My friend sent me a copy of Parker Palmer's Zen Outward Bound climbing experience...similar to my rock climbing story. I wanted to share the end of his writing because it articulates my understanding.
""Then," said the second instructor, "it's time that you learned the Outward Bound motto."
"Oh, keen," I thought. "I'm about to die, and she's going to give me a motto!"
But then she shouted ten words I hope never to forget, words whose impact and meaning I can still feel: "If you can't get out of it, get into it!"
I had long believed in the concept of "the word become flesh," but until that moment, I had not experienced it. My teacher spoke words so compelling that they bypassed my mind, went into my flesh, and animated my legs and feet. No helicopter would come to rescue me; the instructor on the cliff would not pull me up with the rope; there was no parachute in my backpack to float me to the ground. There was no way out of my dilemma except to get into it -- so my feet started to move, and in a few minutes I made it safely down.
Why would anyone want to embark on the daunting inner journey about which Annie Dillard writes? Because there is no way out of one's inner life, so one had better get into it. On the inward and downward spiritual journey, the only way out is in and through."
I have been asked by several people lately, "What will your job prospects be after completing a degree in Transformative Language Arts and Poetry Therapy?" At first I thought that I needed to yet again justify my choices based on society's standards of success (namely income, security, recognition, fame). Now I realize that I am moving in a direction that I can no longer avoid, the "daunting inner journey," the call, regardless of what society's barometer reads regarding my potential success. I remember when I decided to be a dance major in Utah my mother kept asking, "Why Utah?" with the unspoken question, "Why dance?" I finally quieted her by saying, "I don't know why. I just know it is right." I feel the same way about pursuing a degree in Transformative Language Arts, selling my house, entering unemployment and not seeking a full time job with health insurance. This is the right move for me and I'm willing to give it all up to take that horrifyingly risky step to get into it, to get into my life, my journey, through and eventually out into a place I can't even imagine...A place of purpose and intention.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Risk - Step Back to Move Forward
Last Saturday my friend and I went hiking along the Salmon River. At one point the trail joins the road and on the opposite side, several young men and women (everyone looks young to me now) were practicing rock climbing along a granite face. We stopped to watch and I recalled my first rock climbing experience.
My knees rattled like a loose bobbin in a sewing machine. Mouth dusty dry, I whispered, "I can't."
"Geeze girl, your eyes are wide as monster truck tires. What's your problem. Just step back, you'll be fine once you take that step," my coach hollered from the other end of the red and blue rope. He made it sound so easy; it's not taking the step that was the problem, it was stepping back, blindly back into the clouds, in the vapors, thin air, limbo, nothing, infinity.
I tugged at the harness, checked the "bineer" and wiped my sweaty palms on my cargo pants. Just then the chapstick barely in my pocket flipped out ~ clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, 1,000 feet down. My destiny. I can't.
The climb up Smith Rocks was intense, but doable. A 5.6 for my first climb. "You're a dancer," coach challenged. "You can do it easy." Crawling up the monolith, inch by inch, hugging the rock face, spurred on by pride and coach's encouragement, I felt safe. Even if I fell, I'd be caught in the belay, suffering, at worst, a few scrapes and a bruised ego. But this repelling down business...What if I push away and slam back against the jagged wall, splat? Even if I thrust my leg out to catch myself, the impact might fracture a tibia and then I'd be kicked out of the dance program. What if I flipped upside down like my brother did when he repelled? How embarrassing.
"Come on. Just do it," coach egged (this was years before NIKE coined the slogan).
"You didn't tell me we had to repel," I whined.
"How else did you think you'd get back down? I'm counting to five."
"Wait, can't we call a helicopter? (this was years before cell phones, too) Ten, count to ten."
"4, 3, 2, 1"
"Yes! I can!"
I slid to the bottom of Smith Rocks without a hitch and still claim the experience as one of the most satisfying, Zen-like challenges in my life. I stepped backwards to go forward and succeed. A few years later, while climbing a 5.2, I heard a loose carabineer, the thing supposedly holding me safe, tumble down the cliff. I decided then that rock climbing was too risky for me. I wondered, last Saturday, why I don't take many risks in my life any more. And yet, my friends say they admire my courage. This Saturday there will be an Open House at my home. I celebrate the risk of selling my house to follow my call. This Saturday I will take my past foster daughter (I found her again) out for a day of beauty before she moves back to Ohio to be with her birth mother. That chapter in my life was certainly a risk, risk of loving and letting go. In a few weeks I return to the art school for a 10 year reunion, stepping back to move forward? I still take risks I suppose (calculated, conservative, reasonable risks for me), more emotional than physical. I think the physical ones are easier. I don't really have an ending for this blog post...I can't see what I'm stepping into right now, just trying to trust infinity.
My knees rattled like a loose bobbin in a sewing machine. Mouth dusty dry, I whispered, "I can't."
"Geeze girl, your eyes are wide as monster truck tires. What's your problem. Just step back, you'll be fine once you take that step," my coach hollered from the other end of the red and blue rope. He made it sound so easy; it's not taking the step that was the problem, it was stepping back, blindly back into the clouds, in the vapors, thin air, limbo, nothing, infinity.
