WaterOnStone

Thoughts on Love and Service

2011-11-28T22:07:00.004-05:00

Greetings.

Namaste.

As-Salumu Alayhum.

Shalom.

Peace be with you.

* * *

God is Love and Love is God.

There is no higher calling than to love one another, love one another, love one another.

The day I helped my friend bury her son's father out of a church in the heart of Dorchester was the day I lost all fear of the Catholic Church and its expectations of me. The building that day was dry as dust, and it felt spiritually dead, but I took communion anyway, because I know I am complete and have no need of confession.

I do not need to be sanctified or forgiven again by any priest in any vestments, and from the moment I was baptized as an unwitting baby, or the moment I took my first Holy Communion when I was seven, or maybe it was in the moments after my first confession -“ I lied, I stole, I swore” - I have been in the Body of Christ, even if I did not always know it. I have said plenty of priest-assigned Hail Mary's since that first communion, usually after confession, and more than once have found myself falling to my knees alone in my room with the Act of Contrition on my lips, and more importantly, on my heart. "Oh my God, oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee." This has not happened for a while, but I know what I meant each time I said it, and yet….writing it now, it seems a little embarrassing to admit that I ever said it at all (but that does not mean I will never say it again). I continue to say the Lord's Prayer to this day and every word continues to have meaning and depth. I take communion almost every Sunday at The Well - 6:15 p.m. at Hancock Church: "Dynamic, centering, candlelit" - a place where we literally break bread and dip it in the cup of grape juice, where everyone is welcome at the table, no matter where they are on their spiritual journey, where we sing and worship to live music. I am the only one of a small handful who really moves when the music plays, but I am not the only one who cries when we sing “Carry the Light.”

You may not have noticed from my previous writings, or from your experience of me, and more importantly you may not care, but I am a spiritual wanderer. I have been at a Baha'i feast (which was not a feast of any kind - please avoid this), I have drummed with Native Americans and the Mother Drum, I have celebrated the Feast of the Dead with the Wiccans, I have meditated with the Buddhists and chanted with the Hindus. I have eaten the body of Christ with the Christians. I hope to join in the Dance of Universal Peace with the Sufis, hear the horn at a Jewish temple and one day - if they will let me – I’d like to pray to Allah with the Muslims. Why? Because we are all one. Because there is only one universe, one God, one soul we all share. We are all one, we are all one, we are all one. And our highest calling from the heartbeat of the Universe, our only duty, is to love one another, love one another, love one another. For me, the best way I can do that is to remember that in loving you, I am loving God. This means, if you stand in front of me with no clothing, no shelter, no food, I am called to cover you and house you and feed you. I have done this many times, and will continue to do so, even if only on a spiritual level – I may have covered you with my prayers, fed you with my smile and encouraging words, and gave you a home in my heart. I may have actually let you sleep in my house and eat my food (one boy walked out of my place, unbeknownst to me, with a pair of my mismatched socks). I may have sent money so that others can help, and I have carried and lifted and wrote and answered and laughed. I do these things because there is no real separation between us, only that which I create in my fear and suspicion and ego.

Mother Theresa did not love the lepers and the outcasts and the poorest of the poor because they were so lovable and beautiful, per se - no, she loved them because they represented her God, as we all represent God, because we are all in God and of God, and God is in us, God is us. She welcomed them into her heart, she gave them herself, she gave them her God.

The things I believe about God are simple things, uncomplicated really, because I believe that the universe is so much simpler and more beautiful than we can ever truly know. The Great Mystery is just that – both Great and Mysterious.

I believe that, fundamentally, God is the energy that set and keeps everything in motion. It is the Life Force, the Light and the Darkness, the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end and everything in between. I am made and you are made of stardust and nothing you do or say, nothing I do or say will change that. I believe that God splits itself into countless bits in every moment and lives in everything, especially in us, so that it may experience everything all at once, everywhere, with eyes and ears and heart and flesh and blood and bone and bark and feather and stone and vein and moo. I believe that as I welcome and embody the Christ in me, the Light in me, as I become my highest self, exactly who I am meant to be, I become the stardust from which I am made…and I become you.

There is no separation. I am you, and you are me. We are all one, and we are called by every religion to love one another. And there is no higher truth than that.

Bucket O' Fish or, Do You Have Yahoo IM?

2011-10-05T20:51:00.003-04:00

My girlfriend finally convinced me to start the “online dating thing” through a site I like to call “Bucket o’ Fish.” (See below for ADDENDUM.) This name makes me laugh out loud, the kind of guffaw that is deeply embarrassing, especially when I’m sitting alone, or just walking down the street thinking about it. I picture desperate men standing over a large tank of water with loaded rifles, ready to shoot anything that moves. The guffaw is a clue that I am not in the right frame of mind and probably should not be doing this online dating thing, but she convinced me to do it. Well, technically, her date with a nice guy convinced me, that and the no-return-texts from…well, let’s just skip over that little tidbit of information, shall we? Besides, what’s the “right frame of mind” look like, anyway?

Probably I would feel differently if my two-day old online dating experiment wasn’t quite so hysterically funny. I mean, within seconds of posting my pics and profile, I got an IM from someone I’ll call CreepyDude7 who said, “You are GORGEOUS! Do you have Yahoo IM?” There was no picture and of course I didn’t respond, because really, what were we going to talk about while he, um, types with one hand? Exactly. That’s what I thought, too.

My friend tells me I shouldn’t be so cynical, that they are insecure and human, and just want to talk, and that yes, some of them are lazy…blah blah blah. And she tells me “internet and speed dating, it’s the way it is now, that’s the way of this century.” Ugh. Personally, I don’t like this century. I like the one where, for example, people ate real food and used cast iron pans to cook it in. The one in which they spoke to you in full sentences, and looked you in the eye. The one in which they punctuated sentences and spelled out whole words, and where men opened doors for ladies and tucked in their shirts. The one in which things were good for you and lasted a while. (Hey, maybe I should say THAT about the kind of man I want…ha ha ha ha ha).

The whole idea of online dating fills me with dread and a deep sense of ickyness (and now, loud, hysterical laughter). Thing is, I tried it several years ago – the first time was shortly after my divorce six and a half years ago, and well, why beat around the bush? E-Harmony rejected me. Their little computer program decided I wasn’t ready for a relationship, which, truthfully? Like, no shit. I was a mess. I was like six months out of a difficult and painfully sad marriage, I was needy and selfish and mad. But I felt I was just doing my civic duty, trying to date. Many moons later, I tried again with a different site, but took my profile down after two days because I felt too exposed. But now I have a blog, which you are reading, and I’m on Facebook and only recently closed my page to the whole world (long story), and now that my business is pretty much out on the street, this online dating thing doesn’t feel so weird anymore, at least not in terms of being exposed. I couldn’t care less what you think of me, in other words. I am immune to your opinion.

But, I am still approaching this online dating thing with a sense of civic duty. So, OK, maybe that’s not the best way to approach this, but shouldn’t middle-aged single women who are not deeply hideous with super-full lives enter the online fray and “put themselves out there?” I have my doubts. Look how much time it’s already taken, just to write this!

“Your world is so small,” I’m told, “step out of your comfort zone. At least practice dating.” Well, maybe I LIKE my comfort zone. Maybe I’m supposed to be alone. Maybe I WANT to be alone. Maybe these online dudes are really kind of, well, kind of pathetic and creepy, and yes, I should have compassion for them, but mmmm, I don’t. Man up, boys…say something other than “Hi!” And “Wooowwwww, great smile!” This last was “said” by an overly buff, fitness-trainer black guy with a woweee smile of his own and very large yet oddly-shaped pecs. I did not respond.

Today, my girlfriend (aka The Convincer) and I go back and forth via email about protocol, and I’m complaining about these men who cannot spell. I write to her:

“OK, so wut kills me is whon they can't spel and everythen is all rong on the screne and they thing its ok any ways and jest hit sind.

“I don't know how long I can do this,” I tell her. “LOL and LMAO and not to mention ROTFLMAO.”

She says, “ROTF?” I tell her what it means (you can Google it). She tells me I need to lose my cynicism and I ask why. I mean, did anyone IM HER within seconds of her signing up to tell her how GORGEOUS she is? He didn’t even read the first sentence of my profile (do they ever, ever read any of it?). I tell her I embedded my name in it, in case a polite man decided to actually read the profile and then say something like, “Hi Suzanne. How are you? I noticed you like….blah blah blah.” Or grown-up, getting-to-know-you words to that effect. I say to her, Is that too much to ask? I don’t think so. A little effort wouldn’t hurt. A little care and thoughtfulness in how you approach me would be nice. No china-shop bulls, please. Sidle up to me, approach me gently but firmly, don’t just flail around. It’s ugly and embarrassing. I live with teen boys (and a pile of their friends) and get enough of that at home. I want to ask them, are you trying to get to know someone new, or are you just killing time? I suspect it’s the latter and they are just…well…just shooting at anything that moves.

Yeah, she’s right. I'm cynical.

