
This day with it's bright blue sky, so warm I could feel the sun on my back.
This rose, still hanging on for a late November bloom.
The call from Johanna saying, "Thank you for the beginning friendship."
Anne asking if she could mow my lawn for me.
Seeing my mother's handwriting on a recipe card.
That magic moment when a roux turns liquid silky then thick.
The man at the gas station who laughed at me.
Hearing Sheridan's voice outside.  Imjung too. 
And Helen's raspy alto voice, the way she always joins the grown-ups.
The meal set before me, and the people around me,
not feeling so much on the outside anymore.
Each one of us older, but somehow softer.  The easy laughter. 
20/20 vision.  The sight of three sisters together.
The smell by the firepit.  The smell of the turkey.
Teenage boys with short haircuts.  Fiestaware orange.
Seeing the ribbon of genes so clearly.  The dog finally laying by my feet.
The drive east along the lake.The front porch light on to welcome me home.

George

"His light was so bright that it shamed the darkness."

Vacation

I love the rush of my days.  I put in a full 8 hours, or more, every day.  Twelve yesterday.  Some days, I actually sit with the mediators for 10-15 minutes and eat lunch.  Other than that, I am doing something, helping someone, consulting with someone else, emailing, writing a document, teaching a group of kids, planning a meeting.  The days whiz by.

And yet, and now, I have this: five days.  Five days.  Someone asked me today what I was going to do with the time, and I said nothing.  That, right now, seems flat out stupid.  I know I could rest, sleep, watch TV.  Tinker with this, putz around with that.  But I ought to do some thing, many things.  The art museum.  Drive to Detroit.  Find that apple farm I once went to a sit by the fire.  Make a pie.  Read Exodus. Go away, if only for a night, to see life from another vantage. I ought to make a recipe I have never made.  Go to an aquarium.  Write a letter, with pen to paper, to someone I have not written in a while.  I should get a book out of the library.  Answer a wanted ad.  Ride my bike.  Visit the eye doctor.  Right a list of the things I need to do before I am fifty.  Fix the hole in my black turtleneck. 

Five days, I have the gift of five days.  What am I going to do with it?  Something, I tell you, something will be done.

Context

Today I spent a large amount of time with my arms around someone.  It was great, calming.  Blissful, dare I say.  Tomorrow, I will spend one minute with my arms around someone during Heimlich training.  Worse yet, someone will have to put their arms around me. I am dreading it immensely. 

I am corresponding with the man whose house I am renting in New Mexico at holiday time.  He is cautioning me to rent an all-wheel vehicle; we might, possibly (it's been known to happen) get 3-5 inches of snow while I am there.  It's scaring me to death.  Those long, dark highways, on the edge of arroyos.  More than likely, we'll get 3-5 inches of snow before then here in Cleveland, and it'll be a piece of cake.  The first storm of many. 

It took me two weeks to get out my check book to pay my water bill and stuff the envelope with the remittance, yet, tonight, for two and a half hours, I folded 600 letters that got stuffed into 600 envelopes -- campaign literature for my neighbor, who is running for judge. 

I am starting to see, it's all context.  It's not the thing or the doing, it's often the setting and purpose. So much hinges on the placement of our actions and intent.

My favorite moment of a good day

S: What are you doing?
Me: Chopping down the garden.
S: Why?  Will the flowers die?
Me: No, it's just like giving them a winter haircut.
S: That's funny.  You're funny.
Me: Thank you.
S: I like the way you are carrying that.
(I had mushed the cuttings and was carrying them between two rakes used like a clam shell)
Me: Pretty smart, huh?
S: Yep.
Me: The Sweeney-Reinhold garden is done for the year. Hey, do you even know my last name?
S: No.
Me: It's Reinhold.
S: That's kind of a funny name.
Me: I like it.
S: My name is Sheridan Kylie Sweeney
(I'm not quite sure about that spelling, so my apologies, if necessary, to Anne and Cullen)
Me: My name is Jean Carroll Reinhold
S: Reinhold is a funny name.  But not Sweeney.
Me: I like Reinhold.
S: But you're a Sweeney too.
Me: Am I?
S: You are.  You're a Sweeney, too.
Me: I am?  I like that.
S: You are.  My mom said so. 

