...
I waited, a thin girl with braces, in an awkward communion dress, hands up asking for the wafer.
Confirmation comes at 12, eighth grade, when knees are knobby, teeth too big for the face and unlikely people end up at the party.
The confirmation memorization: prayers mostly, and a book about Jesus as a boy my age. He seemed so real; familiar, comfortable. Maybe he was more intelligent, coordinated and handsome than I, but his 12 year old grace and sensual kindness left me included, understood. He stood dusty, holding wood for his father. Here, hold this. Hold it until it's needed.
I would do it. I'd wait, head covered, in dust colored homemade cloth, smoothed by numerous days in hot sun, while red, fine sand sifted between my toes. Through the windy dust I'd hold the hammer, waiting for the strong arm reaching back. I'd wait helpfully as if needed.
That gray-blue book at confirmation lessons, just right to fit into two adolescent hands, included line ink illustrations, showing the boy I wanted to be. But this book was only a story. Made up to fill in the unknown growing up time of my Lord. After nativity we find him speaking in the temple like an elder, upsetting the balance. Skeptical adults could not fault him because of his wisdom.
I lost that boy. Party sounds drowned out the memorized prayer and friendship. The quiet elegance of church began to lose it's hold on me, the beauty, the carving and silver, dimmed. I sank into recognized hypocrisy on the drive home.
Turn around, girl! This is behind you now, beauty ahead. Your crippled back got stuck looking back. Turn around and see the dusty boy, an adult now like you. Still impossibly waiting and understanding. Giving you this life you almost missed. Turn your crooked back around, uncomfortable as it might be, face into the dusty storm and see hope.
Leave the family and cleave to your beloved.
...
Friday, November 20, 2009
Wet Cliche
...
They say it's cliche to compare rain with tears, but what a great cliche it is. The reasoning persists. Tears fall down the face, wetting cheeks, leaking of their own accord, pouring, even spurting out through squeezed eyes. Hard rain or soft or blowing sideways rendering overhanging awnings useless; straight across like a video camera askew.
Why can't we know rain and pain are conjoined; just know, not live; not living wet faced and hurting.
Seems to me that knowing is enough:
I'm grieving, thank you, that's just a fact, no need for resounding, out loud grief.
An act of feeling, an act of love lost, just acting.
Wear a black armband I think, or at least an imaginary band, squeezing my bicep softly, just to remind; a reminder is redundant for an aching heart, but just in case. I may mistake it for flu, thus a memo via a strip of black cloth could keep sanity alive.
Dark heart, why can you not get it? Game over.
I'm gone; an astronaut tugged free from the ship, air hoses waving behind.
...
They say it's cliche to compare rain with tears, but what a great cliche it is. The reasoning persists. Tears fall down the face, wetting cheeks, leaking of their own accord, pouring, even spurting out through squeezed eyes. Hard rain or soft or blowing sideways rendering overhanging awnings useless; straight across like a video camera askew.
Why can't we know rain and pain are conjoined; just know, not live; not living wet faced and hurting.
Seems to me that knowing is enough:
I'm grieving, thank you, that's just a fact, no need for resounding, out loud grief.
An act of feeling, an act of love lost, just acting.
Wear a black armband I think, or at least an imaginary band, squeezing my bicep softly, just to remind; a reminder is redundant for an aching heart, but just in case. I may mistake it for flu, thus a memo via a strip of black cloth could keep sanity alive.
Dark heart, why can you not get it? Game over.
I'm gone; an astronaut tugged free from the ship, air hoses waving behind.
...
Monday, October 19, 2009
Magazines, papers and books...Oh My!
...
Too much stuff to read around here.
It's my mind that's full.
Stuffed like an over filled closet.
I can't even finish what's new today.
T.V. just adds to.
I read historical stories of dark ages wars and life.
I read One Day at a Time.
I read entertainment reviews.
Political cartoons.
Bird suet recipes.
I see videos of sandy soldiers single file tracking hunched down, rifles in hand.
It's 110 degrees.
The enemy is hidden.
The local government is corrupt.
Apathy lies dusty at home.
No one can simply state reason's we're there or there either.
I read that over medicating causes terrible things.
I read that some who won't take meds are in terrible trouble.
My internet home page shouts about home invasions, hoaxes, air quality, budget deficits, poverty next door to riches.
I read that stress causes terrible things to happen to the body.
Cholesterol and worse.
Memos.
They tell of pay cuts and furlough days.
They remind me to show up proving no T.B.
I read that ancient medicine has the answers.
It's new again.
Did the ancients have stress?
They didn't have T.V.s or computers.
They weren't wired every minute of every day.
Of course they didn't have convenience stores either
and those relieve stress when plastic diapers are needed.
Or milk.
Or jerky.