I send her this:

“OK...here's a perfect example of what I'm talking about. Guy's got a pic of himself (nearly normal looking guy) with an ugly, stove-in couch in the background, crappy carpeting and nothing on the walls. This is the message I get from him in my inbox:

Hi! You have a VERY SEXXY LOOK! wanna talk somtime?

I am laughing so hard I am nearly crying because, really? This is what you got? LOL and OMG.”

And also, no, no, I don’t want to talk to you somtime (sic). I want to go study and do my homework and have a real conversation about real things.…in the real world, where it all really happens.

ADDENDUM: OK...big sigh of relief. Two days after I posted, I deleted my online profile thing, because it was like, ewww, ick and oh God get me out of here. Ugh. I'd rather be alone than be....gawked at by CreepyDudes and propositioned by 25 year olds. For real. OK, so it was a little flattering, I admit, but...um...really, no thanks.

Physics

2011-09-29T13:48:00.000-04:00

Like a planet and its moon
like magnets in a child's hand
like the ocean to the shore

we are pulled together
you and I
by a gravity
so strong
by a soul-pull
so deep
like a black hole
so wide

we will never

ever

escape.

Melancholy, baby.

2011-09-13T13:48:00.000-04:00

The earth, it seems, has begun to turn more slowly in the last few weeks. Have you noticed? Maybe it’s just me. The insects are singing their melancholy song, reminding me of the changing of seasons. The days are a little bit shorter now and the shadows are just a bit longer and the insects are most definitely louder, as if they are calling to the darkness of winter, inviting it in, or maybe, like me, they are mourning the bright light of summer. Either way, I am certain I am not the only one to feel it, that drawing in, the drawing down, the deep and instinctive anticipation of darkness. There is stillness in the air even when the wind blows – can you feel it? I suspect what I feel is that instinctive knowing that we are nearly midway between the summer solstice and the winter.

I am an animal, and my animal body wants to begin storing up in preparation for the darkness, to squirrel away as much light and life as I can, to push away the oncoming withdrawal, a hibernation of sorts. I bought ingredients for soup the other day, a soup it is too hot to make, but that act alone – the buying of soup things – is a sign. The darkness of winter is near and although I dread it, I am mildly curious about what it will bring.

I don’t like the winter. Oh, not the snow, I can tolerate the snow – I will push it away as often as I need to, or go play in it. It is not the snow I dread, it is the darkness, the sense of isolation on cold winter nights when I need to be indoors studying or checking homework, or doing laundry in an apartment I do not like despite all the minor improvements I have made to it. I have this urge to tear up carpeting and remove anything extraneous no matter how small, to buy more lamps and light up every room with a thousand watts, to push away the oncoming smoky darkness in the corners; a darkness, I suspect, that exists only in my mind.

I want to turn my face away from what is to come, this drawing in. I want to burrow under the covers for days, preferably with a lover who will generate heat for me on cold nights, his sleeping, breathing body warming the air around us. But for now, I will sit and listen to the insects and remember that the darkness comes for just a little while and then it goes away again…and that some day, so will I.

September 12, 2011

In the Editing Room

2011-08-21T10:48:00.000-04:00

I want to take
the film of my life
and unspool it
from the metal canister
which holds it
unravel the black and white images
and run them through my fingertips
and in just the right places
~snip snip snip~
with my sharpest and most deadliest
scissors
edit out the "bad" parts:
the embarrassing moments,
the hours full of grief,
the rage that distorted my face,
to snip snip snip
and let the pieces fall
where they may
to be left forgotten
to curl up and fade
on the tear-darkened earth
of God's cutting room floor.

The Temple

2011-08-17T12:48:00.002-04:00

If my body is a temple
then I think
you should come inside
and worship.

But please,
remove your shoes first,
leave them
in the outer courtyard
before you carefully
and with permission
cross 'Temenos,'
that sacred space which
surrounds all temples,
that invisible boundary
between you and me.

Leave your weapons
and defenses
outside the door.
You will not need them
here.

But bring, if you will,
all the courage you can possibly
muster
all the dragon-slaying power
you possess
all the spirit-warrior wisdom
you claim as your own
and especially bring
all the stamina

you have ever needed to call upon

because you will
most definitely
need it.

Rhythm

2011-07-18T09:32:00.001-04:00

This stealthy and secret thing happens

all day long, all night through,

for years and years and years and

remains a secret unless you

speak of it.

(empty and fill)

My lungs, my heart, my spirit,

my life are

emptied and filled, emptied and filled

over and over and over

and I want to keep everything just the way it is

keep everyone exactly where they are
(which is next to me) and

I want these particular eyes

those particular hands

and just that sort of laugh

and the smell of this certain skin

and to hold this exact dream

I want I want I want

but even so

wanting never made anything last

even the Titanic

sunk

was a fleeting thing

just an idea floated on the sea

(oh, the hubris!)

that couldn't last.

I want and want and want
and yet

I am

(emptied and filled)

lungs and heart and life

emptied and filled

and I almost choked while swimming

in White's Pond (again)

when the dark fist of grief and heartache

opened its fingers and
grabbed me by the throat and then
closed its fisted fingers again

and punched me in the solar plexus

and cut off my breath for a moment

and I gasped for air but got nothing

but water and I knew as I tried to keep swimming

as I tried to take each smooth stroke

through the water and

emptied and filled my lungs
and the tears rolled down my already wet face

that I absolutely MUST accept

this rhythm for the rest of my life

(empty and fill)

or else I will surely

drown.

Holy Terror

2011-07-17T11:58:00.000-04:00

I am utterly terrified of being suffocated
in the daily round of boxed-in drudgery,
stretched on the rack of irrepressible obligation
and hung by my thumbs in an airless room
full of expectation.

Instead I want to grow wings and take flight,
to leave the dense pull of earth's gravity,
to unhook from the weight of ordinariness
and pedestrian concerns
and soar to the moon-glow
and bathe in it,
to float free among the star-sparkle
and feel its delicate drifting against my skin,
to lay under a tree and tickle my toes
in cloud fog, to take

what is ordinary
and hold it up to that certain angle of light
and reveal it for what it is --
bright and secret droplets of
LoveBlood that bubble up from
that deep, deep well in the
Heart of the Beloved.

Break Lines

2011-07-04T19:01:00.002-04:00

A sense of ambiguity and
deep, deep ambivalence were like
fresh, sharp splinters under my skin,
like little bees buzzing around my head,
irritating and irrational,
demanding, it seems,
undivided attention
but really, really
just needing to be
let out the window.

Partly in old unnecessary shame
and partly in grief
I quivered like a trained dog on a leash
wanting to rush forward and slash
with my teeth and inside I was
shaking with the need to be still
and not do anything
to wait on God
to wait for an answer
that may never come
and so I kept my voice quiet
and my head down
lest I lash out and
shame us both.

I want answers
that are not
my own made-up ones.
My ego demands reason,
insight,
explanation,
things that make sense given
what I know
or what I thought I knew
about the way things are;
things like...

Oh never mind,
it doesn't really matter
what's in my head
or what I want.

So instead of doing anything
"crazy" or demanding
or irrational
I went about my business
and I lived my life
and I brushed my teeth
and I looked in the mirror
and saw how beautiful I am
even with so many
unanswered questions
and a smooshed up crying face
and a mouth full of toothpaste
and tears running down my cheeks
and it was at that moment
a new and delicate
break line
carved itself into
my heart
which I knew I could add to my collection
and pour it onto a canvas and
hang it on my wall
and impress my friends with.

And when all is said and done
what I want to say to you
is just this one small thing:

Who are you
if you are not the You
I thought you were?

Hidden and Unhidden

2011-06-28T13:21:00.000-04:00

On a Walk Through Great Meadows

This avenue we walk down

made of cattails and rushes

hides city-like energy

filled with chatter and splash

splitter and crash

wing flurry and urgency

and as if flung from a catapult

little black birds

bolt up from the grass

and dive down beneath it

on mysterious bird-y errands.

There’s a hurrying in the air

and in among the grass

to hold onto the light

before the darkness falls,

a sense of settling for the evening,

of placing oneself perfectly

among just the right loved ones and

eating one more juicy insect and

crunching it up quickly, or

weaving one more green-y tendril

into a softly swaying nest or maybe

- well –

maybe this is how it is

all day.

A heron stands alone

unruffled and unbothered

by all the hurry and fuss

going on all around it and

standing quietly one-legged

(doing what herons do)

it moves super slowly

and without any turmoil,

deep in its serenity

waiting quietly for sustenance,

for the marsh gods

to bring it nourishment,

just quietly watching the world

do its thing.

The Victor

2010-08-26T12:39:00.000-04:00

My father once put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger, the sharp shadows of old regrets at the edge of his vision making his eyelids ache. He grew tired of them, I think, the weight of all those shadows.

