Oct. 31st

I never really liked Halloween. Some of the costumes my mom made us wear were cute, others not so much.  (One year -- a particularly warm year -- I believe my brother and I went as Adam and Eve.  That, as you can imagine, at any age, is embarrassing).   But now, in hindsight, I think I just did not like dressing up and becoming someone else.  Already shrouded my own self-imposed layer of disguise, I don't think I wanted to wear another someone upon my already secret self.

Every year the kids at school ask me what I am going as and, usually, I say "a teacher."  Next year, I am going for something even better.  When they ask who I dressing up as, I'll just say me.  They'll cock their heads maybe, or just turn their attention to something else, never really knowing how important my simple answer is.

Ordination

I attended the ordination of a friend today. Someone who has worked years and years to become a minister of word and sacrament.  There were so many beautiful moments throughout the worship service: the litany of ministers in their formal black robes and red stoles, the songs sweeping into descant, the promises we had to make to help Robin live into her calling.  I loved watching Clover's proud face. The pews filled with family.  I loved watching the stream of people come up to take the bread of life from Robin.  How some paused for a hug, how some leaned into Robin's cheek to deliver a kiss, how Chris Henry touched Robin's chest -- put a palm to her heart.  There was a moment when the western setting sun came through the window and lighted upon Robin's face -- just her face.  Like a kiss, or a distant blessing.  There was definitely a presence of something larger there in that moment. No, something larger was there most of the afternoon.

It made me want to start an ordination movement.  Ordaining my neighbors, especially Sheridan who cut her pumpkin naked today.  Ordain the teenagers walking past the library.  Ordain my colleagues tomorrow at work.  Ordain the crossing guards, the Starbucks baristas, the nursery school teachers, the public defenders.  Ordain the dying and those who care for them.  Ordain the nurses in the ER, the doctors telling the bad news.  I wanted to ordain everyone.  Let everyone know that they are filled with resurrecting power and light.  I wanted everyone to know that they are loved by many, that they are important people called to do important work. It was a beautiful day, one that made us all want to stretch out farther and more lovingly.  For that, and for Robin, I give great thanks.

Johanna

I like the way she lights up when she sees me,
the way she says, "My special friend,"
(even though I am sure she says that to everyone).
I like the way that, today, when we were driving
back from the German Import Market,
she said, "Tell me more about yourself."
And then later, just a half mile down the road,
how she asked, "Was she a good mother to you?"
I like how I want to be good around her, and honest,
how I want her to like me as much as I like her.
I like how she says, "Yes, you are social, Jean,
but there is a good seriousness to you too."
I like how she thanks God for every day,
how she says that her deteriorating eyesight
helps her have to pay full attention all of the time.
I like how her hands flap about when she talks,
like a baby bird's wings.  Johanna, in her 80's,
is still learning to fly, yes, still perched,
confident and in wonder, on the edge of a nest,
expecting to do something that she has never done. 
Expecting to learn something she's not thought about before.

Red door

She knew, if this were a door to anywhere, that she would open it.  But only if she could take everything she has with her too -- the important stuff: the security of a job (not necessarily the job she has), the comfort and assurance of friendship (even if it meant leaving these friends behind), the possibility for lifelong love, the vulnerability needed for growth, a guarantee of neighbors who would tend to her (even if they would not be the neighbors she has now), and the knowing that comes from simply being alive on the planet for half a century.  It was not the actual reality of her life she needed to be sure of, it was the layer of comfort underneath the people and places that surrounded her now.  She has stood in front of that door many times.  Even has come close enough to touch the smooth panels of the door frame and the knob, heated by sunlight, chilled by the air.  She has come face to face with that door.  Raised her fist to knock, wondering if that were the key: an invitation spoken by someone who has crossed through.  She knows exactly what the hearth of that door feels like under her feet.  The warbled stone.  The slight tilt of the rock away from the threshold. But she cannot quite get her hand to touch the door, knowing that once she does, she will feel the heat of the fire on the other side, and it will excite and terrify her so much that the dream of the door will disappear forever. She has to be ready.  She has to be ready to touch the door before she will ever lay a ready hand upon it.  Right now, her hands are in her pockets, her chewed nails fisted into balls. They clench and unclench, as if practicing.  One day, she knows, they will knock. 