I tugged at the harness, checked the "bineer" and wiped my sweaty palms on my cargo pants. Just then the chapstick barely in my pocket flipped out ~ clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, 1,000 feet down. My destiny. I can't.
The climb up Smith Rocks was intense, but doable. A 5.6 for my first climb. "You're a dancer," coach challenged. "You can do it easy." Crawling up the monolith, inch by inch, hugging the rock face, spurred on by pride and coach's encouragement, I felt safe. Even if I fell, I'd be caught in the belay, suffering, at worst, a few scrapes and a bruised ego. But this repelling down business...What if I push away and slam back against the jagged wall, splat? Even if I thrust my leg out to catch myself, the impact might fracture a tibia and then I'd be kicked out of the dance program. What if I flipped upside down like my brother did when he repelled? How embarrassing.
"Come on. Just do it," coach egged (this was years before NIKE coined the slogan).
"You didn't tell me we had to repel," I whined.
"How else did you think you'd get back down? I'm counting to five."
"Wait, can't we call a helicopter? (this was years before cell phones, too) Ten, count to ten."
"4, 3, 2, 1"
"Yes! I can!"
I slid to the bottom of Smith Rocks without a hitch and still claim the experience as one of the most satisfying, Zen-like challenges in my life. I stepped backwards to go forward and succeed. A few years later, while climbing a 5.2, I heard a loose carabineer, the thing supposedly holding me safe, tumble down the cliff. I decided then that rock climbing was too risky for me. I wondered, last Saturday, why I don't take many risks in my life any more. And yet, my friends say they admire my courage. This Saturday there will be an Open House at my home. I celebrate the risk of selling my house to follow my call. This Saturday I will take my past foster daughter (I found her again) out for a day of beauty before she moves back to Ohio to be with her birth mother. That chapter in my life was certainly a risk, risk of loving and letting go. In a few weeks I return to the art school for a 10 year reunion, stepping back to move forward? I still take risks I suppose (calculated, conservative, reasonable risks for me), more emotional than physical. I think the physical ones are easier. I don't really have an ending for this blog post...I can't see what I'm stepping into right now, just trying to trust infinity.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Love, Why are You Hiding?
“All the particles in the world are in love and looking for lovers. Pieces of straw tremble in the presence of amber.” ~Rumi
Dopamine, endorphins, I am chemically challenged. I long to be in love again, the rush, enchantment, carried away beyond the ordinary to the extra-ordinary, ascending in spirit where heart meets soul in blissful communion. (I hear a Hallmark card coming on.) My friend Nancy dreamt (the same night I dreamt) that I was with a lover who was my size, same haircut, and we were at peace with each other. She thought the lover could symbolize a new direction, new passion in my life. I supposed it could be me…love of self. Indeed, I have experienced a dopamine high from art making, from strolling in the woods along an undiscovered path, but never, really, from loving self. So, I seek her interpretation, new direction, unmarked territory, in pursuit of bright passion.
Research shows that humans need a balance of dopamine, endorphins, for first-rate health. The most common way to get our fix is through human contact, hugs, sex, etc. I’m a bit underfed. A hug a week is about all I can expect in my single life (and I’m not sharing details of my sex life). It’s not enough, but my pursuit of a partner has proved unsuccessful. I need an alternative, especially in this world of disenchantment ~ this world of mistrust, fear, doubt ~ this world on the defensive, eager to exploit before it is exploited. Even as I write this, my nearly expired Norton virus protection pops up to warn me of a recent threat to my system. Interesting timing. No wonder I’m depressed. No wonder my system is battle weary. I need to be consumed by something, swept away in love.
Love is an intimate, sensual engagement with the world. I can find a facsimile in my garden, in the peach pink wispy sunset, the lime-green tree frog camouflaged on the garden hose ~ jasmine sweetening the lazy evening air. There, I border on ease, but it takes work to get there and the moment is fleeting.
Jung says, “The soul isn’t in you; you are in the soul.” How do I maintain a soulful, soul-filled life in an increasingly soulless landscape? How can I leave my garden? When I do leave, will I be able to re-build a life that continues to bestow breathlessness, enchantment, that leaves me trembling in awe at the mystery that evades my logical mind? Am I stripping myself of the ounce of love and spirit, inspiring inspiration, that still exists in my day or am I leaving behind the fading vapors of finished love, taking with me the love that has always been me (I AM love, my friends proclaim), opening the windows to a fresh new morning, perfumed beyond my imagining.
Dopamine, endorphins, I am chemically challenged. I long to be in love again, the rush, enchantment, carried away beyond the ordinary to the extra-ordinary, ascending in spirit where heart meets soul in blissful communion. (I hear a Hallmark card coming on.) My friend Nancy dreamt (the same night I dreamt) that I was with a lover who was my size, same haircut, and we were at peace with each other. She thought the lover could symbolize a new direction, new passion in my life. I supposed it could be me…love of self. Indeed, I have experienced a dopamine high from art making, from strolling in the woods along an undiscovered path, but never, really, from loving self. So, I seek her interpretation, new direction, unmarked territory, in pursuit of bright passion.