I imagine him sitting at the cheap wooden table in his kitchen, its rickety legs matching those of the chair in which he sat. Nicotine-sheen covered and coffee stained, it holds the ashtray full of death, orange and black and smelly, and the whiskey glass he picked up from a bar that cradles its amber liquid and sends droplets of dew down its sides to stain the table once more. My father doesn’t like to touch the table – it feels greasy under his fingers and represents so much of what he’s become, and so he gingerly picks up the glass, puts down the cigarette, rests the book open-faced on its surface in such a way as to avoid contact with it. He doesn’t know that he does this, that he still feels this way even after washing and washing and washing it.

I think he put the gun to his mouth many times before that moment, to practice maybe, to see what it would feel like when the time came, that dark hole of its mouth calling and calling and calling to him, making promises he chose to believe, offering relief from the pain in all those shadows, their constancy making him weary.

On this night, as on many other nights, the Dark Presence comes to this room. It waits just outside the limit of his vision but he doesn’t have to see it to know that it’s there. Its energy is like a pulsating heart, beating out its insistent drumbeat, thumping its rhythm: tonight, tonight, tonight. The Dark Presence has come on many other nights, nights just like this one, the angle made by the smoke of the cigarette and the cylinder itself the same each time, the whiskey glass in its ringed spot, the pages of the book turning and turning quickly, as if he is breathing in their essence instead of reading the words; everything in its accustomed spot. Other nights my father has resisted, shifted his position in the rickety chair to signal his intent to stay, turning his back without knowing it on the Dark Presence, which quietly draws back into itself and turns away. It doesn’t go very far, though. No, it doesn’t go very far.

Tonight, when the Dark Presence arrives my father is ready, he has everything ready. It is 3:00 a.m. or thereabouts, the time when demons go looking for the weak, the vulnerable, the tired, the lost. They hit pay dirt when they found my father and visited him many times over the years, and have done their job well, bringing him despair and misery and depression for him to brood over in those dark hours, needling him with all the ways he’s failed, let people down, not measured up, their whiny voices incessant and loud, laughing at him, adding to the pain he carries in his physical body. He has no defense against them, doesn’t know they are separate entities from him and not his own thoughts. They have finally worn away his resistance, and so tonight, as expected, the Dark Presence holds sway, and so they just watch him from the sidelines.

The whiskey in the cheap glass no longer burns as he empties it into his throat, and the thick fog he pulls into his smoke-darkened lungs has no taste. His mouth goes dry as he stubs out the last cigarette he will ever smoke, his three-pack-a-day habit finally broken. Its orange filter lies in the ashtray next to its many brothers – he’s had to empty it twice tonight, already, to make room for more. He gets up from the table, a cheap and ugly table in a cheap and ugly apartment that represents everything he’s ever lost and nothing he ever stood for. He pushes his chair in close, as he always does out of habit. In this moment, he has nothing but vague thoughts of anyone but himself, he is too full of and befouled by the voices, but he writes a hastily scribbled note: “No more pain” and leaves it on the table with the glass, the ashtray and the book, the Bermuda Triangle that took my dad.

He then unknowingly turns to the Dark Presence and invites it along, asks it to please join him as my father walks quietly and without hurry to his lumpy bed, the flattened pillow sweat-stained and old but covered in a cheap but clean pillowcase. He lifts the pillow, takes the gun out and checks the chamber, an act he’s obsessively performed for days, and holds it carefully away from him as he gets into the bed, fully clothed. He pulls the covers up, gets settled and comfortable, adjusting his shirt behind his back so he doesn’t feel the wrinkles. He doesn’t want things to be too terribly horrible when he’s found and he knows he will be found or he would not go to the trouble of being neat. He knows he will make a mess, his death will make a mess, and he is trying to make it less so, as if he is somehow of the belief that this –his being neat about it - will make it somehow less painful. He is very, very wrong. It seems a passionless act this way, incomprehensibly so, and the neatness makes it even harder to make sense of, to understand why. It is clearly not an impulsive decision, it is very much a planned and premeditated act.

* * *

It has been ten years since that night, and every year the memory sneaks up on me. I mean, all year I know my father is no longer alive, I know how he died, I know how long it’s been, I know where his ashes are, I know. But for two weeks before the date I am weepy, crying a little every day, forgetting that the anniversary of the day my father killed himself and nearly killed my brother is looming, until like fucking clockwork, like a goddamn heavy iron shovel, one day I say, “Oh” as it whacks me in the heart, behind my eyes, grabs me by the throat. The grief and the sorrow and the pity and the guilt and the rage come right back, as if they’ve never left. It is just as intense and timeless as it was the day I learned of his death, the voice of my sobbing brother sending his enormous and nearly incoherent pain down the telephone line from Florida directly into my heart, changing everything forever. The only good news is that the sorrow recedes a bit, it goes back to its hidey-hole until next year, or the next holiday or major life event, or until I talk to my brother, or until I speak of it out loud.

I have questions that remain unasked, unanswered. Like these: Did he think of me, of my brother, my sister, his grandchildren, his three ex-wives as he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up? How many bullets were in the gun? Was every chamber loaded? How long had he been planning it? Did he really think he was that unimportant? What were his last thoughts? Did he tell himself when the Dark Presence arrived, “OK, Jim, this is it, it’s time, no more playing around?”

I would photograph the scene this way: Shoot the whiskey glass in black and white from just below the edge of the table, at an angle and from a child’s height, the whiskey holding the only spot of color. Snap a shot of the back of his hand as he stubbed out another cigarette, and the glint of his hazel eyes through the smudges on his eyeglasses he no longer notices, and the yellowed rings on the table and the black burn marks from cigarettes left forgotten, and the cigarettes themselves crumpled up together in the ashtray. I would capture the brief curve of a page-wave as he turns another one. I would take a close up picture of his nose, the one that is so like mine, and his close- cropped white hair, and highlight the collar of his shirt. I would photograph the greenish-blue cover of the book, a book full of adventures he would never have even if he’d chosen to live, and I would photograph myself reading it over and over, aching for answers I will never get, searching the pages for some truth, any truth.

Or no, maybe this: a one act play in which the lone spotlight highlights a man alone at a rickety table on a dark stage, who smokes constantly and drinks occasionally and reads unceasingly. The man’s breathing is just a little too fast and a tiny bit audible, and the tears running slowly down his face go unnoticed, and his attention is not entirely on the words on the page or the drink in his hand or on the cigarette resting and burning in the ashtray, sending tendrils of gray smoke into the already thick air, or even on his own pain, but of the Dark Presence cloak-shrouded in the corner.

Wonder

2010-07-07T09:12:00.003-04:00

In honor of an old friend...

He comes always in the night
like a thief
and steals her heart.

She hears the sound of his truck
rattling down her street in the dark.
The springs and stuffing
are growing out of the seat,
but he's loyal to it, the way a man
can be loyal to an old dog
that should be put mercifully to sleep.
Even she's grown fond of it, somehow.

She waits for the sound of the doorbell
a quick press of the buzzer, a hint that he's here.
She rises from the bed, damning him in her mind
knowing she won't protest his arrival
even though he's almost 45 minutes late.

At the door, she turns away, moves ahead of him
to shut the door behind him.
She stumbles on her way in and he thinks she's just awakened,
that he's woken her.
She doesn't bother to tell him anything different.
She moves by him to go to the bathroom,
brush her teeth, get settled in herself.
He reaches for her, feels the material of her gown
and pulls her to him.
They hug.
She wonders what he's thinking.

He's brought tea and donuts again,
his version of wining and dining.
She looks in the bag, a cry of delight
at the chocolate honey-dip he's brought.
She bites into it and wonders
who else has he brought tea and donuts to?
Who else does he share his Monday night ritual with?
She pushes the thought aside as they chew and sip and smile.

Later, when the tea and sugar is gone
they lie quietly, comfortably in her bed
and he lays there and talks, about everything
and nothing, it doesn't matter what.
She could listen to his voice forever.
And then he sings to her, the song he wrote
that's so sad and beautiful and sounds like a tune
from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

After they make love, as they stand in the darkness
he takes her own hands into his own and puts them together
a breath of air moving between them.
Look, he says. Feel.
She shrugs, doesn't see his point.
He puts his own hand against one of hers, a breath of air
between them and says again, feel
feel the difference.
And she does feel it - the electricity between them,
the polarities of their yin and yang, energy melding
and colliding by turns
in that small space in that moment in time.
And his wonder, his urge to show her the power between them
is touching.

They wake in the morning, turn silently to each other
and join without the interruption of words.
They sleep.
When he leaves, she wonders when she'll see him again
hear his voice in the dark, feel his hands on her body
and his breath against her skin.
She wonders
and tries not to care.

October 1991-ish

"So anyway, I met a guy."

2010-05-23T20:17:00.003-04:00

May 2010

My mother begged me to write this because it's a funny story. Plus, she wanted to have something new to read when she comes to my blog. My sister, on the other hand, begged me not to because "you shouldn't put your business out on the street," a sentiment I deeply respect.

However, little sister, I'm a writer....and part of being a writer is putting your business out on the street.

So this one's for you, Ma. Hope it's as much fun to read as it's been to write. I know you will forgive the embellishments.

* * * * * * * *

"So anyway, I met a guy."

This is what I tell my mother on the phone in the middle of our conversation, as if everything that had come before it was prelude to this.