Maybe it balances out.
Some cure for stress will fix it all.
Breath
Posture
Relaxation.
Maybe.
...
Too much stuff to read around here.
It's my mind that's full.
Stuffed like an over filled closet.
I can't even finish what's new today.
T.V. just adds to.
I read historical stories of dark ages wars and life.
I read One Day at a Time.
I read entertainment reviews.
Political cartoons.
Bird suet recipes.
I see videos of sandy soldiers single file tracking hunched down, rifles in hand.
It's 110 degrees.
The enemy is hidden.
The local government is corrupt.
Apathy lies dusty at home.
No one can simply state reason's we're there or there either.
I read that over medicating causes terrible things.
I read that some who won't take meds are in terrible trouble.
My internet home page shouts about home invasions, hoaxes, air quality, budget deficits, poverty next door to riches.
I read that stress causes terrible things to happen to the body.
Cholesterol and worse.
Memos.
They tell of pay cuts and furlough days.
They remind me to show up proving no T.B.
I read that ancient medicine has the answers.
It's new again.
Did the ancients have stress?
They didn't have T.V.s or computers.
They weren't wired every minute of every day.
Of course they didn't have convenience stores either
and those relieve stress when plastic diapers are needed.
Or milk.
Or jerky.
Maybe it balances out.
Some cure for stress will fix it all.
Breath
Posture
Relaxation.
Maybe.
...
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Hot will End.
...
The amber/bright light sits hovering above,
pushing Autumn away.
Autumn that wants to be here.
It showed up last week or so,
but Summer doesn't move out so easily.
Summer sits right down in the backyard
and says, "Listen to me, you.
The sun's not done."
Heavy, like a forest fire without smoke,
as with too many blankets at night when
you're cold at first,
but later the breathing is thick,
and no windows open for a breeze,
and finally does the humid stink
drive you up and out
to the evening star layer.
Craning your neck just to the cool, glittering black,
the tilt just right for warm weather turning cooler,
the constellations tipping with the season.
Currently that tilting sun smothers in the sky.
Just for a few more days until
October finalizes the heat stroke.
Inevitable.
Teasing and joking sunlight,
in a Monty Python skit,
hints at goodbye.
We lose the light, the temperature,
the sweat,
the quiet,
ultimately to the snap sound
of cold damp Fall.
...
The amber/bright light sits hovering above,
pushing Autumn away.
Autumn that wants to be here.
It showed up last week or so,
but Summer doesn't move out so easily.
Summer sits right down in the backyard
and says, "Listen to me, you.
The sun's not done."
Heavy, like a forest fire without smoke,
as with too many blankets at night when
you're cold at first,
but later the breathing is thick,
and no windows open for a breeze,
and finally does the humid stink
drive you up and out
to the evening star layer.
Craning your neck just to the cool, glittering black,
the tilt just right for warm weather turning cooler,
the constellations tipping with the season.
Currently that tilting sun smothers in the sky.
Just for a few more days until
October finalizes the heat stroke.
Inevitable.
Teasing and joking sunlight,
in a Monty Python skit,
hints at goodbye.
We lose the light, the temperature,
the sweat,
the quiet,
ultimately to the snap sound
of cold damp Fall.
...
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
What is square?
...
If love is round, what is square?
...
Is square sort of an opposite thing
like esteem and disgust?
...
What is disapproval, anyway?
And what shape is shame?
...
Some minds see numbers in color;
letters, too.
Some special souls' emotions
have a special smell or light.
Somewhere in those brains
synapses for ideas pulse with shapes.
...
That square protestant glare,
that look,
that stare from over there to here,
has sharp edges and corners
like an old fashioned triangular ruler
before electronic scientific calculators,
before cell phones on silent/vibrate.
I wince, buckled this tight;
my eyes can't see through the smoke.
Smoke from the heat
or smoke from an over-fueled hot rod?
Ultimately, it's steamed, blurry wet eyes.
...
Get out,
go home,
drink coffee,
don't think, I think.
...
And I do.
Until he says, "How's work?"
It's that bad.
Thinking is the trap, so don't do it.
...
Robotically I push red barns across my table.
Cut out farm animals.
Color and cut.
Color and cut.
And write your name on the back.
...
Robotically repeat:
"Clean up and sit down."
"Clean up and line up."
...
It's lunch recess in the high 90's
so we'll all faint in the heat;
so line up and shut up
while smoke rises from the asphalt.
Will you not escape today?
...
More fool you.
...
If love is round, what is square?
...
Is square sort of an opposite thing
like esteem and disgust?
...
What is disapproval, anyway?
And what shape is shame?
...
Some minds see numbers in color;
letters, too.
Some special souls' emotions
have a special smell or light.
Somewhere in those brains
synapses for ideas pulse with shapes.