Talking to my right foot

This will soon be over.  The containment. The big grey boot.
You will get to wear these sneakers again.  And their brother berry color.
I do not know what is wrong with you, or why you decided to flare,
but I want to thank you.  It's you who has me counting points
and looking at the sides of boxes.  Yesterday, I drank 4 glasses
of water -- big glasses of water -- so that someday
you won't have to bear the weight of me.
I, sometimes, cannot bear the weight of me.
Bettsy said I have a big energy
but I think all she is seeing
is the size and shape of me
and presumes that
I am bigger
than
I am.

I
am
small.
As small and
painful as you right now.
As tiny as the niggling fear in me.
I want to be big in all of the right ways:
large hearted, open-minded, receptive to new,
a tendency toward naked. But for right now, I am as limited
as my limited movement.  Stuck here in this body, while some other me
is singing and swaying, scampering through the night woods, laughing,
not at all aware of her right foot, her barrel body, the container that she is in.

Rereading what I've written

I have become fascinated by a set of poems I wrote years ago -- twelve, maybe fifteen, years ago.  The last two blog posts were from that "Talking to"  series.  I was an amazing writing.  Fresh ideas, interesting combinations of words.  My poems were condensed and power packed.  They took me to unexpected endings.  Now, I think, I fear, I write too much.  I say too much. 

I want to revisit this series because for some reason talking to something or someone might be easier for me than talking about someone or something. 

These are the titles that spring to mind:

Talking to my right foot.
Talking to the dirty sheets in the hamper.
Talking to the the woman I passed in Target.
Talking to my savings account.
Talking to Charlie about modeling glue.
Talking to  Sheridan about death.
Talking to the screen door.
Talking to Kathy about protest.
Talking to the sanctuary window.
Talking to my plane ticket.
Talking to the fat-free french dressing in my refrigerator.
Talking to my lips about the last kiss they had.
Talking to mud splashed up on my passenger's side door.
Talking to my talking to poems.

Who knows where this will take me, but tomorrow the beginning will begin.  I'll start talking to something to see what it teaches me. 

Talking to my father about the girl he did not get

This is the way it is supposed to be done: she asks for piggyback rides,
he permits extra scoops of ice cream, they carve jack-o-lanterns together.
At night,  after they have made dessert in her Easy Bake oven,
she pretends to be asleep so that he will have to lift and carry her 
to her brass bed;  she smells the white collar smoke, the cigarette sweat. 
They are intoxicating. These are more than trite cliches: 
Daddy’s girl, crinoline, the walk down the aisle.  They are icons, 
cemented the first time she dances on her father’s footsteps.
Her toes bare, his wing-tipped.  Not even Mercury could bear a more clear
message:  I am your one true god.  Worship me.  Hold me tight.

But I did not want to be Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,
I never begged for a horse, Malibu Barbie, or an extended curfew. 
I only wanted one thing: for my father to notice the way I could
make the ball slip through the hoop.  Shimmy through the net.
Sometimes I would count, their bedroom above the court: 

sixteen, seventeen, eighteen in a row.  But he never turned on the porch light. 
Never requested to join me.  My fingers cold, cut; my cheeks  burning. 
I know I kept him awake.  Not because of the noise.  I’m sure
it was because he was inside dreaming himself another girl:
one with soft, pink hands.  Ponytails.  Lip gloss in her purse. 

Talking to my grandfather at the crypt

Talking to my grandfather at the crypt

I have to crane my neck to look at you, like a heron swallowing fish.

You are there: below Isaac Tingling and just above Sam Ross.

They call it the Western Milwaukee Memorial Gardens,

but nothing is growing there.  All the leaves are brown.

I have come here, driven 453 miles, to apologize for something

I said when I was eight.  Now, I know I was wrong.  Mean.

And it’s important that the dusty long dead of you hear it:

You did look handsome in your celery green polyester suit.