There is four, maybe five seconds of silence and then one of us chuckles, and the other one snorts, and somebody giggles and then one of us says, "Hah!" and soon the laughter is loud and raunchy and we're pretty much slapping our knees and guffawing because we know: any story that starts this way nearly always ends in tragedy.

And we know that the last time I "met a guy" he was 10 years my junior and that as a result of THAT little fiasco I had my heart and my ego handed to me on a silver platter, both of them bloody and squirming and sliced in two, and that with hardly a word between us he spit on the tray, handed it to me without ceremony or even looking me in the eye, and walked away. It seems I had finally, after nearly 44 years on the planet, met my match in the seduction department, and it took a while before I could laugh about THAT little escapade, but laugh I do now, and hard.

"So anyway, I met a guy," I tell her.

"Oh?" she says through her laughter.

"Yeah," I say, once we've calmed down. "Dude had 'Suzie' written all over him. Leather jacket, motorcycle boots, skinny in jeans that perfect color blue. Had a diamond stud in his ear, wavy silver hair I had to stop myself from touching.   And he had this whole 'former-bad-boy-gone-good' kind of thing going on, and Ma, just the way he stood there."

We both kind of sigh.

So I tell her how I met him, and she's listening closely because you never know, this could be the one. But the more I tell, the more she knows: this is not the one.

I will not bore you with the conversations leading up to his inviting me to dinner next time he's in town. But when it comes down to it, I tell him, I'd be more comfortable doing coffee first, k? Because I don't know this guy, and I don't want to be stuck in his truck for an hour on the way to Gloucester because, I mean, what if he's a Sean Hannity fan, or thinks like Rush Limbaugh? And just so we're clear, I tell her, "I'm not worried about getting killed, Ma, I'm worried about getting mad." So we meet for coffee, all spontaneous-like, sort of but not quite last minute, it was a 'can you?' and then it was like, yeah where are you, what kinda time you have, what's going on, yeah yeah ok meet you there. I am booked nearly solid, wall to wall and back to back including weekends for the forseeable future and he's only in town for a couple days (and did I mention he's cute?). And this is as good a time as any because it has a hard stop at the end of it -- Lily is waiting for her grandma, i.e. me, to pick her up in like 45 minutes and I will not be late. And besides, I have no intention of getting involved with anyone, in any shape or form. Plus, it's just coffee.

So we meet for coffee and the diamond stud is glinting on his ear lobe and his hair is that lovely shade of silver -- I must be getting old to adore it so and not just on him. He tells me he changed out of his construction boots and into his motorcycle boots on the drive over from Marlborough in his big red truck because, I think, I asked if he was wearing them when he called. And his blue flannel shirt just hung a certain way over his tucked in gray t-shirt, with just enough room for a hand to slip in over his waist, and the loops of his jeans sat on his hips just so, one of them with a little dark crease in it, and I nearly had to sit on my hands not to reach out and uncrease it, and the boots, well, those squared off toes just send me....and I had to look away, hard.

And so there we are goofing around and laughing and playful in the middle of the coffee shop, up against the window counter in the tall seats, sitting side by side facing the cars going by and the people walking. His whole body is now facing me but I am turned away toward the street so I can stay focused on the task at hand, which is figuring out if I want to spend any of my precious time with him again, which I can't do if I'm looking at how he fits in his jeans.

And then he tells me that dinner was just dinner, that he was a little disappointed about not doing dinner, that he had to shift gears around not doing dinner and maybe I took it the wrong way because it was just dinner and I say, "Listen. I wanted to do coffee first because I had no idea if we'd get along. Clearly we do. But really, I didn't want to be stuck in your truck for an hour" -- and I lift my hand next to my ear and make a quacking motion with it and look him deep in the eyes while I smile really big and say in that flirty way us girls have -- "while you talk. It coulda been boring. And frankly, I don't have time for that." I might have batted my eyelashes, but if I did it was not on purpose.

"Wait," he says, with a look of incredulity on his face and putting the palms of his hands on his chest, "I have to drive, too?"

This is what I like about this guy.

But when we went to lunch the next time he's in town he...but wait, I'm gettting ahead of myself.

My sister, when I tell her about this invitation to dinner, christens him "Cali-Boy," a nickname I heartily embrace, as if I already know the outcome. He lives in California but grew up here so he visits every few weeks, says he's thinking about coming out for the summer. I think we have given him a cute nickname, but it is never a good sign when you begin to call a man a cute little nickname from the outset, especially one like Cali-Boy, and not to his face. It implies frivolity and immaturity, both of which, as it turns out, apply. But it's so cute I'm beginning to think even he might like it and think it's cute, that maybe I should tell him about it next time he calls, which I know I won't but mostly only because he'll know I've talked about him. But the fact that we've named him this early is not a good sign.

I mean, women aren't like men when it comes to nicknames -- when men name each other it is a term of endearment, right? If your buddies call you Fridge or PizzaFace or Skateboard, it's because you've earned it in some way, it's a sign that they love you or respect you or that you've deeply impressed them in some way and they will always remind you of that fact. When women name each other, on the other hand, it's catty and bitchy and mean and intended to hurt and we don't love you or respect you. In fact, we hate you.

When women name men, however, it's like naming someone else's pet -- we feel some level of fondness for you, maybe, but we do not respect you or take you seriously. And usually we name you after it's all over, when we want to put you in a tidy little box with a bow and name the mistake we made getting involved with you. Giving you a nickname takes the onus off us and we get to tell ourselves, well, I'll never do THAT again, or man, he was a total creep. I won't tell you what we named the mistake who handed me the silver platter, in case he reads this and feels bad [cue laff track here because, as if - as if I care about his feelings, I mean. He may actually read it.]. But we name this guy from California from the outset, and it's almost like....well, it's almost like Cali-Boy is already history.

Stay tuned for Part 2: "Lunch with Cali-Boy"

The Offering

2010-05-17T18:26:00.003-04:00

As I walked the Earth today

She seemed so much more

than just a friendly place.

I mean, I have always felt Her warmth

and been aware of Her benign nature.

Mother-Sister Earth has always welcomed me,

greeted me like an old friend,

opened Her arms to me

as I pass through on my way

to somewhere else.

No, I mean today She did not sit quietly

and passively as I walked by,

restfully growing and doing Her thing.

No, I mean, today I saw Her for what She is

as She actively reached out to me,

spoke to me in Her silent way,

offered Her healing and comfort and cleansing powers;

as She waved leaves at me and fluttered flowers --

the “aerial parts” ripe for the picking --

and as roots waited deep below the Earth

to be dug and made into a drought,

as the warrior plants held their protective stance

as the domesticated plants pretended to be tame

I saw the Earth for what She is:

a superabundance of riches, a plethora of power,

a cornucopia of treasures eager to be made into healing potions

and cleansing teas and soothing salves,

warming poultices and calming baths

for the good of me and you.

And She wanted me to, I swear, unlock the mysteries of the names

Of these quiet non-sentient but still loving beings

that each holds its own power to serve.

The Earth is not benign and passive, as I once thought.

Oh no, no, no, not at all.

Oh, quite the contrary.

She is actively offering
Herself,

offering

Herself
offering
Herself

to me.

How Joy Enters

2009-10-12T15:08:00.002-04:00

I missed the frogs on my walk to the pond yesterday. They were hiding somewhere, buried in the warm mud as if they are the truth I’ve been hiding from myself.

In a happy and upbeat mood near the end of my weekend of silent retreat, I stepped onto the boardwalk leading to the trail around the pond, and instantly felt like I was greeting an old friend. Hello Woods! I wanted to shout out loud. Usually I am greeted with a sense of joy and welcome, but instead a heavy and gray weight settled on my chest.

I stopped on the trail and watched the leaves float on the surface of the brook that leads away from the pond.

“What?” I asked that weight that I thought was gone for good. “Why are you here again? Why won’t you leave me alone? Why do you keep coming back? Do you have something to tell me?”

I felt like a petulant child whose fun was spoiled, stamping my foot alone in the woods on this beautiful fall day. I looked to the blue sky and stood there for a moment gazing at the gorgeous yellow leaves that caressed it, waiting for the answer I was afraid would never come, waiting even though I wanted to lie in the grass and rest from carrying this sudden weight.

“What is it?” I asked again.

“You have a broken heart,” a voice whispers.

“Oh,” I say, and as if it were a big gray moth that has settled on my chest, the weight I felt when I entered the woods stays there until the tears I need to shed have caressed the skin of my face, and when it has drunk its fill the Moth of Sorrow flies away, and I am free again. It only takes a few moments, but it feels like it lasts a long time. I think it took the last of my Great Sorrow with it.

Some part of me has resisted this knowing, this truth about my heart, even as I’ve tried everything to heal it, absolutely everything a sane and sober woman would do, and nothing has worked to completely eradicate it or completely seal it over. No matter how much wisdom and insight and truth I’ve packed around it, like a pulled wisdom tooth after a visit to the dentist, it resists all my efforts to change it, to turn it into scar tissue so I can move on and forget about it. No matter how many prayers I’ve said or how long I meditate, no matter how much laughter I’ve shared or fun I’ve had, no matter how long my walks are or how many tears I’ve cried, it has remained open and soft.