Research shows that humans need a balance of dopamine, endorphins, for first-rate health. The most common way to get our fix is through human contact, hugs, sex, etc. I’m a bit underfed. A hug a week is about all I can expect in my single life (and I’m not sharing details of my sex life). It’s not enough, but my pursuit of a partner has proved unsuccessful. I need an alternative, especially in this world of disenchantment ~ this world of mistrust, fear, doubt ~ this world on the defensive, eager to exploit before it is exploited. Even as I write this, my nearly expired Norton virus protection pops up to warn me of a recent threat to my system. Interesting timing. No wonder I’m depressed. No wonder my system is battle weary. I need to be consumed by something, swept away in love.
Love is an intimate, sensual engagement with the world. I can find a facsimile in my garden, in the peach pink wispy sunset, the lime-green tree frog camouflaged on the garden hose ~ jasmine sweetening the lazy evening air. There, I border on ease, but it takes work to get there and the moment is fleeting.
Jung says, “The soul isn’t in you; you are in the soul.” How do I maintain a soulful, soul-filled life in an increasingly soulless landscape? How can I leave my garden? When I do leave, will I be able to re-build a life that continues to bestow breathlessness, enchantment, that leaves me trembling in awe at the mystery that evades my logical mind? Am I stripping myself of the ounce of love and spirit, inspiring inspiration, that still exists in my day or am I leaving behind the fading vapors of finished love, taking with me the love that has always been me (I AM love, my friends proclaim), opening the windows to a fresh new morning, perfumed beyond my imagining.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Thank God
"Prayer erupts in the heart at the sight of either the impossibly beautiful or the unbearably difficult." ~ Joan Chittister
We thank God when we are grateful, when things go right, when we believe our prayers have been answered. And yet, we are discouraged from believing that our prayers are a Christmas wish list to a magic Jesus. I am taught not to curse or doubt God when things go wrong, out of order, away from my control. God has a plan, I am told, and I must have faith. I am also reminded of free will. And I am told that God is not an intervening God. That's why bad things happen to good people and why it didn't pay for Job to make sacrifices just in case his children sinned. Such offerings to God didn't do him any good in the end. Nor is God, I'm told, a distant God who just spun the earth into motion and then sat back in a lazyboy to watch the show. God is an enigma, a mystery, that much I know. So if God does not intervene in the unbearably difficult times of our lives, then why do we feel the need to give credit to God for the goodness in our lives? We can't have it both ways, can we? Why don't we thank God for suffering, for taking us through darkness so we may truly experience light? Well, some of us do, I suppose. Why don't we curse God when things go our way? For then we are only lulled into an unrealistic complacency.
Sometimes, when my friends and neighbors say they are praying for me, I can't help but roll my eyes and think, "Like that's going to do any good." All the people praying for peace, I'm waiting! I've put much of my faith in the natural order of things, the cause and effect cycles of nature. I want to believe that if I vote for the better candidate, if I canvas for intelligence, compassion, and reason, then the better "man" will win. Hmmm, I'm waiting. Sometimes the pears just don't appear on the tree, no matter how much care and tending and praying I do. Sometimes tsunamis destroy entire villages. Hurricanes happen. Sometimes babies die no matter how much money we contribute to medical research. Sometimes my sweet affectionate cat kills the treasured humming bird who has been thrumbing joyously around my honeysuckle, breeding new blossoms, new life, all summer. Sometimes we are crucified, no matter how good we are, no matter how hard we try. That is the natural order, unpredictable, inescapable, and basically out of our control. Out of God's control, too? Ineffable God?
So do we give up on God because we don't get it, because it doesn't make sense? Do we cling to religious cliches and platitudes, godly small talk to assuage our pain? Or do we pray to call God in to companionship beyond an impersonal, intellectual intimacy, to a side by side knowing, a shared grief with a welcome happiness. The Message states, "...The ironic fact of the matter is that more often than not, people do not suffer less when they are committed to following God, but more."
Crap, now what? What's the point? Why bother?
The resurrection, that's why. The transformation, the ecstatic beauty of transcendence when I have been to the depths, surfaced, and am able to see, really see the cobalt blue mayfly circling the rumbling river rock, when I stop long enough to be entranced by the flicking "S" of the fly fisherman's line and know that I have witnessed God and these moments, as much as our moments of suffering are the point of living. That the companionship through the inexplicable nature of living is all I pray for.
We thank God when we are grateful, when things go right, when we believe our prayers have been answered. And yet, we are discouraged from believing that our prayers are a Christmas wish list to a magic Jesus. I am taught not to curse or doubt God when things go wrong, out of order, away from my control. God has a plan, I am told, and I must have faith. I am also reminded of free will. And I am told that God is not an intervening God. That's why bad things happen to good people and why it didn't pay for Job to make sacrifices just in case his children sinned. Such offerings to God didn't do him any good in the end. Nor is God, I'm told, a distant God who just spun the earth into motion and then sat back in a lazyboy to watch the show. God is an enigma, a mystery, that much I know. So if God does not intervene in the unbearably difficult times of our lives, then why do we feel the need to give credit to God for the goodness in our lives? We can't have it both ways, can we? Why don't we thank God for suffering, for taking us through darkness so we may truly experience light? Well, some of us do, I suppose. Why don't we curse God when things go our way? For then we are only lulled into an unrealistic complacency.