Your red and blue tie.  I liked the way your hair bounced

on its crown like a kingfisher’s plume.  I was not ashamed of you.

Or the gingham dressed bunny you gave me for Easter.

I loved the Viking twang of your Wisconsin talk.

I loved shucking the pistachio nuts with you. 

Holding your red fingered hand.

I sat and watched

This is not the sunset I saw today; it is one that was taken by Tia last February.  The reason why you can't see tonight's sunset, which was very similar to this one?  Because I did not rush inside to get the camera.  I did not zoom from room to zoom trying to find it.  I did not stand and compose the picture, then look at the image to see if it was "good enough."  I did not take a second picture and a third, maybe even a fourth.  I just put my shopping bags down, yanked the wicker chair over to the porch railing, and watched.  I took it in.  Let my eyes hold it for me.

Maybe that's the way to go these days.  I tasted the oatmeal this morning.  I felt the heavy clump of boot on my foot.  I smiled at the woman entering Zagara's.  I smelled the dish washing soap.  I laid down on the couch and felt, with such relief, how it held me.  I do not know if I will remember this day, much like yesterday, but maybe that does not matter so much.  I sat and watched the sunset.  For that moment, a moment I will no doubt soon forget, I was in love with the sun and part of the sky.  I was brother to the black armed trees. 

Dear George

I heard this morning that you have passed, and I wanted to write you.  I know that that might seem weird, and I surely have things to say and pray for sweet Muriel, but I also have some things to say and pray for you. 

I hope, first of all, that your passing was peaceful and calm.   I hope that, wherever you are, you have been released from pain and suffering, that your spirit is free to roam and travel through the world unencumbered by your recent illness. I pray that you are well, just have I have for these years when you were with us.

I wanted to say thank you.  Thank you for your strong faithful presence just ahead or behind me in the pews.  You taught me – in a quiet strong way – what it means to be quiet and strong. 

You taught me how to be happy, simply happy, to see someone you know.  Your smile, every time you smiled it at me, made me feel better.   Thank you.  Your way of greeting me made (and makes) me want to greet others that way…made (and makes) me want to show and share my pleasure for others.

I do not know if it mattered to you, (though it has to me), but there was one Sunday after church where we attended a luncheon together in Fellowship Hall.  I did not really just want to chat with you – talk about the weather or something inconsequential.  I wanted to ask you how you really were – what it was like to be sick, dangling on the ebb and flow of illness.  I did not want to treat what you were going through lightly or as if it did not exist.  So I asked.   I asked you what it was like.  And for a minute or two you talked to me (someone came to join us).  You said it was hard, you said you felt like you were always waiting for something to come.  You told me what you felt like – not your body, but your heart.

I so respected you for answering me honestly.  For trusting me to hear a tiny bit of your truth.   For that little piece of time we were totally connected, two humans caring for each other. Thank you, George, for that moment – so simple and pure and brave.

I want you to know that I will miss you.  I will miss sitting near you, feeling your good energy near me.  I will miss passing the peace to you.  I will miss your hello greeting.  That wide easy smile.

I am sorry I did not have a chance to say good-bye to you.  I just had a minute a month or two ago to give you a kiss on your cheek before church began.   I said, “It is so good to see you, pal.”  And it was.  It always was good to see you, George.

Peace to you.  Thanks to you.  Gentle grace to you, my gentle Sunday friend.

I doubt anyone was doing what I was doing yesterday.  I know people were doing things to celebrate this confluence of a lifetime, but no one else did this except for Tia and me: 11 foods brought to the table by each of us.  Cheeses and licorice whips, strawberries and sour cream. A long row of foods, a long completely unique dinner.  Then 11 questions each.  From the sublime: can revenge ever serve justice? To the ridiculous: who would you take with you on a ten man boat? Then eleven songs each, 22 songs chosen for different reason.  If we had been radio station, you would have tuned into a pretty damn good show.  It was a good, good day followed by a good, good evening.  That, no matter what the date, is a good, good thing.