What I love

...is their willingness
to champion right and
overcome wrong,
even when they
may be the ones
who sidestepped
into a world they
don't want to be a part of.

What I love is the honesty,
the quick nod of the head,
the detailing of the story,
an admittance that, actually,
"more than that happened."

What I love is that they know
something we have almost forgotten:
this is about learning,
and repairing, returning
your life to plumb. 
And what they trust in is
forgiveness, the resurrection
in tomorrow, and simply
doing better the next time around.

New lens

My dad had cataract surgery on Tuesday.  Easy as pie.  2 hours.  Slight grogginess and wobbliness.  20 hours later, better vision than he had with glasses.  Up and about. He was great about the whole thing and it was pleasure to help him out a little.

How I wish I could, at times, change a lens too.  Just go under for a half hour and then pop back into life with a renewed sense of sight.  It's not that I don't see well, I just think sometimes I forget to see what I should see.  Or I filter what I see and know through a cloudy boredom.  Tomorrow I go back to work, and it will be fine.  Good even.  But, I will slosh through the day, pleasant, just not fully present.  That's the way it's been this year.  The same job as always.  A steady, even temperament, but I am removed. One layer removed. I have a cataract on my career.  I wonder, does insurance cover that?

Some days

...the fences drop.  And there is only green, and water, dashes of color, and a blank slate sky all around. 

There is a season

 ...to rest, to lay down upon the earth and give yourself to it.  There is a season to walk in the dappled light, to record the light, or, even better, to just let the light fall upon you.  There is a season for fervor, for zealotry and worship.  There is a season for failure, when visions are eclipsed by niggling human need.  There is a season to drive, and drive, taking roads never driven upon.  There is a season to ask strangers what they believe, and to listen to them sing in a pale white church.  There is a season for plump blood dahlias.  For red barn doors.  For dried gourds.  Pumpkin muffins.  There is a season when the stone washes away.  There is a season to wind your way home. There is a season when pink kisses the sky good night. 

Emptying the trash

I don't know why I felt compelled to zoom through my iPhoto collection tonight.  It was like cleaning out my junk drawer in the kitchen; I was not very judicious.  I just kept dumping, dumping, dumping stuff into the trash, until the trash was so full, I had to empty the trash.  2,908 photos gone now.  Saugatuck gone, Ithaca gone, pictures of myself in Columbus, Indiana gone, Tybee Island gone, out of focus pictures gone.  Pictures of rocks and sticks and things I once thought were beautiful gone.  Steelers black-and-white food day gone, triple grill in the neighborhood gone. 

I feel like I should have some more emotion about this.  Because with throwing away the pictures, I feel like I am throwing away the days the pictures were taken. And the people the pictures were taken with. But, for some reason, I don't.  I feel like my mouse hand knew it was time to click. Some part of me knew it was time to clean it out.

I did realize that I used to smile more.  My hair was shorter.  I looked happier.  With more energy.  I was -- it looked like in the pictures -- there.  In the moment.  It looked like I had greater happiness than I knew or could talk about at the time.  The body does not lie.  Nor does the face.  For all of my wishy and my washy, I was in love.  I knew love.  I gave love.  I leaned into love.  I was living and exploring and in the world. 

When I saw the pictures of the Art Museum in Detroit, I wanted to go to Detroit again.  Not with Carrie.   I just wanted to see the Diego Rivera again.  When I saw the pictures of the gorges in Ithaca, I wanted to go back there too -- with better shoes.  Same with some other places.  I want to go.  I want to do.  I want to be in the world.