...
That square protestant glare,
that look,
that stare from over there to here,
has sharp edges and corners
like an old fashioned triangular ruler
before electronic scientific calculators,
before cell phones on silent/vibrate.
I wince, buckled this tight;
my eyes can't see through the smoke.
Smoke from the heat
or smoke from an over-fueled hot rod?
Ultimately, it's steamed, blurry wet eyes.
...
Get out,
go home,
drink coffee,
don't think, I think.
...
And I do.
Until he says, "How's work?"
It's that bad.
Thinking is the trap, so don't do it.
...
Robotically I push red barns across my table.
Cut out farm animals.
Color and cut.
Color and cut.
And write your name on the back.
...
Robotically repeat:
"Clean up and sit down."
"Clean up and line up."
...
It's lunch recess in the high 90's
so we'll all faint in the heat;
so line up and shut up
while smoke rises from the asphalt.
Will you not escape today?
...
More fool you.
...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Riding Light
...
Did she say to ride light?
My teacher? My mentor?
My trainer said to ride light and I did.
Relaxed my body
so the horse knew to jog slowly, softly, gently.
Press lightly with my heels,
lift his shoulders, pull in his chin and he gives.
We work together.
But what did my mentor say?
Ride light?
Ride to work light, easy, ready?
Present in the car for the 15 minutes.
Keep shoulders down
because up hints at tension
and tension in the car is too soon.
Rather I should wait for the classroom.
Ride the children light?
Teach them and mentor them.
Let them succeed, let them see.
Use my natural wisdom
to push them along.
Gently presenting learning.
Encouraging growth.
She hints:
Ride light.
Listen!
Write light, she tells me!
No more of your subterfuge.
I should write light.
That's the message.
Write and smile,
write with pride,
with humor,
write with generosity.
Write of skills.
Think of strength, built strong
by experience and work.
Write light, wife.
Write light, gardener.
Painter
Crafter
Designer
Reader
Writer
Photographer
Videographer
Birder
Homemaker
Recycler
Philosopher
Thinker
Teacher
Hostess
Present Wrapper
Knitter
Mother
Friend
Sister
Colleague
Write lightly.
Give credit.
Write lightly of my knowledge;
knowledge of Natural History
knowledge of Literature
knowledge of Art History
knowledge of Film
knowledge of
Child Development/Human Development
knowledge of
Domesticated Animals/Farm Animals/Working Animals
Capable in Mathematics
Capable in Science
Capable in History
Capable in Communication
Capable in Equitation
Capable in Self Improvement
Acceptable in Cooking
Acceptable in Collecting
Acceptable in Driving
And still learning.
Learning patience
Learning confidence
Learning acceptance
Learning assertiveness
Learning time management
Write of success:
An AA
An AS
A BA
A Blue Ribbon.
Supervisors' evaluations.
I won't be fired.
So. May I stop now?
I completed my assignment.
Is it good enough,
finally good enough?
May I now chastise my dark, heavy lagging self?
May I now default to self detesting?
My knee jerk reaction; it's cellular.
It's easier, and heaven knows,
I find comfort there.
Don't make me breathe.
Don't make me hear.
Don't see.
Don't feel.
This lightness leaves me craving isolated darkness.
There I'm asleep and safe.
May I resist your pull?
But you, dear friend!
You won't leave me to it;
rather forcing me to see these attributes of mine.
And choices, pushing me to see choices:
100 ways to get out of a room,
100 ways I am admired and loved.
Write lightly you say,
of courage, my longed for goal.
Alright!
I'll begin.
Where is that courage!
Help me begin, will you?
To step into the light in Him.
The lightness outside of me.
Away from reacting to them.
Help me leave them all be.
Cease the waiting.
Change me.
Stay by me.
Don't stop leading as I drag my feet.
Light should result, then,
tripping on the doorstep,
and starting to seep into my dark house.
...
Did she say to ride light?
My teacher? My mentor?
My trainer said to ride light and I did.
Relaxed my body
so the horse knew to jog slowly, softly, gently.
Press lightly with my heels,
lift his shoulders, pull in his chin and he gives.
We work together.
But what did my mentor say?
Ride light?
Ride to work light, easy, ready?
Present in the car for the 15 minutes.
Keep shoulders down
because up hints at tension
and tension in the car is too soon.
Rather I should wait for the classroom.
Ride the children light?
Teach them and mentor them.
Let them succeed, let them see.
Use my natural wisdom
to push them along.
Gently presenting learning.
Encouraging growth.
She hints:
Ride light.
Listen!
Write light, she tells me!
No more of your subterfuge.
I should write light.
That's the message.
Write and smile,
write with pride,
with humor,
write with generosity.
Write of skills.
Think of strength, built strong
by experience and work.