Sometimes, when my friends and neighbors say they are praying for me, I can't help but roll my eyes and think, "Like that's going to do any good." All the people praying for peace, I'm waiting! I've put much of my faith in the natural order of things, the cause and effect cycles of nature. I want to believe that if I vote for the better candidate, if I canvas for intelligence, compassion, and reason, then the better "man" will win. Hmmm, I'm waiting. Sometimes the pears just don't appear on the tree, no matter how much care and tending and praying I do. Sometimes tsunamis destroy entire villages. Hurricanes happen. Sometimes babies die no matter how much money we contribute to medical research. Sometimes my sweet affectionate cat kills the treasured humming bird who has been thrumbing joyously around my honeysuckle, breeding new blossoms, new life, all summer. Sometimes we are crucified, no matter how good we are, no matter how hard we try. That is the natural order, unpredictable, inescapable, and basically out of our control. Out of God's control, too? Ineffable God?
So do we give up on God because we don't get it, because it doesn't make sense? Do we cling to religious cliches and platitudes, godly small talk to assuage our pain? Or do we pray to call God in to companionship beyond an impersonal, intellectual intimacy, to a side by side knowing, a shared grief with a welcome happiness. The Message states, "...The ironic fact of the matter is that more often than not, people do not suffer less when they are committed to following God, but more."
Crap, now what? What's the point? Why bother?
The resurrection, that's why. The transformation, the ecstatic beauty of transcendence when I have been to the depths, surfaced, and am able to see, really see the cobalt blue mayfly circling the rumbling river rock, when I stop long enough to be entranced by the flicking "S" of the fly fisherman's line and know that I have witnessed God and these moments, as much as our moments of suffering are the point of living. That the companionship through the inexplicable nature of living is all I pray for.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Change
My fortune cookie said, "You will make many changes before happily settling." Change, yes. Settling, probably never.
Today, a Realtor came to the door at 9:30 on a Saturday morning. I hadn't yet finished my second cup of coffee, hadn't brushed my teeth when I had to accept that 8 years of privacy was disappearing. Apparently, when a prospective buyer drops by, one must be willing to take a walk and leave them be to discover the house on his own. So I walked along my path, the Ellen Davis Trail, the place of blackberries in August and leaning trees for all seasons. A few berries were ripe enough to melt between my finger tips...sweet subtle relief. I'm getting cold feet. I don't want to share a house that isn't mine, to be a visitor in the suburbs, to have no path to walk every day, even if I choose not to walk. I huff up the hill, lined with figure eight cement bricks, infinity. I test blackberries on the vine and smile at the Queen Anne's Lace (it is my favorite weed because it reminds me of Anne Walters, the mother of my best friend in elementary school. I was in love with Anne Walters and wanted to be just like her). I could walk this path with my eyes closed, knowing each twist and turn. I rest among the circle of cedar, crying, trying to say thank you for all the times I've been returned to wholeness here. The circle of cedar saved my life, more than once. When I was longing for a child, I tied two pastel ribbons, one yellow and one blue, to low branches. The ribbons stayed there for six months. No child for me, but someone, somewhere, found her child because of the ritual. I buried bleeding sorrow in the soil of that circle and today I try to say good-bye. My feet aren't cold, but I have cold feet. I don't want to leave this cocoon of comfort. I wish there was another way. But I can't go back. I must inch forward into new passions and new directions with courage and trust, with what is next still out of sight.
Mary Oliver reassures me, once again, with her prose poem, West Wind #2
"You are young. So you know everything. You leap into the boat and begin rowing. But listen to me. Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me. Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to me. There is life without love, It is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks -- when you hear that unmistakable pounding--when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming -- then row, row for your life toward it."
I always thought this would be a great graduation speech poem. I found out last night that I was the first choice for graduation speaker this June at the art school where I used to teach, the school I helped design and build, and run for eight years. The current principal, the woman who had no courage and trust, no vision, who was threatened by those of us who created the school and spoke the truth, the principal who basically forced me out of the place I loved, my home, away from my family -- she refused to allow me to speak at graduation. She said I wasn't welcome in the building. By whom? Apparently the students wanted me. The remaining staff who still knew me wanted me. I would have been gracious and appropriate and would have read Mary Oliver. Ironically, last night, after hearing this bit of information, I received a postcard in the mail announcing the 10th anniversary of the school I helped build. The destructive principal won't be there next year so I will be welcome again. I can go home and enjoy my family and friends of another time. So in some ways, I can go back.
What would I say to a graduating class about Oliver's poem? I would encourage them to stop long enough to listen to the voice of passion, the voice of love in their lives. It is what I have been doing in this little house for sale, in the circle of cedar, at the art school, listening to my direction, my call, tasting the mist on my mouth, the churn and swirl, and unmistakable pounding that leads to my path. I would encourage the young to trust, to have courage to pursue what is right for them even if it sounds crazy, impractical, follow the pull of their unique ebb and flow, the heart within the heart, their soul song. Live without regret.