I have tried everything, and still it is there, a heart that is broken open wider and somehow wilder and truer than it’s ever been. I have had my heart broken before, but this time is different. This time I wake at least once a week to words and questions, sentences and paragraphs, whole chapters unspoken, unwritten, unasked, seeking answers and closure in the real world and not just in my spirit. There is no one to direct them to, though, those words and questions, except the wind and my soul, and they have no final answers for me.

The truth is, the good news is, this broken-open heart has brought me face to face with my essential vulnerability, and the deep need my soul has to drop, once and for all, the “tough chick from the projects” persona I have lived with all my life. The truth is that “tough chick” has been dead for a long time, but when I’m afraid to lose something or take a risk, or when I’m full of desire for something I really shouldn’t have, I hear her voice. She’s like a big ugly zombie, constantly stalking me with her crazy advice and admonishments, yelling from the sidelines, jumping up and down like a bad coach screaming invectives, telling me what to do. It’s hard to tune her out, sometimes. She gets loudest when I am frightened, or when there is something or someone delicious and yummy that I want so very badly but have no business having, absolutely no business being with. It is worse when both of those energies are active at the same time – fear and desire.

“Go for it! “ she yells. “You can handle it! What’s the big deal? Don’t be such a baby!”

She stands on the sidelines of my life, jeering at me for being a weakling, a wuss, a woman who requires tenderness and truth, intimacy and commitment, loyalty and trust. The truth is I am not tough. I have never been tough. I am mortal and soft, and it’s about time I accepted that. I am staring down the barrel of the last half of my life, after all. It’s definitely about time I accepted that.

So I stood next to the pond today and listened to the trickle of the water and the wind in the trees and I heard the truth. So I took the opportunity to speak to that crazy zombie stalker, but only in the deep quiet of my soul’s rooms and not out loud in the middle of the woods, because while I am many things, I am not crazy.

“Look,” I said to her. “ I’m just a fur-less, claw-less, feather-less breather trying to find Love and Happiness and Truth on this beautiful planet, trying my best to live in a sometimes difficult and challenging world. Can you cut me some slack?”

And I walk on through the woods, and am content in the knowledge, in the hope that she will honor my request. I took my broken-open heart home, and now I wait quietly and contentedly for more Joy to continue to arrive in my life and in my soul, because that’s how it always comes, that’s how it finds its way home – Joy can only enter through a totally open and wildly beating heart.

October 11, 2009

The Charmer

2009-10-04T15:12:00.004-04:00

He sat as they all do

in the lotus position

with a turban on his head

and a flute in his hand

his baskets all around him

and the sound of hissing snakes

emanating from his skin.

He was just a man.

I drew closer to him

pulled in by the music

drawn in by his power

and he asked

if I would dance for him

just climb into a basket

and sway for him

and I laughed and said no,

I don't sway for just anybody

just any old snake charmer

I don't climb into baskets

for a stranger

and dance.

I should have walked away

just then, kept my mouth shut

just then, and my ears closed

just then, because

I am so easily hypnotized.

But he was just a man, really,

just a boy, really,

and so I laughed.

He shifted his position

on his dark red pillow and

cocked his eyebrow at me and

began to play his flute for me then

began to charm me then

and the lies began to pour

from his mouth

just then

coiling into hissing snakes

at his feet

just then

slithering toward me

muscular and glittering and

full of flattery and promises

just then.

"Beautiful," one said

and wrapped itself around my ankles.

"So special," said another

as it twined around my thighs.

"Sweet and lovely," hissed another

coiling around my belly.

"I am here for you, darling,"

hissed a particularly powerful one

all diamonds and patterns and

blood red eyes.

And those meaty muscular snakes

coiled and slithered

around my limbs and around my chest

held me close around my neck

and bound me tight

until I was frozen and unable to move

but my heart continued to beat

and I could hear its distant drumbeat

and I was afraid.

And then that charmer

put me in a basket

just any old basket

and played his flute for me

played so darkly for me

to make me dance for him

and dance I did

I was helpless not to

and it wasn't even my best dancing

bound so tightly as I was

by his lies.

I swayed in that basket

all that long day

and far into the night.

For two nights I swayed

until early that last morning

when he suddenly

and without warning

flung his flute aside and

slammed the lid of the basket

down onto my head

because he had finished with me

he had no more use for me

he was bored with me now

and so he strolled off into the sunset

without a backward glance

looking for other dancers

he could charm with his flute

leaving me bound by his lies

his magical coiling snakes

leaving me to untangle

the now lifeless

but still twitching serpents

from my warm soft body.

September 29, 2009

Ch-Ch-Changes

2009-09-23T17:08:00.157-04:00

A few months ago I woke up crying.

It was very early in the morning and I'd had a nightmare. I woke to the sound of myself weeping, whimpering really, and words accompanied my sobs, but I honestly don't know if I silently pleaded to the Universe or if I whispered into the world, "I don't want my life to change, I don't want my life to change." I have no way to know if I spoke those words aloud, since there is no one to ask.

To wish that your life will not change is such a crazy thing to wish for -- it's like wishing to be only half alive, because life is all about change. Nothing stays the same - not the sky or the wind or the birds in the trees. Not your bank account or the baskets of laundry or your friends. Not your relationships or your wishes or your cravings. Nothing about this world is static and still and unchanging except, say, rocks and stones. But even they, given enough time and the perfect circumstances - the right angle and force of wind or the hard pounding of water, say, or an iron hammer wielded by a small child intrigued by the sparkles inside - those rocks will change. They will be shaped and crafted and sometimes broken open, just as I have been.

And so do I really want to be like a rock, unyielding and hard, to have the Universe work that hard to change me, to get my attention? Well, yeah, if truth be told, yeah, actually sometimes I do. Sometimes some stubborn, immature part of me wants to say yes, by God, work at it! Make me change. But more important, take nothing away. Please take nothing away.

But then I remember the times I resisted, how I marshaled all the forces of my will to resist the changing circumstances and conditions of my life, and how over and over and over again I was driven to my knees, nearly begging for mercy, yelling "Uncle! Uncle! I give already, I give!"

And now, as the most recent changes have arrived, I have been still. I've been quiet. I've rested. I've done my yoga and meditation and prayers. I've written my "morning pages" and worked on my novel and poems as they come. I've taken long walks in the woods, made a little art. I've understood and forgiven, both myself and another. I've laughed out loud and cried rivers of tears. I've learned new software and delved deeper into those I know. I have let the ocean bring me its gifts of humility and healing. I've visited with friends and made new ones. I've read books on personal growth and a couple of mystery novels. I've learned to cook and enjoy it and follow the damn recipe, no excuses, for God's sake. I started art classes, and remembered my dreams. I have hunted for jobs and went unhurriedly on interviews. But most importantly, I have looked in the mirror and realized that I am the spiritual warrior with the poet's heart I've been looking for all my life.

And now that I am ready, all the way down to my toes ready for the next change, the next adventure up ahead -- I can hear its music and laughter and the banging of furniture and the clink of dishes and the babbles of a grandbaby -- well, you know what I'm going to tell you, don't you? Now that I am saying, "I'm ready for my life to change, I'm ready for my life to change".....nothing changes.

And as I read over this list of things I've done to accept these changes, changes others have had to endure even as I have, things I've done to live with and into the questions I carry and to enjoy my life as it is in this moment, and to prepare myself for the work and the fun ahead, you know what's missing? You know what I haven't done?

I haven't bought shoes.

And as any woman will tell you, shoes change everything.

October 2, 2009

The Tattoo Gods

2009-09-23T16:33:00.001-04:00

When I was introduced
to the Tattoo gods
for the first time
I was horrified.

"Wait, I have to appease them, too?"
I asked.

My tattoo guy just smiled and said,
"Yeah. Yeah you do."

And he took up his needle
all buzzing and humming

and he pierced my skin

with the colors of truth

and all the bright lights went out
and we danced around the bonfire
and someone beat the drums
and someone yelled like a native
and the Tattoo gods just smiled
and every permutation of
everyone I've ever been
flashed through my mind.

I sat in my car afterward
with this creature on my arm
the Fairy that is me
all beauty and light
and I sobbed and I cried
and then
whoosh!
a red dragon
wrapped itself around me
all firy and red
and light-filled and scaly
and I knew the Tattoo gods
weren't done with me yet.

September 11, 2009

Betrayal

2009-09-14T11:30:00.008-04:00

Many weeks ago now

decades ago now

eons ago now

I met Betrayal

for the first time

in my life.

He is not

a handsome creature.

Here I am, Betrayal said

on that early Sunday morning

with his big fat grin,

his teeth all showing like a shark’s.

Are you ready for another lesson

on your fancy road to Enlightenment?

Hah! he answered himself gleefully.

Of course you are not,

but here I am anyway.

He danced around the room

and mocked me openly

waving his sword around

as if he owned the place.