Nine year olds for 129 minutes

Fastening seatbelts, laughing in the car, putting quarters in the meter, scurrying ahead barely aware of me, sitting all together -- triple trouble, ordering more pizza than we could eat, playing with straws, trying to learn how to tip, refusing salad more than once, inventing the names of bands, inventing songs the bad bands would play, talking about crust, talking about middle names, talking about cats, and cats up trees, the conversation twisting like a rollercoaster.  Ice cream and french fries, trying all of the flavors, making shakes, afraid to ask for a glass of water, trying tongue-twisters, laughing at the shape of our teeth, inventing a new ice cream, telling Keith their ideas, more and more energy, smiling, laughing, seatbelts, driving home, running inside completely unaware of me or what we had just done, delighted, always delighted with each other more than anything else.

Yes

Yes to stone, to wood, to everything mossy and old.
Yes to doorways, yes to teal, yes to beautiful symmetry.
Yes to pumpkins, to November remnants, to offerings left at the door.
Yes to the something on the other side,
and to the one who opens the place to slide through.
Yes to knocking, or calling out, or beating down the door.
Yes to knowing what you want and what you need to release,
to the things that leave bruises and the hand that heals.
Yes to embarrassment, to miscommunication,
to finding a way back to plumb.
Yes to plumb and plums and plumes of smoke rising in the night.
Yes to the darkest day and the second bones grown on broken.
Yes to giving up and giving in, yes to believing in magic,
yes to signs, and spirits. Yes to the the many ways God shows up.
Yes to abandonment, yes to sitting on the lonely bench,
yes to knowing no and yes to no-ing the known.
Yes to yesterday, but not too much. Yes to this day,
and this year, yes to setting the slaves free.
Yes to the song in my ear, and to the songs I will soon hear.
Yes to the dinner coming, yes to everything that fills me up.
Yes to the yes and yes to maybe and yes to never again,
which always has a chance to be.

Stress fracture?

I'm styling with a boot as of today.  Been feeling a weird non-decreasing pain in my foot for a couple weeks, so I headed back to Dr. Leb (my broken arm hero) to check it out. He said there appears to be some bone reabsorption, a little kink in my metatarsal, which may be caused by a variety of things: tumor, cyst, stress fracture.  It is, of course, not presenting in the normal way (I do not think any of my medical issue ever present in a normal way.)  His assistant fitted me for a boot, and I wore it today at school.  Now that my foot feels a bit better, my knee hurts, my back, my spine, and I have a massive headache.  I was two inches taller on the right side all afternoon and it appears as it that has thrown my whole skeletal structure into a tizzy.

There are two things I take away from today.  First, I still get teary when I see Dr. Leb remembering how kind and helpful and encouraging he was. And that is good.  Certain moments and events should never leave your base self.  I hope to always well up when thinking of him and those months, and if  I don't, it would signal that there is something very hardened and lost about me.  And, second, two inches really matter.  In my 67 and a half inch stance, that 2% shift caused significant repercussions.   I need to think about some good 2% shifts I can make -- how dramatic would I feel if I lost 2% of my weight?  How much more surrounded would I feel if I contacted 2% of my friends on a frequent basis?  What would my bravery yield if I rid myself of just 2% of my cautiousness?  It's an interesting proposition. 

Temporary

The pumpkin has been gnawed on,
the brilliant red is now rusty,
and the silver oak stands completely naked.
Two days ago, this is what was,
but now the wind is howling,
the leaves are plastered to the ground,
as Ohio returns to its November self.

561 Sunset Drive

Tonight I am thinking about my brother,
how we sat at the dinner table,
he and my Mom on the far side,
my dad and I closer to the kitchen.
Everything about it seems wrong.
His left elbow bump cutting
into my mom's right elbow,
year after year of having
to to try to avoid each other.
There were only two places
at that table for a lefty
and he did not sit in either one.
We all knew it, we must have,
but no one said anything,
and never did we imagine
changing our spots.