Today, a Realtor came to the door at 9:30 on a Saturday morning. I hadn't yet finished my second cup of coffee, hadn't brushed my teeth when I had to accept that 8 years of privacy was disappearing. Apparently, when a prospective buyer drops by, one must be willing to take a walk and leave them be to discover the house on his own. So I walked along my path, the Ellen Davis Trail, the place of blackberries in August and leaning trees for all seasons. A few berries were ripe enough to melt between my finger tips...sweet subtle relief. I'm getting cold feet. I don't want to share a house that isn't mine, to be a visitor in the suburbs, to have no path to walk every day, even if I choose not to walk. I huff up the hill, lined with figure eight cement bricks, infinity. I test blackberries on the vine and smile at the Queen Anne's Lace (it is my favorite weed because it reminds me of Anne Walters, the mother of my best friend in elementary school. I was in love with Anne Walters and wanted to be just like her). I could walk this path with my eyes closed, knowing each twist and turn. I rest among the circle of cedar, crying, trying to say thank you for all the times I've been returned to wholeness here. The circle of cedar saved my life, more than once. When I was longing for a child, I tied two pastel ribbons, one yellow and one blue, to low branches. The ribbons stayed there for six months. No child for me, but someone, somewhere, found her child because of the ritual. I buried bleeding sorrow in the soil of that circle and today I try to say good-bye. My feet aren't cold, but I have cold feet. I don't want to leave this cocoon of comfort. I wish there was another way. But I can't go back. I must inch forward into new passions and new directions with courage and trust, with what is next still out of sight.
Mary Oliver reassures me, once again, with her prose poem, West Wind #2
"You are young. So you know everything. You leap into the boat and begin rowing. But listen to me. Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me. Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to me. There is life without love, It is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks -- when you hear that unmistakable pounding--when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming -- then row, row for your life toward it."
I always thought this would be a great graduation speech poem. I found out last night that I was the first choice for graduation speaker this June at the art school where I used to teach, the school I helped design and build, and run for eight years. The current principal, the woman who had no courage and trust, no vision, who was threatened by those of us who created the school and spoke the truth, the principal who basically forced me out of the place I loved, my home, away from my family -- she refused to allow me to speak at graduation. She said I wasn't welcome in the building. By whom? Apparently the students wanted me. The remaining staff who still knew me wanted me. I would have been gracious and appropriate and would have read Mary Oliver. Ironically, last night, after hearing this bit of information, I received a postcard in the mail announcing the 10th anniversary of the school I helped build. The destructive principal won't be there next year so I will be welcome again. I can go home and enjoy my family and friends of another time. So in some ways, I can go back.
What would I say to a graduating class about Oliver's poem? I would encourage them to stop long enough to listen to the voice of passion, the voice of love in their lives. It is what I have been doing in this little house for sale, in the circle of cedar, at the art school, listening to my direction, my call, tasting the mist on my mouth, the churn and swirl, and unmistakable pounding that leads to my path. I would encourage the young to trust, to have courage to pursue what is right for them even if it sounds crazy, impractical, follow the pull of their unique ebb and flow, the heart within the heart, their soul song. Live without regret.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Moving
The bright white ReMax sign startled me as I pulled into my driveway today. It's real. My house is for sale. I hurried in to clean the kitchen. It is clean to an unreal, unlived in state. Funny, realtor leads to unreal. This morning I packed all my family photos and the memories of past lovers. I can only assume these boxes will remain unopened for at least two years, until I finish my next degree. I cleaned tonight until my hands were detergent raw. I have as much of a showcase home as is possible. Tomorrow is the official listing. Tonight I finally cried. I don't want to sell. I really don't want to sell. But to do all else that I want to do, what choice do I have? Now that the garden is weeded, the house is clean, I really don't want to leave. But the bright white ReMax sign has been hammered into my front yard. The decision has been made. I am moving. My house is for sale. My lovely convent of healing will soon be transferred to another. Tears well again and I am grateful for this outlet as I transition out.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Moving
Other things I'll miss.
The Leaning Tree
More embracing are your branches
than any arms I have ever known.
Are you a juniper, a cottonwood, a madrone?
I long to know your name, know you,
great spiraling mother of a tree,
Medusa hair wildly tendriling
as if you were planted upside down,
roots thirsting for the sky.
I see
your trunk warted, roped and frayed,
bark peeling to reveal
a dry light gray,
with one limb propped at a bend
by a man-made crutch,
I see
you are old,
perhaps tired, and yet,
and yet, you welcome me
as if to say,
Lean in. I am your womb of waiting.
Let me shield you from the unexpected
drops of rain, now
and for one day more.
The Leaning Tree
More embracing are your branches
than any arms I have ever known.
Are you a juniper, a cottonwood, a madrone?
I long to know your name, know you,
great spiraling mother of a tree,
Medusa hair wildly tendriling
as if you were planted upside down,
roots thirsting for the sky.
I see
your trunk warted, roped and frayed,
bark peeling to reveal
a dry light gray,
with one limb propped at a bend
by a man-made crutch,
I see
you are old,
perhaps tired, and yet,
and yet, you welcome me
as if to say,
Lean in. I am your womb of waiting.
Let me shield you from the unexpected
drops of rain, now
and for one day more.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Letter to Self
Back in May my Spiritual Direction class was encouraged to write letters to ourselves. I just received my letter. I asked myself to remember the power of words, my 'duty' to bring voice to the voiceless, the ineffable. I asked myself, "Are you daring to live a life without a why or wherefore? Are you living the question? Are you listening?"