And I stood there helplessly

as he handed that sword

to the unwitting human

he’d chosen for his work.

And that unwitting human

thoughtlessly and easily

bowed to Betrayal

as he took up that dark sword

and cut deep into my belly

and sliced up to my throat

and opened up a wound that

totally exposed and

completely revealed

my totally real

and completely open

and loudly beating

heart

and the red blood poured out

and puddled on the floor

and Betrayal stepped over it

in his fucking little flip-flops

and his backwards little hat

stepped right the hell over it

as if he didn’t even see it

as if he didn’t even feel

its heat.

September 11, 2009

betray

–verb (used with object)

1.	to deliver or expose to an enemy by treachery or disloyalty
2.	to be unfaithful in guarding, maintaining, or fulfilling
3.	to disappoint the hopes or expectations of; be disloyal to
4.	to reveal or disclose in violation of confidence
5.	to reveal unconsciously something one would preferably conceal
6.	to show or exhibit; reveal; disclose
7.	to deceive, misguide, or corrupt
8.	to seduce and desert.

Last Night

2009-09-12T22:18:00.000-04:00

So last night I went for it.

I brought my sleeping bag to the field

and lay on the wet grass

under the full moon

and soothed by the rhythm

of the peeping frogs

I pulled the moon and the stars

deep into my pores,

and felt the wind in the trees

as if it were my own hair,

and way off in the distance,

I swear to you,

someone was playing a Jackson Five album.

June 7, 2009

The Knowing

2009-09-11T15:07:00.011-04:00

This pathway through the woods

is the landscape of my Soul

made eerily manifest.

Pulled by the dark vines of worry

and tripped by the hard roots of fear

I am soothed by the artist of loved Brother Sky

who pulls me dreaming to himself

to create.

I hear the quiet invitation

from the breezy marsh to rest,

and the call of the trail

whispers silently to explore

to fearlessly move forward

and not look back

knowing deep in my bones

and in the ground of my being

that I am held very tightly

on this lushly green rock

this gorgeous blue orb

of Mother-Sister Earth

and I truly understand

for the first time ever

She will never

not ever

never ever

let me go.

September 11, 2009

Oh So Very Zen

2009-08-28T18:49:00.013-04:00

A friend and I were chatting several weeks ago about events in our lives, as girls do, and I was sharing with her how a couple of unrelated but back to back events left me shaken and deeply rattled and not quite sure where to put my body in space in order to accommodate the shock of it. It surprised me how much hurt and discomfort one person can contain over such things. As we talked, I was working hard to put it in perspective, get some distance from it, to explain it or fit it into what I know about my own life and life in general, what I know about accepting change, really working it hard, and she said something that cut right through all the bullshit, all the psychobabble and girl talk. She said very gently, "Suzanne, sometimes shit just goes down."

We laughed together, and now every time I see that phrase - I posted it over my writing desk as a reminder - I laugh out loud and have to fight the urge to call my friend and thank her, she who spoke this to me in all earnestness. It's a great reminder not to take myself or my life so freaking seriously. It is so comforting, somehow, much better than "shit happens," which is shorthand for saying random crises and freaks of nature occur and are outside our control: cars crash, fires burn, wars ensue, hurricanes destroy.

But "Sometimes shit just goes down" is more personal, more about people, you know? Sometimes they leave us, they wash their hands of us, they say mean things or have an affair with our best friend. Maybe they move to Canada or Alaska or somewhere in the middle of a goddamn desert just when we fall so completely in love with them, the fantasy of them, that we know we will never love like that again. Or maybe they do something so out of character, so diametrically opposed to who we think they are, or who they said they were. Maybe they steal money from our wallet or gossip about us or go back to their addiction, some awful thing you don't see coming. Do you know what I mean? They hurt us and betray us and it’s as surprising and random as those freaks of nature and just as firmly out of our control, and really, just as impersonal because it’s not about us, it’s really about them.

I wish I could live my life in a constant state of acceptance and not try to make sense of every goddamn thing that happens, just shrug my shoulders when shit goes down, feel the necessary pain of it, that much and no more and then to move on, not spend what feels like eons examining the spot where I fell, or was pushed, if that be the case. Just to live my life day by day, do the laundry and the dishes, say hello when it's time for that and wave goodbye when that time comes around, because it will. Just to live and just to be, just to be oh so very zen about the whole thing.

I often like to imagine myself living alone by the sea with all the notebooks I'd ever need and pens that never run out of ink, just walking the shore and listening to the waves and the birds and picking up interesting bits of seashells and just brooding and thinking and writing down all my silly little thoughts and all the big important ones, too. I think it's a bit romantic and artsy to imagine a life filled with brooding, to think deeply about the purpose and meaning of things and where it all fits. I spend a lot of time doing that now, only it’s far less romantic this far from the sea.

But "Sometimes shit just goes down" means I don't have to figure out how stuff fits into the tapestry of my life, or what lesson it's supposed to teach me or how I can grow from it. It means I may never know more than I know right at this moment about the truth of it, or why I will never get that apology I am certain I deserve. It means I can relax, because in the end the shit that goes down is not a reflection of my worth or value or lovability, any more than a hurricane is.

August 31, 2009

Live As If You Mean It

2009-08-27T22:40:00.004-04:00

There's this woman that works in Walgreen's down the street who is so deeply unhappy it stuns me.

It's the thing you notice first about her, that and her size. Then you notice her voice, nasally and depressed. When she speaks, it drops an octave or two at the end of every sentence, as if she's let it go into a deep dark well and doesn't care if she ever hears the splash. She just doesn't care. I think she feels that way about her whole life, really, as if it were an unwanted and diseased baby and someone dropped it on its little head and she doesn't care to pick it up, to comfort or to heal it. I can't tell if something bad has happened to make her this way, or if she is this way by nature, born to be miserable and not wild at all.

Sometimes I worry that I am secretly as morose as she is, but then I laugh and shake my head. Once, maybe, when I was 17 and pregnant, rising at 5:30 a.m. to go to work at Dunkin' Donuts, I appeared that miserable. I was exhausted and worried, serving people with such tiredness and lack of care about what I was doing, not looking into the faces of my also weary customers. One brave woman reprimanded me at 7:15 a.m. one Thursday morning, she really did: "Can't you smile?" she said sharply. "We come in here for our coffee," and here she looked around at her fellow coffee getters, "a little pick-me-up before work and we don't want to be greeted by your unhappy face." Or words to that effect; it was such a long time ago who can remember the exact words, but it stung and embarrassed me and stuck with me for a long time.

She must be, if I have to guess, in her mid-20's, this woman in Walgreen's, but her energy, her movements, are of a tired old woman who has seen so much of life that it's worn her out and now she's just waiting for it to end. Even her hair is tired, some thinning no-color grayish blonde. I can't tell if she dyes it or was born with it that way, the sense of listlessness endemic to who she is.

I say the polite thing as I get to the check out counter: how are you, I say, being casual and a bit wary, because I know how this goes. "By tomorrow at this time," she sighs, "I will have worked 33 hours this week," and she looks into my face for some response. I just look at her. What should I say? Any sympathy I might genuinely have for the many hours she's been on her feet is swallowed up, is swamped by her oozing self-pity. I feel no sympathy for her, because she has too much for herself. She wants you to commiserate with her, co-sign her displeasure at life. She never asks how I am, she just sighs and tells me how she can't wait to get out of work and go home.

She never once has anything hopeful or cheerful or cheering or enlightened to say. She is never anything but tired and unhappy and self-centered. I hope I am never like that, not for two lousy (additional) minutes, ever. She's asleep on her feet, sleep walking through her own life all the time, and she doesn't even know it, she can't see it. I want to shake her, tell her to snap out of it, to wake up! This is your life, honey, for God's sake, no one but you made it this way, all those little choices you make every day make it this way. Do something about it if you don't like it. Get up tomorrow morning and be a different person if you want, a cheerful person, one with hope and a sparkle in your eye, a dream in your heart and a kind word for your neighbor. Do what Hitch said and start every day like you mean it, with passion and pride and intention. Fake it if you must, my dear, until it becomes real. And smile once in a while. Just try it -- it won't hurt, I promise. I bet it won't hurt one tiny little bit at all.

August 27, 2009

The Woods

2009-08-17T22:11:00.002-04:00

On a walk just this morning

or maybe it was yesterday

a little gray rabbit shot into the path

and skittered and scattered

away ahead of me

its little white tail bipping and bopping

like a little motor on a boat

pushing it faster as if the rabbit’s life

depended on it

on speed and escape

and on getting away from me

which it didn’t.

The pond at the center

of these woods

is full of life -

dragonflies and skate bugs

and birds I’ve never seen

or heard before

and turtles aligned

like sentries on a log

resting and absorbing sunlight

and butterflies and bees at its edge

doing what they do best, which is

flitter and flutter and gather nectar

not hurrying or worrying

and staying out of each other’s way,

mostly, and with a flurry of buzzing wings

they apologize

when they bump into each other.