There are some women I am talking with now.  One whom I could so easily lay down with -- she and I could go camping.  Hike the woods.  See ravines and sunsets upon mesas.  And another, a photographer, who I would like to know more.  I would like to have her set of eyes near my set of eyes.  I think we'd see the world, together, better than we might see it apart.  And a new friend, far away, who would teach me about political action and fighting for justice.  But I do not know any of these people well enough -- or vulnerably enough --  to simply say, join me.  Help me be in my life more.  Let me bring more life to your life.

Right now, all I can say is that the trash is empty.  Space has been cleared for another 3,000 memories. I'm nearly fifty and it's time I turn my heart over -- empty it fully so that it can fill again. 

Thank you, today

For Nikki, her friendship.
For a good powerpoint,
then another.
For Matt in an argyle.
For Anne coming home.
For Cullen's obvious relief.
For Tortilla soup,
and mashed potatoes.
For groups of people working together.
For the people who trust the process will work.
For Helen talking to Grace,
and Grace talking to Helen.
For black turtleneck sweaters,
and new black jeans.
For the feeling that I actually look good in them.
For my colleagues showing how talented they are.
For them counting on me,
for believing that my goal is to help them.
For a crowded-enough room,
people laughing, people nodding,
people changing doubt into support. 
Thank you for Tia checking in on me.  
Thank you for Mucinex D.
And a packet of lozenges from CVS.
For the line not being long.
For chicken salad and toast.
The dryer fluffing my clothes.
The bath that is filling.
The quiet in my house now that this day is done.

You do not have to be

You do not have to be rimmed in gold,
perfect.  No one is watching that closely.
You do not have to be grounded in blue.
Choose a brighter color.  Orange maybe,
or perhaps, slide yourself right off the page,
the infinite space not above your head
but all around.  You do not have to remember
royal purple, nor do you have to attempt to be royal
at all.  Feel the heavy lug of your breast.
Give thanks for your scaly feet.  Ask your teeth
what they would like to tear in two.
You do not have to put a cap on it,
it's fine to leave the darkness alone,
black and strong and sure. It does not
have to look pretty anymore.  In fact,
the less pretty you try to make it,
the more beautiful you may be.  You do not
have to inject moments with pearls of wisdom
or sparks of delight.  Nothing likes to be injected.
Just be.  Just be.  And then, in that relaxed place,
you will look exactly like - you will feel
exactly like -- the very thing you try so hard to create.

Her throat is so inflamed that they put her in the hospital overnight. Her tonsils are swollen, her lymph nodes full.  She could not even swallow her saliva.  Hasn't eaten in three days. Barely slept.  I miss my friend and I want her to heal.  Then I want her to rest.  I want there to be enough time in the day that she can sit, gather her strength and not have to yes/no/monitor every little action of the small people in her house and that of the older less-capable.  I do not know how mothers mother.   How fathers father.  How those in a family have enough time to nourish themselves individually.  What will she do, this one who gives it all away, now that there is nothing left to give?  How can I help her keep her strength?

Today

...it was just easy.
Everything about it.
Eating with Deanne.
Having coffee with Jet.
Then ice cream.
Ralph joining us.
Keith telling his story.
Laurie running over to say hi. 
The Fall Festival.
All of the older kids
who came over with warm greetings.
Peter, Gabe, JC, Abby. Handsome Max.
Saying hi to all of the families.
Tea with Anne.
Hearing Tavish's poem.
Getting Kathy's email.
Going to the Senior night game.
Sitting with guys.
Sitting with the women.
Jean's arm slung around my shoulders.
Getting a hug from Sarah.
A picture taken with Grace.
Today was just so easy. 
I am not meant to choose alone.
It is no longer reasonable
to defer to the image of me
that no longer is true.
I am bigger now,
much more open and able. 

She started to cry

She started to cry when telling us the news.
Especially when she said she hoped that we'd take special care
to keep a special eye on her son. (Which we will, of course). 
When her husband saw this, her wavering,
he reached out and touched her foot, the one
that had been crossed and was bobbing near his hands.
He took a firm hold of her ankle and rubbed it,
while we all kept talking about what would happen,
and how we could help, and what she needed us to do.
I know I should have been listening, ears
perked up for every word -- and I was --
but all I was really taking in was his hand,
his need to touch her in the middle of the school room,
this morning, three days before the surgery. 
And I knew that with a love like that, that needed to comfort,
everything would be okay. It just had to be.