The answer, yes. I am choosing again to take the risky route, sell the house, go back to school, do what I long to do, not what I think others think I should do. I have sadness about leaving my home. It has been quite the refuge, respite, and retreat for eight years. Below is a tribute to my lifesaving trail, the Ellen Davis Trail, just a block from my home:
What to Remember Before I Go
To eat
blackberries for breakfast
To cross over
NE 54th Street, green bowl in hand
To nod
at Steve, the neighbor I barely know, as he retrieves his morning paper
To pass
three mailboxes (one black, two green)
To turn
right onto a gravel road
To notice
apples still tight and red/green on their gnarled branches
To stroll
past the farmer’s garden with his purple peonies
To wonder
when the trail-tenders will rake the year-old pile of wood chips into the mud hole
To know
where the first blackberry bush begins and still feel child-like anticipation
To remember
when Karen brought over her three children to pick blackberries and swim
at Klineline pond. “These are Eva branches,” the youngest claimed, fingers and lips
already stained, “Nobody else can pick this low.”
To climb
the Ellen Davis Trail, switchbacks lined half way up with hexagonal concrete bricks,
Queen Anne’s Lace, and dusty blue chicory (the color of my cousin’s soul, so she says)
To study
the seasons of my path, first violets, then trillium, false Solomon seal, blackberry
blossoms and finally, in the end, blackberries
To be ready
for baby rabbit crossings and the familiar coo
of morning doves or is it mourning doves
hear me leave me
me me
me me
me me
To reach in
gingerly, past the thorns, touch me, I am warm
To smell twilight
purple ripeness
To test readiness
by the willingness to slip from the vine like a lover
an easy melt, sweet, silent surrender
knee-dropping gratitude ~ do I deserve this much pleasure?
To fill my bowl.
The answer, yes. I am choosing again to take the risky route, sell the house, go back to school, do what I long to do, not what I think others think I should do. I have sadness about leaving my home. It has been quite the refuge, respite, and retreat for eight years. Below is a tribute to my lifesaving trail, the Ellen Davis Trail, just a block from my home:
What to Remember Before I Go
To eat
blackberries for breakfast
To cross over
NE 54th Street, green bowl in hand
To nod
at Steve, the neighbor I barely know, as he retrieves his morning paper
To pass
three mailboxes (one black, two green)
To turn
right onto a gravel road
To notice
apples still tight and red/green on their gnarled branches
To stroll
past the farmer’s garden with his purple peonies
To wonder
when the trail-tenders will rake the year-old pile of wood chips into the mud hole
To know
where the first blackberry bush begins and still feel child-like anticipation
To remember
when Karen brought over her three children to pick blackberries and swim
at Klineline pond. “These are Eva branches,” the youngest claimed, fingers and lips
already stained, “Nobody else can pick this low.”
To climb
the Ellen Davis Trail, switchbacks lined half way up with hexagonal concrete bricks,
Queen Anne’s Lace, and dusty blue chicory (the color of my cousin’s soul, so she says)
To study
the seasons of my path, first violets, then trillium, false Solomon seal, blackberry
blossoms and finally, in the end, blackberries
To be ready
for baby rabbit crossings and the familiar coo
of morning doves or is it mourning doves
hear me leave me
me me
me me
me me
To reach in
gingerly, past the thorns, touch me, I am warm
To smell twilight
purple ripeness
To test readiness
by the willingness to slip from the vine like a lover
an easy melt, sweet, silent surrender
knee-dropping gratitude ~ do I deserve this much pleasure?
To fill my bowl.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Haibun through a Collision of Love
Today is her birthday, Tamie's, my foster daughter, non-residental foster daughter, ex-foster daughter. I don't know how to refer to her anymore. I tried to call the last group home she'd been in. She's not there any more. I called the case worker, "Guess who I'm looking for?" I tell people that after she left me she's was in about ten different foster homes, three group homes, juvenille detention, as if to explain why she wasn't with me anymore, that it wasn't my fault. I told Tamie it wasn't her fault. Neither of us could be who we weren't, as much as we might have wanted to be. She arrived in 2002 and left in 2003. In 2004 I began to write about my short journey of motherhood, entrance into unconditional love, the lessons of loving and letting go. The writing is in Haibun form, a combination of haiku and prose. It is mostly a story about Tamie and me, but also references other lesson in loving and letting go. Happy Birthday Tamie, wherever you are.
Collision of Love, A Haibun for 2002
I thought it would hurt when I read your emailed answer, "I cannot hold in friendship with you anymore." I thought your cold and perfunctory abandonment of us would hurt, should hurt more than it did. I promised never to be perfunctory with you. I promised, in poetry, to brush your hair with tenderness and care, not like the quick rough strokes of your German mother. But I am not your mother. You are not my mother and you made no promises.
With a crooked spine,
creaking knees, and weary mind,
I walk my riddles.
I thought it would hurt, but the time had come. We were done. Rocky edges do not thrill you as they do me, even the windswept vanilla borders we walked; you could not plan for such fenceless loving. You could not control the outcome, write the script, master the equilibrium while the downy hairs at the nape of your neck shivered in anticipation. The time had come to let go. Like a thistle fairy in my palm, I could no longer hold you and you could not hold me. The time had come for a night breeze, green-black with mystery, to separate us,
drift you back to home,
me uneasily forward
into the unknown.