Write light, wife.
Write light, gardener.
Painter
Crafter
Designer
Reader
Writer
Photographer
Videographer
Birder
Homemaker
Recycler
Philosopher
Thinker
Teacher
Hostess
Present Wrapper
Knitter
Mother
Friend
Sister
Colleague
Write lightly.
Give credit.
Write lightly of my knowledge;
knowledge of Natural History
knowledge of Literature
knowledge of Art History
knowledge of Film
knowledge of
Child Development/Human Development
knowledge of
Domesticated Animals/Farm Animals/Working Animals
Capable in Mathematics
Capable in Science
Capable in History
Capable in Communication
Capable in Equitation
Capable in Self Improvement
Acceptable in Cooking
Acceptable in Collecting
Acceptable in Driving
And still learning.
Learning patience
Learning confidence
Learning acceptance
Learning assertiveness
Learning time management
Write of success:
An AA
An AS
A BA
A Blue Ribbon.
Supervisors' evaluations.
I won't be fired.
So. May I stop now?
I completed my assignment.
Is it good enough,
finally good enough?
May I now chastise my dark, heavy lagging self?
May I now default to self detesting?
My knee jerk reaction; it's cellular.
It's easier, and heaven knows,
I find comfort there.
Don't make me breathe.
Don't make me hear.
Don't see.
Don't feel.
This lightness leaves me craving isolated darkness.
There I'm asleep and safe.
May I resist your pull?
But you, dear friend!
You won't leave me to it;
rather forcing me to see these attributes of mine.
And choices, pushing me to see choices:
100 ways to get out of a room,
100 ways I am admired and loved.
Write lightly you say,
of courage, my longed for goal.
Alright!
I'll begin.
Where is that courage!
Help me begin, will you?
To step into the light in Him.
The lightness outside of me.
Away from reacting to them.
Help me leave them all be.
Cease the waiting.
Change me.
Stay by me.
Don't stop leading as I drag my feet.
Light should result, then,
tripping on the doorstep,
and starting to seep into my dark house.
...
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
all the talking in my head
...
I should be fired, so lowly do I work,
but evaluations say otherwise.
Raving praise drips down the page,
but too much talking twists the facts.
Too much talking presses down,
while crowning imagined failures with glory.
One step forward, seven steps back
while the pep talk fades.
I chant Our Father over and over softly sweet,
until a remembered faux pas sneaks between
Thy Kingdom Come and Thy Will be Done,
filling the pauses like water creeps,
puddle-like, over the river floor.
Between Give us Today our Daily Bread
and Forgive us our Trespasses as We Forgive,
I struggle against the crunch of my bones
wrapped in damp gauze with alum,
that will, while drying, pull taught my toes
under my arch closer to my heel
for a tiny 3" embroidered shoe.
Step on me I say.
Step on my broken foot, climb to my knee,
grab my head, your foot on my shoulder.
I'll stoop down.
Then bind tightly,
keeping appendages crunched,
keeping the will strangled,
keeping the privileges from my reach.
Awaking, I mouth,
Lead us not into Temptation,
knowing now I will not capitulate.
Whispering Deliver us from Evil,
I stop you and stand up.
"Find your own way, not on my back."
I'll kick off cloth rags and stride home.
And I won't step back
when a horse shakes his head.
I'll move into his face, his shoulder;
point my toes towards the legs.
"Move Over Horse."
Move over, I have a need to walk this way.
...
I should be fired, so lowly do I work,
but evaluations say otherwise.
Raving praise drips down the page,
but too much talking twists the facts.
Too much talking presses down,
while crowning imagined failures with glory.
One step forward, seven steps back
while the pep talk fades.
I chant Our Father over and over softly sweet,
until a remembered faux pas sneaks between
Thy Kingdom Come and Thy Will be Done,
filling the pauses like water creeps,
puddle-like, over the river floor.
Between Give us Today our Daily Bread
and Forgive us our Trespasses as We Forgive,
I struggle against the crunch of my bones
wrapped in damp gauze with alum,
that will, while drying, pull taught my toes
under my arch closer to my heel
for a tiny 3" embroidered shoe.
Step on me I say.
Step on my broken foot, climb to my knee,
grab my head, your foot on my shoulder.
I'll stoop down.
Then bind tightly,
keeping appendages crunched,
keeping the will strangled,
keeping the privileges from my reach.
Awaking, I mouth,
Lead us not into Temptation,
knowing now I will not capitulate.
Whispering Deliver us from Evil,
I stop you and stand up.
"Find your own way, not on my back."
I'll kick off cloth rags and stride home.
And I won't step back
when a horse shakes his head.
I'll move into his face, his shoulder;
point my toes towards the legs.
"Move Over Horse."
Move over, I have a need to walk this way.
...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