An army of frogs afloat on the water

serenely waits for brunch to fly by

because it’s that time of day

while other frogs chirrup and bark

yes bark, I mean it,

bark warnings to one another

leaping from the bank or the log

upon which they rest

leaping headlong and artlessly

with big noisy splashes

into the dark murky water

to hurry away

from danger

which is me.

August 17, 2009

Brush with Divinity

2009-08-11T18:38:00.003-04:00

In this dirty dark bar room

with the music too loud

my ears begin to ring

as a prelude to tomorrow

and the damage inflicted

by modern technology.

The tall guy I came with

has too much to drink,

knocking back shots

at an alarming rate,

and swaying on his feet

he reaches for the door jamb

to steady himself.

He bumps someone gently

in reaching for support

and since he's not a mean drunk

he apologizes profusely:

“Oh shorry,” he says,

“Sho shorry.”

A new band takes the stage

the one he's raved about

the one we are here for

and the husky voiced woman

voluptuous and pale

tattooed and wild haired

sexy in that grungy way

without really trying to be

sings and plays guitar

and sways to the beat

her eyes firmly closed

as if she is alone in the room

with her most intimate thoughts

but doesn't really give a shit

if she's not.

And the men in the room

are clearly drawn to her

invisibly strain toward her

wanting her, I swear

to notice them

come out of her trance

make contact with them

acknowledge they exist

see their love for her

see their lust for her

they don't really care which.

I tell you in all honesty

without any embarrassment

that I stand in that bar room

in that dirty dark bar room

and nearly weep in the darkness

because ~ I know it's crazy

I really do know this ~

but their longing

it seems to me

is that great human longing

to be one with the Other

the longing for Spirit

the longing for connection

the longing, I just know it

to be one with God.

But the music plays on

and her eyes stay closed

and the bar room shuts down

and the people wander home

and none of them know

they don’t really know

how close they just came

to the Divine.

August 10, 2009

Adrift on White Pond

2009-08-01T23:16:00.006-04:00

Like the five-pointed star

that I am

I let myself float

on the water as if

it were sky

held up by forces

I cannot control or see

or, I confess,

truly understand.

Aloft and adrift on the water

I am an angel

my wings spread

my invisible feathers billowing out

from me,

and I rest.

I rest on the surface

of the water

knowing in my heart

and deep in my soul

deep in the core of my being

that I am the water

that holds me up

I am that angel

with the powerful wings

I am that five-pointed star

that floats in the sky.

I am made

of the very same material

as everything in the universe

there is no real difference

between me and the water

between me and the star

between me and that angel

I long to be.

I float and drift

knowing everything

I touch and taste

and feel and smell

knowing everyone I miss

~ especially you ~

knowing those I love and

can only imagine

that we are all the same

we are all one

there is no real difference

between any of us

except the form we

opt to take

and the adventures

we decide to embark on

and the lessons

we choose to learn

and the lessons

we choose to teach

and yet

I know in my bones

and in my heart

which is also your heart

that we are all the same

and yet so very different

and we are all

so fiercely

oh so very fiercely!

deeply, unequivocally

and irrevocably

loved.

August 1, 2009

God as Comedian

2009-07-26T21:55:00.003-04:00

Oh, go ahead,

just shake it all up,

my friend,

throw it all to the wind,

just let it shake, rattle and roll

and let it all land where it may.

Just toss everything

you ever believed or knew

or wanted or wished for,

everything you owned,

borrowed, bought or stole.

Toss it all up and out.

Stuff is so easily replaced anyway

and sometimes, I have to confess,

people are too

but not the ones that really matter,

never them --

they live in our hearts

if not our lives, forever.

I know this from experience.

So if you just throw it all up in the air

the things that matter to you

the things that make you who you think you are

as high and as hard as you can -

no really, I mean it, every bit

everything, just toss it.

Let it all go.

Detach from it all.

It's all just a passing show

anyway

all part of the adventure

the Grand Journey

we each get to travel in this life.

And whatever God doesn't catch,

you get to keep.

And whatever God catches

He will eventually give back to you

in a new and better form.

Or, you know,

maybe He won't.

Because sometimes

He's funny that way.

July 26, 2009

The Wind

2009-07-26T21:35:00.005-04:00

There's a certain wind that blows

every once in a while

with a level of heat that makes me wilt

with a soothing hint of cool underneath

like the base note in a cologne

the coolness carrying a subtle hint of

possibility and promise

a playful lightness dancing at its edge.

I bet the Native Americans

have a name for that wind.

But I feel no need to name it

or capture it

in any way

except this.

I just enjoy it

as it caresses my skin

like the touch of a lover

tender and sweet

with whispered promises of

surrender

pulling me to the future

calling me forward

to the hope of what's

right around the corner

just out of reach

and not yet in sight.

July 26, 2009

Risk

2009-07-19T14:43:00.004-04:00

On a very long walk

I come to this swampy little marsh

this marshy little swamp

peaceful and dreamy

in the dappled sunlight

and I fold myself

onto the wooden bench

and feel thankful for the thoughtful person

who placed it there

just for this purpose

and I rest.

The wind rushes through

the tall green fronds of the cattails

whispering secrets on its way

to somewhere else.

The ferns and trees

and low lying bushes hold still

when the wind goes away

just being themselves

in the air and the sunlight

not hurrying or worrying

or looking for answers

or how or where

they should go next

and not trying to grow

any faster than they can.

They're just being

what they are,

you know,

just growing where they're planted.

And I try, I really try

to just be,

just for that moment

to just be

but everything in me

wants to make something happen

make a difference in the world

to matter in some way

and I watch the clouds far off

and I want to be where they are

away over there and not here

and for just that moment

as I rest and weep on the

sun-dappled bench

the only way I can think of

to just be is

to wade into this swamp

to risk the scratch of the branches

against my thighs

and the mud oozing into my sneakers

and tickling my pink-tipped toes

and the feel of the green slime

cool against my chest and under my arms

and the microscopic bits of butterfly wings

that will land on my eyelids

and the sparkly fairy dust

sprinkled on my cheeks

because I do believe in fairies

and the feel, maybe, of a frogs little toes

against my earlobes

and the feel of that slimy slick bottom

when I push my hands deep beneath

the surface of the water

to grab handfuls of mud

and slather it into my hair like shampoo

and take big deep cleansing breaths

of the cool greeny-blue air

and then I imagine

what it would feel like

to float on the surface

of that dark water

all covered in earth

and I know how it would feel

to just be.

But I don't risk it.

I don't risk any of it.

I stay safely on the bench

in the sun-dappled shade

and only imagine how

it would feel to just float

to just be

and its not because I'll ruin

my sneakers

or look like a crazy person

on the walk back home

and not because that

slimy mud would be impossible

to get out of my hair

but because,

well, because...

because of the bugs.

July 19, 2009

Free Fall

2009-07-12T22:34:00.003-04:00

So it's like this:

Say you strap yourself

into a parachute

all buckles and canvas

and ripcords and thrill

and you climb onto a plane

and you travel, oh,

say ten thousand feet or so

into the stratosphere

into the bluest sky

you ever saw

and say you're thrilled and terrified

at what you're about to do

but you do it anyway

because sometimes

a once-in-a-lifetime

opportunity only comes

once (or maybe twice)

in a life time.

So say the time comes

to leap out of that plane

and experience the unique

and nonstop fall fall fall

to the blue orb of the earth

floating and spinning

on nothing but air

as you fall and fall

and it's one of the wildest

most exhilarating rides

you've ever been on and

everything in the world

is lit up and brighter and

more colorful than ever

and your insides quiver

and ache with the pure joy

and adrenaline rush of that

free fall that feels like love

and say you scream out

loud raucous laughter and

then the ground comes closer

and you don't want the ride to end

you want it to go on and on

but end it does,

it very suddenly

and very painfully does end with

a broken foot, say, the snap so loud

in the cool blue air as you hit the ground

going way too fast and the pain

is excruciating

and so sudden and you

can't catch your breath for a while

you can't really draw a deep breath

for a bit but eventually you can again

and so I have to ask you,

Which part of that experience

would you remember?

Which part would you

keep closest to your heart?

Which part -- the pain of the landing

or the wild joy of the ride?

July 12, 2009

On Courage and Cowardice

2009-07-11T23:35:00.005-04:00

Cowardice is hiding behind a Mask

you present to the world

one of Competence and Perfection

and no Flaws or Vulnerabilities or

Weaknesses showing anywhere.

Courage is slowly and gently taking off that Mask

a little at a time to reveal your True Self

and then hanging it on the Wall

and being able to point to it

and laugh at yourself for ever needing

to wear it at all.

Cowardice is pretending All is Well

when it Most Definitely is not

and putting on a Show every day

so the real Pangs and Hurts of life stay in the shadows.

Courage is saying, Oh my God, I am dying

I am aching, I am in so much pain right now

and letting yourself fall to your knees saying,

Please help me, I can’t pretend anymore.

Cowardice is telling and living such Big Falsehoods

things you tell yourself and others

things that make you Look Good and Not Messy At All

that you back yourself into such a Big Lie that

when it’s time to Tell the Truth all you can bear to say is

“I can’t do this, it’s too real.”