What next?
I write my riddles
with a Sumi brush and water
color abstraction.
I thought it would hurt more than it did when I called your caseworker to tell her I couldn't adopt you and they should probably find you another home before the holidays. Of course I cried, a throat rattling cry. It took two years to find you, two years of forms and foster care classes on Attachment Disorder and head lice. And prayers and candles lit to show you the way to me, and prayers and eight months of insemination because maybe, just maybe you were coming through my uterus, and then bleeding, and screaming, "What God? What are you asking me to do?" and more prayers and a phone call, "She has nowhere else to go. Her birthday is in two days, she'll be eleven." What the hell am I doing? The records said she set fires, stole, molested younger children, and punched her last foster mother. But I knew she was the one, you were the one; we needed to meet, to be yoked together at the heart. I needed to read to you at bedtime, braid your nappy hair, tell you about bleeding and tampons, leave sanitary pads in your bathroom, argue about make-up and halter tops, praise you at parent-teacher conferences (praise you to your face so you heard the words come from me, not second-hand, there was too much second-hand in your life already.) I needed to hold your spindly body between my open knees, while you punched your bedroom wall and screamed, "I hate you, you fuckin' bitch. You're not my mother. I want my mother." I needed to know I could hold you through your rage and my fear. I needed to know I could hold you through this collision of love.
I needed to know
I could love you no matter
what. You needed
to know I could love
you
no matter
what.
Your rage! We both knew you could kill me. You locked yourself in the bathroom. I locked myself in my bedroom, called your caseworker at midnight to say I can't do this. But I needed to know, so I found the key. I found you, curled in the dry tub, clutching all the blankets you owned. Was this a porcelain protection for you, or for me? "Come back to bed," I whispered through my horror. I'll sing you a song. Finally, tears came. I didn't know you could cry. You curled again between my legs, pressing your head against my breast, your mouth so close to my nipple. You apologized in pre-pubescent awkwardness, "Sorry I touched your boobie." I smelled the top of your head, "That's okay sweetie." You pressed closer as if trying to crawl back into the womb, the womb you could have come from, but didn't. You came from a poisoned womb that poisoned you and yet you still survived. I am your eighth foster mother in seven years.
Tomorrow we will
find mother number nine, but
tonight I need to
know if I can hold your hardened
body like the mother
I would want to be, loving
you unconditionally.
The time had come to love you and let you go. It was time for you to wander on to the next home. I finally knew who I was as a mother. You finally knew a mother who could love you. Four months was all we needed. I could tell you were relieved to be moving on, relieved of your duties to me. Of course you cried, crocodile tears. Someone once told you that you should feel sad at good-byes. You learned sad from the movies, how to cry at good-byes, "So long. Farewell. Auf wiedersehen." Good bye. We both knew it was time. I packed your belongings in my old suitcases, no more garbage bags of clothes for you. One week of grieving for me (maybe something I learned how to do in the movies, too). I re-painted your room
then went back to work,
teaching, as I am called to
do. So now what next?
I dream my riddles
free from attics and basements,
cluttered memories
I thought it would hurt more than it did when you told me, "I don't love you enough." You brushed your hand along my
arm like a haiku,
three brief strokes with the impact
of a tsunami.
I thought it would hurt, but I already knew by then, the hurt of loving and letting go. I knew I would not die in the sucking darkness. I knew the comfort, the familiar wet iron stench of grief, the reality that reminded me I was still alive. I knew my journey:
to love and let go.
I walked my riddles home
and wondered, what next?
Collision of Love, A Haibun for 2002
I thought it would hurt when I read your emailed answer, "I cannot hold in friendship with you anymore." I thought your cold and perfunctory abandonment of us would hurt, should hurt more than it did. I promised never to be perfunctory with you. I promised, in poetry, to brush your hair with tenderness and care, not like the quick rough strokes of your German mother. But I am not your mother. You are not my mother and you made no promises.
With a crooked spine,
creaking knees, and weary mind,
I walk my riddles.
I thought it would hurt, but the time had come. We were done. Rocky edges do not thrill you as they do me, even the windswept vanilla borders we walked; you could not plan for such fenceless loving. You could not control the outcome, write the script, master the equilibrium while the downy hairs at the nape of your neck shivered in anticipation. The time had come to let go. Like a thistle fairy in my palm, I could no longer hold you and you could not hold me. The time had come for a night breeze, green-black with mystery, to separate us,
drift you back to home,
me uneasily forward
into the unknown.
What next?
I write my riddles
with a Sumi brush and water
color abstraction.
I thought it would hurt more than it did when I called your caseworker to tell her I couldn't adopt you and they should probably find you another home before the holidays. Of course I cried, a throat rattling cry. It took two years to find you, two years of forms and foster care classes on Attachment Disorder and head lice. And prayers and candles lit to show you the way to me, and prayers and eight months of insemination because maybe, just maybe you were coming through my uterus, and then bleeding, and screaming, "What God? What are you asking me to do?" and more prayers and a phone call, "She has nowhere else to go. Her birthday is in two days, she'll be eleven." What the hell am I doing? The records said she set fires, stole, molested younger children, and punched her last foster mother. But I knew she was the one, you were the one; we needed to meet, to be yoked together at the heart. I needed to read to you at bedtime, braid your nappy hair, tell you about bleeding and tampons, leave sanitary pads in your bathroom, argue about make-up and halter tops, praise you at parent-teacher conferences (praise you to your face so you heard the words come from me, not second-hand, there was too much second-hand in your life already.) I needed to hold your spindly body between my open knees, while you punched your bedroom wall and screamed, "I hate you, you fuckin' bitch. You're not my mother. I want my mother." I needed to know I could hold you through your rage and my fear. I needed to know I could hold you through this collision of love.