Two words

Be nice,
look up,
forgive her,
try again,
love hurts,
I know,
could be,
we'll see,
I wish,
start over,
next time,
never again, 
who knows,
you'd better,
thank you, 
prove it,
turn away,
I'm sorry,
no way,
watch me,
that's right,
I'm fine,
you might,
never know,
let go,
give in,
I am,
You too?

Grace

Standing next to my brother,
talking with my brother,
laughing with my brother --
sister again, aunt once more --
as we watched Grace,
attacking the ball, 
aggressive and sure, 
mud splattered all over
her knees and elbows.

What if it were like this?

What if it were like this?
One blind eye, one that could see everything.
All I have this day are my two half eyes,
the ones that jump the gun and cast judgments. 
Perhaps tomorrow, I will awaken
with my full vision shifted,
so that instead of half seeing twice,
I would have the beauty of nothing
and the beauty of everything
sitting there on my face,
waiting for their lids to spring open.

White line

Tonight, Terre told me about a song Jared Campbell sings called "White Line."  It's about a blustery drive home on a rainy/snowy/long/depressing night/day.  (You can determine the conditions, we have all known a drive like that).  The only thing that kept Jared on the road, and not in the ditch on the side of the road, was looking at the white line.  Then that same line transformed into the long string of people who keep him heading home.  Every dash a person.  That's an idea that will stick with me a while.  Who are my white line people?  Tonight, they would be Terre, Anne, Suzanne, the whole 4th grade of Fernway School (I could name all 76 if you want).  Lorene, my dad, my brother, a guy named Gregory, a little boy named Mathew B., Nikki, David, Jennie, Clover, Tia, Maya, Kathy, Keith and even the poet we heard tonight, W.S.  Thank you white line people.  Thanks for always helping me make it back home to myself.

Last night

I wiggled over every inch of the new orange sheets on my bed. Hunting for something.  Not able to find the thing that eluded me.  It reminded me of the night I watched my mother, with her stroke, work for hours to try to slide her legs from the hospital bed. Centimeter by centimeter, she worked the legs.  She was scared, she was laboring as hard as she could to leave that place, this situation, the fate that she sensed was coming. 

Sometimes, I forget that every day I am one day closer to dying.  Last night I knew it was true.  I awakened myself repeatedly, making sounds, talking, moving.  When I went to the bathroom at 3 am, I saw how dark it was.  That's always so surprising to me.  I am alone.  In the dark alone.  No one near.  I feel less than human.  Like I am an unnamed tree in a wide forest.   Or a star.  Or pill bug.  Last night, that singleness seemed stapled to the edge of my frontal lobe.  And I was searching, searching for something in my bed.   An arm to hold onto, a sliver of skin to rest against, someone else's breathing.  But there was only me, and the night and the swishing of my legs across the sheets.  Restless, disbelieving, wishing I would bump into someone else but me.