Nothing

What worries me, about this age, is the forgetting.  Last night I did not sit down at my computer and write.  It wasn't like I was doing other things frantically.  I was not.  Or that I forgot to sit down here.  I ended the night chatting online with a friend.  The only excuse I may have is that I stayed up late watching the Steelers lose on Sunday Night Football the night before and I was tired.  But, honestly, after writing 60 days, I completely forgot.  The thought never crossed my mind. That, the nothing, is what frightens me.

75 reasons

1. I am still talking to her
2. I am still learning from her
3. She is still talking to me and letting me know she is near
4. Her laugh
5. Her hair, the beautiful salt and pepper
6. The meals she cooked
7. Her salads, and the fact that we ate one every night
8. The way she interacted with strangers, always making their days a bit brighter
9. The fact that she was a big, old flirt
10. And that she always reached out to take my father's hand
11. Her daily nap, with Honey keeping her flank warm
12. Planting the annual red geraniums in the deck flower boxes
13. Her (horrible) rhyming Christmas poem
14. Christmas brunch
15. The list for the Christmas brunch, the timing down to the minute
16. How connected she was with elementary and high school friends her whole life
17. How much she loved being a Theta
18. How she would return from conventions exhausted having stayed up all night talking with her roommate
19. The way she would whack people she loved
20. Her slow deliberate swim strokes, truly a front crawl
21. The fact that she added a lap every day
22. Fondue night
23. Wallpapering the whole house, the smell of wall paper paste
24. Painting the iron bed pink
25. Driving us to and from swim practice
26. Sitting for hours at swim meets
27. Scoring the softball games
28. Playing tennis with me at Howe School when I was just starting
29. Jeopardy at lunch (I think was Jeopardy)
30. Grilled cheese and tomato soup
31. Singing in the car
32. Singing along with The Carpenters
32. Singing "Downtown" on the way downtown
33. Singing "Silent Night" beside her every Christmas Eve, always one of my favorite things, hearing her alto harmony on that special night
34. "Not too quick on the uptake"
35. Giving lessons about being blind to my fifth grade class
35. Being room mother
36. Inviting my teachers over for an end-of-the-year lunch on the deck
37. Strawberries Romanoff
38. Wearing pink
39. Making us pluck gray hairs from her head
40. Planning  creative birthday parties when we were young
41. And Halloween costumes
42. Calling the high school to tell them to retest me, I must be gifted
43. Coming to watch me play tennis -- during a really important match, I yelled at her and told her to leave (something that still is shameful to me) and she left.  I did not know it then, but I know it now, that that is a kind of love: caring more about your child than the embarrassment she causes you
44. The letter she wrote when I told her I might not follow the path she'd envisioned for me:  

 Thank you so much for your loving letter. It meant a lot to us that you would share your innermost thoughts with us.
I was just passing on what Paula wrote to you.  I never felt that would be a path that you would choose.
No one can know exactly who they will love.  When I envisioned the man I would love, he would be a great dresser and self-assured.  Thank God, I saw through my ridiculous dreamings and found the one whom I could love unconditionally and who loved me totally and completely in your Dad.
You are blessed with your talents, your friendships and your great relationships with many children, but especially those with your dear nieces.  Your enjoyment of your friendships, teaching, writing, golfing, decorating, home ownership (most days:) ) is wonderful to
behold.  Your love for all these envigorates and enhances you.
Whether or not you have children born to you, it is so evident that your spirit has touched many.  If, as Rosie, you see fit to adopt and share your family love with children will be a blessing to all involved.
The only wish that I have ever had for you is that you will love and be loved.  I can think of no one as loving and thoughtful as you.  For you to share that with another is my fondest dream.  You know, I hope, that I will love anyone whom you choose because you will share love and respect for each other. 
I hope you can use your enormous energy to find and experience and enjoy love.  May your God and your spirit open you wholly to love and to be loved.  I send you  my undying support and faith to aid you on this exciting journey. 
I love you.