I needed to know
I could love you no matter
what. You needed
to know I could love
you
no matter
what.
Your rage! We both knew you could kill me. You locked yourself in the bathroom. I locked myself in my bedroom, called your caseworker at midnight to say I can't do this. But I needed to know, so I found the key. I found you, curled in the dry tub, clutching all the blankets you owned. Was this a porcelain protection for you, or for me? "Come back to bed," I whispered through my horror. I'll sing you a song. Finally, tears came. I didn't know you could cry. You curled again between my legs, pressing your head against my breast, your mouth so close to my nipple. You apologized in pre-pubescent awkwardness, "Sorry I touched your boobie." I smelled the top of your head, "That's okay sweetie." You pressed closer as if trying to crawl back into the womb, the womb you could have come from, but didn't. You came from a poisoned womb that poisoned you and yet you still survived. I am your eighth foster mother in seven years.
Tomorrow we will
find mother number nine, but
tonight I need to
know if I can hold your hardened
body like the mother
I would want to be, loving
you unconditionally.
The time had come to love you and let you go. It was time for you to wander on to the next home. I finally knew who I was as a mother. You finally knew a mother who could love you. Four months was all we needed. I could tell you were relieved to be moving on, relieved of your duties to me. Of course you cried, crocodile tears. Someone once told you that you should feel sad at good-byes. You learned sad from the movies, how to cry at good-byes, "So long. Farewell. Auf wiedersehen." Good bye. We both knew it was time. I packed your belongings in my old suitcases, no more garbage bags of clothes for you. One week of grieving for me (maybe something I learned how to do in the movies, too). I re-painted your room
then went back to work,
teaching, as I am called to
do. So now what next?
I dream my riddles
free from attics and basements,
cluttered memories
I thought it would hurt more than it did when you told me, "I don't love you enough." You brushed your hand along my
arm like a haiku,
three brief strokes with the impact
of a tsunami.
I thought it would hurt, but I already knew by then, the hurt of loving and letting go. I knew I would not die in the sucking darkness. I knew the comfort, the familiar wet iron stench of grief, the reality that reminded me I was still alive. I knew my journey:
to love and let go.
I walked my riddles home
and wondered, what next?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Summer in Berkley
I've been to Berkley and back, two classes at Pacific School of Religion. The class on Writing as a Healing Ministry was the final piece of the puzzle for my next journey. I now have an affirmation for the work I truly want to do, which is not the job I'm doing now. The critics in my head, the ones who niggle and complain when I move closer to my true self (the artist, teacher, healer) had much to say at the beginning of the week. Here is some of it:
I noticed she has 60 pairs of shoes, 31 of which are black
and there are no screen windows
in her million dollar home
but there are 3 original Ekuk masks
from the Bakwele tribe
squinting from her fireplace mantle
with coffee bean eyes.
I noticed she has 20 framed photographs
of children, step children, and grandchildren
nestled beneath a 3' x 4' foot wedding portrait.
She is a divorce lawyer specializing in uncontested
divorce contracts. Her daughter is an author
with 2 books to her name. I admire that.
She has 3 goldfish left in a 4' x 4' foot round
pond in her backyard and 1 white-tailed deer
who frequents her front yard to breakfast
on white narcissus. I caught a glimpse of him
this morning just before he tenderly slipped
into the wooded periphery. I want
to see him again.
I heard her ask me, "Now why are you here?"
I said simply, "I want to write. I am a writer," I declared
as I was instructed to declare on the first day of class.
I heard her ask with a slight edge, "Well, how many
books have YOU written?"
"None," I replied stunned and defensive,
"But, who's counting?"
I noticed she has 60 pairs of shoes, 31 of which are black
and there are no screen windows
in her million dollar home
but there are 3 original Ekuk masks
from the Bakwele tribe
squinting from her fireplace mantle
with coffee bean eyes.
I noticed she has 20 framed photographs
of children, step children, and grandchildren
nestled beneath a 3' x 4' foot wedding portrait.
She is a divorce lawyer specializing in uncontested
divorce contracts. Her daughter is an author
with 2 books to her name. I admire that.
She has 3 goldfish left in a 4' x 4' foot round
pond in her backyard and 1 white-tailed deer
who frequents her front yard to breakfast
on white narcissus. I caught a glimpse of him
this morning just before he tenderly slipped
into the wooded periphery. I want
to see him again.
I heard her ask me, "Now why are you here?"
I said simply, "I want to write. I am a writer," I declared
as I was instructed to declare on the first day of class.
I heard her ask with a slight edge, "Well, how many
books have YOU written?"
"None," I replied stunned and defensive,
"But, who's counting?"
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