Courage is being able to Tell on yourself,

to say, “I’m scared, I’m hurt, I’m lonely,

I don’t know how to do this and

I’m afraid you won’t Love me if you know how Weak I am right now,”

even if it makes you More Afraid when you say it Out Loud.

Courage is being able to stand still

to speak the truth

to yourself and to another

to reveal who you truly are

warts and fears and insecurities and all

to know that you are deeply and

infinitely loved and lovable

exactly as you are in this moment

and in every moment that follows.

July 7, 2009

The Homecoming

2009-07-09T11:34:00.005-04:00

Ahhh, there you guys are.

Where have you been?

I missed you!

Welcome home, my Friends

old Power old pal

old Joy old buddy.

Yes, of course there's room for you

both of you

now that sadness and discouragement

have (mostly)

left the building.

So, what shall we do today?

Scale a few walls?

Leap a few tall buildings?

Save a few planets?

What?

Wash the dishes, go for a walk,

visit with a friend? Notice the trees

and the birds and the clouds?

That's all?

Oh! And breathe very very very

deeply into every cell of my body

and only feel the tiniest pinprick

of pain deep in my belly

where the breath gets caught in the

Briars of Disappointment?

Oh, yes, I can do that and

with infinite gratitude

at your return.

Welcome home, my friends.

Welcome back.

This place would not be the same

without you.

July 9, 2009

Ashes to Ashes

2009-07-09T10:59:00.006-04:00

Walking into the

Sacred Fire

really really hurts.

Trust me. I know.

Over and over

I've been burned to ashes

in that Fire

everything in my life

reformed and remade

over and over and over

sometimes all at once

in one fell swoop

in the course of an hour

a day, a week

everything dialing back to

zero --

my bank account

my gas tank

my power level

my heart

emptying out the place

where the lover was

emptying out the place

where the job was

sometimes, even,

the place where

friends were

and I can usually hear the Fire

beginning to burn

the sound coming from far away

getting closer and closer

to me

and there is absolutely

nothing I can do

there is no firebreak I can create

to turn it in a different direction

to send it away

I just have to be still and let it come.

And when it arrives and

I hear the Voice I've always heard

say what it always says:

"Be still and know that I am God"

I obey and I hold still inside that Fire

and watch the flames cover everything

and they burn away the dross

and they burn away the masks

and they burn away the fears

and they burn away the regrets

and they burn and burn and burn

until there is nothing left

except deep deep Peace

and I am nothing but warm ash

and I can then

rest in the Heart of Jesus

be held in the Arms of God

be rocked in the Cradle of the Beloved

covered in the Cloak of the Great Mystery

for just a little while.

But eventually

when the time is right

like the Phoenix

that lives on my arm

I begin to rise from the ashes

being reformed and remade

renewed over and over

reborn and reborn

becoming more and more

over and over and over

my very real

my very truest

Self.

July 9, 2009

Perfect Timing

2009-07-07T10:54:00.003-04:00

I feel like

a butterfly

right now

still snuggled up

inside its

cocoon

still slick and damp

from the process

of becoming

and everything in me

wants to hurry this up

remove the layer

between me

and what ever

is next

to get through this

sense of vulnerability

and woundedness

from too many body blows

coming too close together

in just one short week

and I want to feel

my strength and power

once again

to remember how it feels

to breathe deeply

and without any pain

but I keep

reminding myself

of what happens

when you tear back

the cocoon of a butterfly

before it is fully formed

before it has a chance

to stretch its wings

and warm them

in the sun

and wiggle its antennae

and push out its tongue:

exposed to the air before its time

it emerges

deformed and broken

twisted and misshapen

unable to fly or walk

and it soon dies

without ever having

fully lived

as it truly should.

July 7, 2009

On Being Real

2009-07-06T22:19:00.004-04:00

You know how real

I want to be?

I want to be as real as

The Velveteen Rabbit

whose very flesh

whose very essence

was rubbed so raw

by Love

and by Time

that he lost all his

fur.

I want to be so real

that when I get to my own edges

those places where my

comfort zone ends

and the big neon sign says,

“Here There Be Dragons”

that I can walk right across

that god damn edge and

stick my shiny

warrior’s sword

directly into the heat

of the dragon’s fire

and keep it there

so long that

the blade gets

so bright and so hot

that it keeps me warm

all night long.

I want to be so real that

when I get to my own edges

those places where

my comfort zone ends

and "Here There Be Dragons"

signs are posted

that I willingly

cut my fingers on the thorns

growing on the vines there

and use the blood it draws

to write poetry so good

it makes you cry

it makes you guffaw and weep

for God’s sake

and read it out loud

to the birds and the trees

all the way home.

July 6, 2009

When

2009-07-05T10:55:00.004-04:00

When you try to ignore it

it wallops you in the face

and then grabs you by the throat

and insists you pay it

some goddamn

attention.

When you try to hide from it

oh, it comes looking for you

by god

and if it’s your moment for it

well, it finds you.

When you try to deny it

it will sneak up

from behind you

when you’re not looking,

when you're just taking out

the trash, say,

or sleeping soundly

and deeply

and innocently minding

your own damn business.

When you can’t see it

it tiptoes up

on its dark and stealthy feet,

and in the dark you know it's there,

the ache already beginning

In the middle of your chest

long before it arrives

in your throat

and hangs up its coat,

settling in for a long visit

(but shorter than last time,

please, God).

And when it’s finished

with you

after its shoved you around

for a while

and shaken you

to your core

and mixed up everything

you thought you knew

into a big jumbled pile

in the middle of your

living room

and left it there for you

and a few well-chosen friends

to sort out

and the tears are still

drying on your face

and you’ve used up

all the good Kleenex

in the house and are down

to the damn rag bag,

well that’s when

Old Man Sorrow

tips his hat to you

and walks out the door

(with a promise to

return again because

he always does).

And that’s when

a certain quiet arrives

after its departure

a certain feeling of

refreshment after a drought,

a certain comfort that

all in the world is

as it should be

right here

and right now

even though it may not

feel that way.

July 5, 2009

Anyway

2009-06-30T19:50:00.002-04:00

In every ending there is

that thrilling little glimpse

of a new beginning and

in every new beginning

the dimly lit vision of

the possibility of the end.

In my experience,

when the end is expected,

prepared for and anticipated

all you can do is

complete any unfinished business

say your goodbyes and grieve

for the lost tomorrows

and then

simply walk away.

And in my experience

when the ending is sudden,

unexpected and wrenching

sometimes it is all you can do to say

your goodbyes and grieve

for the lost tomorrows

and then

simply walk away.

And in my experience,

every beginning

no matter how exciting

or promising or thrilling

has a budding

kernel of mourning or

a seed of grief or maybe

a nugget of sorrow

buried in its center

and all you can do then is

simply love well anyway.

June 30, 2009

An Ode to a Cool Cat

2009-06-27T09:00:00.003-04:00

I know this may be blasphemy

it may even be unkind

but I’m not going to miss Michael Jackson

or Farrah Fawcett.

Nope, neither one.

Their Lights shown brightly for the world

to see and their fountains of success

poured out for others to drink from,

if you know what I mean.

But they’re gone now

and how will we remember them?

Michael as the amazing entertainer

(and the creepy child molester)

Farrah as the chick with the hair

and the red bikini.

No, I won't miss them.

You know who I do miss right now?

I know it’s silly, maybe,

but I miss Mr. Rogers.

I do. I really do.

He was the coolest of cats

the most serene of dudes.

He was all about

“No Drama” before Obama

even thought of picking up a basketball.

Mr. Rogers, man, that cat

always told you what he thought

he’d sit with you and be with you

and tell you just how things are.

He’d play a little jazz for ya, just enough

to make you want more.

He’d have friends over for quiet little visits

and look into their eyes and just be

fully present for them.

All Mr. R’s drama lived in that funny little

"Land of Make Believe" with that cranky little king

And sweet little Daniel Stri-ped Tiger.

I could use a little Mr. Rogers right now

singing his cutesy little songs about

taking my time and doing things right

and not rushing through an experience

or a sensation or a feeling

or you know, a life

just to get to the next one.

I could use a little Mr. Rogers right now.

Maybe I even want to be Mr. Rogers

right now.

Chill out, I’d say. Relax, man.

All is well, dude, all is well

And all manner of things will be well.

June 27, 2009

The Run

2009-06-26T19:09:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I get into

this rhythm

this groove and

I can’t tell if I’m going

too fast

or if maybe I should slow down

and postpone my arrival,

if I should,

you know, practice

delayed gratification.

But how do I know when

I’m going too fast?

I mean

is it when

my heart starts pounding

and my breathing is ragged

and I stumble a little

from feeling so off balance

is it when

I’m just a little bit sweaty

and the scenery gets blurry

and I can’t hear anything but

the blood pounding in my veins

or maybe it’s

when I just can’t think about

anything else except the scents

in my nostrils

and the taste in my mouth

and the sweet sweet rhythm

of my body moving through space

closer and closer to my final

destination

which is you.

June 26, 2009