What the psychic said

1) I am strong, stubborn, and emotionally sensitive
2) Some people do not know how sensitive I am
3) I am affected by negative words
4) and negative energy
5) so that's a double whammy
6) I am now realizing I am more intuitive than I have ever been
7) I am not sure how I feel about that
8) but I do follow through with what I sense and know now
9) The "ones in spirit" are here with me
10) I have a tremendously calm spirit, positive
11) I am sensing things before they happen
12) Not sure if where I live is where I want to live forever
13) I am evaluating things more seriously - I want to be in an environment that is right for me
14) I need a more open area around me
15) I need a garage (the spirits laughed and I laughed too, considering that I recently paid 8,000 dollars for garage I do not use as a garage)
16) I will stick with my work, money, and security
17) I will be looking for a new wider space to live in, in Cleveland not New Mexico 
18) Where I work there are people who do not take responsibility for the things that need to be taken care of  -- there will be a drama that makes those in charge have to confront what they refuse to confront. (I will not be part of this, and it may not even be in the building where I work, but I will be happy to observe it).  This made great sense to me, though I will not say more about that here. 
19) When I am around negative words and negative energy, I should just cast a shield around me and ask that only goodness enter me.  "May god enlighten and fill me so that nothing but good can in."
20) I have been debating, recently, a love relationship
21) The spirit said that I have "quite a list of things I do not want"
22) But I am now more focused on the things I do want, which made the spirit happy
23) For a while I really shut down and did not want to be involved with anyone
24) There was depression and a lot of bad energy -- a really rough period -- that I had to suffer through
25) I have shaken off that experience, just recently, and am at peace with who I am and what I want
26) I do want to be involved and have someone to share life with
27) I am more at peace emotionally
28) I do not want "somebody,"  I want the "right somebody"
29) There are things I know now that I will never accept again
30) It will all be better, emotionally, for me, easier 
31) I will not be so worried with what people think anymore
32) There were times in my life that I could get pretty wound up, but now I see no point in that
33) I have a female Indian around me who is working with my intuitiveness
34) I am following through with my intuition, it's a really good energy
35) Someone is entering my life
36) who is good with their hands
37) loves to garden
38) loves to be doing things
39) loves to travel
40) very intuitive
41) very gentle spirit, a healer
42) does something like reiki or energy work with her hands
43) I asked, "Is this someone I know?"
44) He did not know how to answer.  "You have been close to her, but you have not really met yet.  She is around you, but you do not really know her yet."
45) I am really honing in on what I know I want and need in my life
46) I am slowing my mind down
47) which is good, because sometimes my mind -- "oh honey -- whew"
48) I need to get new windows in my house (?)
49) My mom is at peace -- she is around me a lot
50) There was a period of time we were apart
51) She is sorry that happened
52) She said, "What could we do, it happened"
53) There is no remorse or anger about that
54) "You are who you are, I am who I am" (Which are the exact words my mother said to me at some time during that silent period)
55) She is growing in the spirit side and she thinks it is really neat that I know what I know "in the body."  She had to figure it out on the spirit side.
56) It is amazing to her how "it is" on that side  -- there is so much more to the spirit
57) She is sorry that the communication, mother to daughter -- the psychic paused and said, "It is interesting how she is wording this" -- "Your mother said, 'Please let her know, I was not equipped.' "
58) (I started crying)
59) She did not have the nurturing mothering energy. There was a part of her that tried, but that energy just really was not there. 
60) She said, touching her heart, "I know we love each other in the heart, but I understand it now more than I ever did when I was living.  There are so many things that mattered that did not really matter."
61) There was also a grandmother spirit there and a grandfather.  A brother (I said no) that died suddenly (I said no, that there was a sister.)  He said, "But that sister kept her illness from everyone so it seems sudden."
62) My mother said to drive slower, "We can only make you invisible Jean for so long."
63) I need to smudge my house again, clear the energy
64) My father is a quiet, reserved man.  A gentle man who carries things very deeply.
65) There is something that I did -- lifestyle or attitude -- that happened a while ago that he does not approve of
66) Sometimes I remind him of my mother (I do not know if that is true)
67) There is a need to really share things with my father
68) My father is not a really communicative person, which I should not take personally
69) A spirit said, "He would not say shit, even if he had a mouthful."
70) He thinks a lot, but he does not verbalize his thinking
71) We have not had a complete shared openness
72) If I reached out, my father would recognize my sincerity in wanting to know more
73) I have good energy, good energy.
74) and that I should enjoy it.

may I

...press down the cuticle skin round my heart, 

unmold the hardening part of me, 

asking the second question, 

the one hidden in the ripples of another's skin. 

May I slip down to the ground, 

both hands pressed to earth,

wanting to soak in the strength of molten heat

miles beneath me, always just below. 

May I soften, then soften some more, 

fighting off the tight constraints of the labels

I glue to my skin and to the shiny foreheads of others. 