45. The instant taking she took to Carrie
46. And the way that made me feel: like I was okay too
47. Filamagoosh
48. When we ate in the dining room, all of the candle light
49. Those winter Sundays in the living room by the fireplace
50. The way she licked her lips
51. How she was easily swayed and charmed by things and people
52. The books on her bedside table, the fact that she was a reader
53. The way she helped Grammy and Papa Reinhold when they had to sell their house
54. The honest ways she answered my questions when I finally was brave enough to ask
55. That crazy sewing room, filled to the gills with who knows what
56. Fried summer squash
57. Two Christmas trees, each one hand cut down (that, actually may have been Dad's idea, I am not sure)
58. Bourbon on the rocks
59. Dearest Jean...
60. Her funny emails where she outlined everything she ate (every time)
61. Her strength and grace at the end
62. Her attempts to get out of that bed, hours and hours of sliding her legs just 6 inches
63.  How when the resident did the neuro test and asked "Who is President?" and she replied without a beat, "The asshole is still President."
64. How proud she was at Mark and Jean's wedding, how brave she was to ask to take communion too
65. Her loopy distinctive handwriting
66. Redecorating the Theta house at Pitt
67. Her emotions, sometimes so volatile. I did not give her credit for who she was and what she needed (and that is shameful too)
68. Sour Cream Coffee Cake
69. How she cried when she got a present she really loved
70. Her 70th birthday surprise at Nemacolin
71. Her obvious love and pride for me when she saw a poetry play, how she "got me" in that moment and respected me for what I do
72. That she walked with me on the beach that day at Amelia and we laughed so hard we both wet our pants
73. That she waited for me to come so that I could help her die (at least that's the way I like to think of it)
74. The things I learned watching her and the way she was in the world
75. That, in the end, we forgave and accepted each other

Happy birthday, mom. 

Ten years ago

Ten years ago, this weekend, after I was done eating dinner with a friend, Sue Ott Rowlands, at Lemon Grass, I asked her if she thought I could succeed if I were to go to film school.  We were standing just about where this photo was taken, in the Cedar Lee parking lot.  She said something like, "Sure Jean, I think you have the eye, the artistic vision."  Then I said, "Truth be told, I really just--" (and at this point, my voice got louder and louder and my chin tilted back so that I was shouting to the sky) "--want a DATE!"

A few days later, I met Carrie online, and a week after that, on Friday, November 16th, we met for a movie at the Cedar Lee.  Steve Martin, Novacaine. 

I don't know if my life changed that night, when she walked up my front steps with the season's last yellow rose.  Or a week later when we kissed in her house after listening to Rachmaninoff.  Or when we went to Kenyon for New Year's Eve.  Maybe when she took care of me and my broken arm.  Or perhaps when she picked up the phone and I told her my mother had died. But maybe, just maybe, it happened on the night I shouted out my truest deepest need.  Maybe life changes when you ask it to change.

I was going to type desire in that last paragraph, but it was need.  I needed to go on a date.  I needed to feel the heat between me and a woman.  I needed to have sweet soft lips upon mine.  I needed, really needed, to know that I was lovable and could take a chance at loving. 

I was 40 and too terrified of loving to have loved.

I am now heading straight towards 50.  Carrie's gone now. (That was something that really changed my life, all for the painful better).  I find myself on this weekend with the very same need, only it has been soaked and marinated with a decade more of living.  I need to love.  I need the learning and growing that happens from and through love.  I need to try again, this time better.  I need to know a "we." I need to show my love in and to the world.

So I am wondering if I could recreate the whole thing.  Call Sue.  Pretend to ask about her job at Virginia Tech.  Her daughters.  The new grandson that will be arriving any day now. Hoping, of course, that at some point, Sue will ask about me, how I am, and I will have a chance to say those words that that I said ten years ago. 

I'd be more specific, of course.  It's not just a date I want.  I would turn my chin to the sky and I would say, "Let me love. Let me love someone wholly and warmly.  Let me be the person I can be only by having someone else to whom I am accountable.  Let me, please let me, hold someone's heart in my hands. Let me trust in another fully."

It's Saturday, November 5th. I am two months away from 50.  And maybe -- if my fingers type loudly enough -- just maybe, two weeks away from love.

Nails part 2

The thing about nails -- biting your nails -- is that the nails always grow back.  No matter how determined I am to hurt myself or eat myself up, there is something larger -- resurrective -- in me, in you, that keeps growing back.  Our very bodies are smarter than the minds that contain them.