May I tear off all the tags and cleaning instructions. 

May I simply wear the shirt of me, 

and may I place a crown of berries and seeds 

upon my head so that the birds land 

in the brown nest of hair, 

their tiny feet and hollow bones

massaging the firm ropes 

of half trust and cautious hope. 

May those birds sing above me, 

may the sky sing down to me, 

may the moon throw off its grey windbreaker 

and wink its crater eyelashes my direction. 

May a river a half a world away splash round 

me, misty washed by what is here and coming.

May something of this make sense, 

in the way that nothing makes sense, 

how it all is now unraveling 

in bright ribbons of truth, me never expecting

and not wishing away the light, the light, 

the light that always wants to touch my face. 

Therapy #1

He said that he believes in connecting stories,
so after I talked about the freedom I felt in Abiquiu,
wild rebel like Georgia O'Keffe,
he asked me a question:
what does it mean for you to be a woman?
It completely stumped me.
A woman?  Me, a woman?

That night, when we drove to Plaza Blanca
to see the sunset, what I actually ended up seeing
was my silhouette in a photo Heather sent me
weeks later.  The strong shoulder,
and heavy breasts not nearly as huge
as I imagined.  An appealing curve,
the s-shaped edge of me. 

A woman?  I guess I am a woman,
though even saying that causes my brow
crunch together like pie dough. 
I told him that all I ever knew was that I was not
and would never be the kind of woman
my mother was, or her sister,
or her mother. Here, look at the legs

one foot extended, the skirts that flair
above the hip just right, the curls
placed in the hair, the hands folded,
cigarette and drink held like movie stars.
The plunging necklines, the bracelettes
walking up the arms, earrings that
draw your eye to the eyeline, and those lips,
painted and formal, saying talk to me,
kiss me, I am available to you.

I don't really know what she felt or did
with me when I did not slide into
the image of womanhood as everyone
she knew had done.  I don't remember
being rejected directly or scorned.
But I think I must have been a confusion to her,
and, not knowing what to do,
she opted for doing nothing.

What does it mean to be a woman to me?
I really do not know.  My skin is soft,
I know that.  I seek to comfort and soothe,
nurture the cubs and pull them to my breast.
That seems true too, though it's been
done in such a universal non-specific way.
Beyond that, I am stumped.
How can I be here, 49, and never even
thought about this question before?

John

...was making a model of the second creation story for his religion class in school.  His God looked like a cross between Gumby and Stretch Armstrong.  And Adam's head bore a smile as he emerged potato-shaped from a pile of brown mud. 

I think God as Gumby works just fine -- bendable, malleable, not-fixed.  Big rectangular legs attached to the ground, committed to this place and the people on it.   Long rope-like arms made for reaching out and wrapping in. 

It works, John.  Don't mold God any other way.

Wind chimes

Tonight, a low droning lawn mower.
The sparrows chittering in the bird tree.
A young boy, swearing while talking with his friend.
Upon seeing me the immediate apology,
"Sorry for the bad language."
These hardware store items strung together.
My shoes on the sidewalk.
The persistent call, "Watch me. Watch me."
The sound of sound spilling out of a new ice cream shop.
The hi tap of a car horn.
A beckoning, "Hey, come here."
The phone ringing.
Warm water filling a pot.
The silence in my house.
The clicking on the keyboard.
The scrape of my neighbor's screen door
opening, then shutting.
Her steps as she walks up
my front porch to see me now.

The swirl

... is the petroglyph symbol for journey. 
That's good to remember when I am unsteady.
It's all a journey, not good, not bad,
just a long walk on a wide land.

Tonight I helped a friend who called.
We retrieved her car so that it could be towed.
Beyond the break-down today, she had
been to court, waited with her son as
he had his wisdom teeth removed,
mistakenly skipped her duty as the car pool driver,
and had lost her wallet.
She need the 40 dollars to tow her car,
but couldn't swing it because she does not
have that amount in her bank account.