Murmuration

I want to be part of a murmuration of people,
an expanding arc of those who move in syncopation,
who trust each other unquestioningly,
who can alter course in a fraction of a moment,
who work together at high speeds,
bending and flexing in response to one another.

I want to be part of a species of people who are willing to fill the sky,
cast their confident wings into nothingness, certain that they will not fail.
I want to be, for that second, the one who shifts the whole tribe,
changing the bend of history if only for that slim dime of time.

I want to know people who sweep across their lives,
know their poles and attractions, their norths and souths,   
be among those who know when it is time to move and then move.
I want to be someone who is like these that I want to be part of,
starling in the evening-tide, flying, just flying,
air in my bones, air under my wings, so light
I could hold myself in the palm of my hand.

Biting my nails

It's funny, because when I took this picture, I was proud of my nails.  There was some white.  A lot of white, actually, for me.  But, tonight, as I look closer, I can see the bloody skin on two fingers, the damaged cuticles. 

Today, in therapy, I talked about eating.  All of the eating I do.  I said, out loud, to another human being, "I chew on myself."  I don't bite my nails.  That's a polite euphemism for chewing on myself, eating myself up.  And that -- eating myself up -- is not a metaphor, it's an ugly, weird truth. 

Les and I talked about that.  How it might connect to me wanting to release myself from something.  (I talk a lot about release).  Then we talked about eating, eating food.  At one point I imagined myself hemmed in and bound up and the only way to release myself was to eat so much I burst through my false skin to the true me.  Hulk-ian, just not green.

Then we talked about having an itch when wearing a full leg cast.  How, since you cannot scratch it, you scratch somewhere else.  Maybe eating is me scratching the wrong itch, over and over again.

It sounds so poetic with all of these metaphors.  It wasn't so pretty.  I cried.  I said that it was a gluttonous suicide.  I nodded, I sat silent, I soaked it in as best I can.  I used up three tissues.  Turned 'em into snot castles. 

I don't know the answers, really, yet.  I do not know what I can or will do to change. All I can is this: what I am doing will make me die and I do not want to die. Not now, when I am finally figuring so much out. 

Tonight I ate wild rice and vegetables. I can feel that I feel full. And so far, all I have done is look at my nails.  I am writing this, scratching away on this keyboard.  Maybe something is hitting the invisible itch.  For now, my fingers are moving.  Healing myself with words.

No, that's wrong.  I have always had a certain facility with words.  The words will not heal me. It's the truth sewn into the words.  The willingness to hem myself to honesty.

Pure, unabated love

Tonight, I was watching Parenthood.  This week's episode got to me more than the rest (and they all get to me one way or the other).  Near the end, a mom was gushing over her daughter, a high school senior, saying that she was already missing her before she left to go to college.  They were so sweet with each other. Crying together.  Leaning in, holding hands naturally.   Each was dear to the other.  That was obvious.

I had a flash.  A question zoomed through my head: How would my life had been different if I had been loved like that?

Not in a mean I-need-to-go-to-therapy way. Just curious. Who would I be this very day?

Would I have a spouse?  Kids?  Would I be less nervous around people?  Would I have taken a riskier career path?  Would I weigh less?  Would I go out more?  Would I mingle with more people, openly?  Would I be closer to my cousins?  Would I be a writer?  Would I have to find these ways to express myself?  Would I take better care of my body?  Would I floss?  Buy more vegetables?  Have different printing?  Loopier?  Have long-term lifelong friends?  Know the people I went to high school with? Would I be wearing this eggplant shirt with these brown pants?

I do not ask that question with regret; I have no intention of going backwards.  But I was wildly curious, thinking that the purest part of me would be more obvious.  My life would have more sky blue.  I would shine redder than I do now.  I think that is true.  I just do.

I can't do much about it now, but I want to keep that question present somehow in my mind.  How would life had been different if we are loved like that?  All of us, ever single one?  Who can I love like that, now that I know how much it is needing to be done?