Me?  I am tucked in a cozy house,
with thousands and thousands of dollars
sleeping in two banks.  I have a job
that pays well, almost too much stability,
and not a worry in the world.

And yet, on her journey, my friend returns home
to a daughter that adores her, a son that
warms her sometimes-frustrated heart,
two other children away at college,
a mother who phones every Sunday,
a father who will buy her a new car
now that this one has died.

She has sub-swirls forking off of her swirl,
she has people attached to her journey.
And I have this: a lone swirl.  Strong,
carved deep into the highest mount of the petrogylph wall.

Mine is a journey, and it has been a blessed
and generous walk, I just wish, I just pray,
that I will learn how to walk my swirl with another.
Find a way to let someone fully make it to the center
of the labyrinth with me.  I hope someday,
I will have my emergency call. 
Someone I'll let tow me out of any situation. 

No, scratch that shit, even though it holds
some selfish truth.  I am lucky. 
I am not going to pray tonight nor
wish for something I am not able to have.
I am lucky tonight, blessed and rich,
the abundance is overwhelming.
I am not needing nor needy,
I am not wanting nor wont for something.
I am here.  My heart is still stretching.
My swirl is still swirling, I am not yet done.
And that, that, is more than good enough.

The bridge or the brakes?

Tonight I was driving to and from Amish country to have dinner with my father.  On the way there the sky was roiling with clouds.  On the way back, I followed a car that kept braking on the highway.  Both seemed just about right for the day, perfectly metaphoric. 

This first picture tells me that, though the last few days have been hard -- really hard -- and what I have learned about myself has been hard -- really hard -- I can still use this experience as a bridge to a better me.  I have cried buckets in the last several weeks leading up to the last three days. At every turn, I seem to simply break down and cry.  I know that I do not like who I am being: I have learned that I am not open, I am controlling, I am frozen in some ways, unable in many ways, not as kind as I could be.  And knowing that, and the ways that all of those things harm me and the people I care about, I can change.  I have a reason to change.  If I could, my prayer tonight would be to let it all go.  Stop clinging to fear and judgment.  Walk across that bridge from what I knew to what I now know. Realizing that it is not as easy as saying a prayer or traversing a bridge, yes, I have called my therapist.  I need to do the hard work now.  I need to find the source of this river of tears and drink from it.  Quell it.  Redirect it.  I need to find a better way.

If I do not find a better way, I will never know love, and that, dear reader, would be a waste of a life. 

And the second picture is just right too. The whole way heading north on 83 and then on 71, this small white car kept braking.  Somehow he was able to go 65 miles per hour and intermittently brake at the same time.  For no apparent reason.  I followed him for miles -- 20, maybe 30 -- and it was making me crazy.  Stop, go, go but not too fast, stop but keep going, respond to nothing, control, control, cautious without need. And, near the end of our travels together, I thought, 'That's me. That's the way I live life when trying to love. One foot on the gas, faking people out, a heavier foot on the brakes.'  I am the small white car that is damn frustrating.  Tonight, as I go to sleep, I will have only one question in my mind: what is there to be afraid of?  Why do I keep applying the brakes?

It is no longer acceptable to me to be the way I am.  I do not say that as if I am dumping it all out.  I fully appreciate and will not change certain magnificent things about me.  But this stuff -- the fear and cautious part -- that needs to change, morph, slide away like an east moving cloud.  It must.  My life depends on it, now. 

Black

Another day of me realizing,
again, that I am not.
Not capable.
Not available.
Not willing.
Not accepting.
Not open-hearted.
Not tender enough.
Not confident enough.
Not thou-centered. 
Not seeing.
Not giving. 
Not able.
Not.

The gifts of life are laid at my feet,
so close that I could stumble over them.
I could pick them up and marvel.
I could lay down in them and be blanketed
by all that is right and good
and beautiful in life. 
I could have loved. I could love.
But I choose not to. I chose not to.
And then, as it should,
love walks away.


I'm sorry. To her I say that.
To me I say that. To the very idea
that is and sustains love,
I say that.  I am sorry.
So deeply full of sad.