Wrapped!

Posted: March 22, 2020 in God, hope
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He placed a paper-thin, white wrapper on each garlic clove, then added additional gift-wrapping over the whole garlic head in front of him.

“This will keep the sulfurs moist and fresh until they use them. It’s the perfectly bonnet, cover, envelope, sheath for flavonoids!”

Yesterday, so long later, I noticed this perfect thin, white wrapper. Closing the garlic press I squished the yummy, savory garlic spice into my developing pot of steaming white bean soup.

Gifts, presents, treats — wrapped and placed in containers!

And thinking on it — so many things are like this — oranges with thick, pungent bright orange rinds, bananas with perfectly peel-able yellow jackets, apples with shiny red edible skins — pouches for essential nutrients — my potassium, my fiber, my folic acid.

When fear is high, when uncertainty rules, when the world feels dangerous I find the small, safe, protected container-gifts soothing.

My skin, the bag I live in, all twenty-one square feet of it, holding all my organic machinery — reassuring. 300 million cells in me containing me.

My cottons, my polys, my silks, my linens, my fabrics, my clothes.

My rafters! My beans! My roof tiles! My roof!

My cars, buses, trains, planes — my many-miled metal skins.

I live covered, enclosed, enfolded, encased, protected.

Oh for those who don’t or can’t!

We must take great care of them and bring them inside. We must bring covers to them and keep them safe, the lost, homeless, disenfranchised, the refugees, the immigrants.

This is love, to put a coat over another one. This is love! To put a sheath over life.

I look out into earth’s atmosphere, its stratification, layers, exosphere, thermosphere, mesosphere, stratosphere and troposphere.

Sky-wrappings enclose me, keep in my heat, hold in my weather, protect me from space rocks hurtling towards the planet — turn meteors of stony iron, nickel and ice to vapor and dust.

Enclosed all — and yet the world reels. They reek. I reel. Don’t you think I’ve haven’t noticed? It reels and I shake from the stabbing, ripping, puncturing execrable, break-through vitriol, vomit, vengeance, venom, virus, vanity and violence. These penetrate our shields.

Yes, a large meteor might annihilate our city. Yes, a volcano may obliterate our sky. Yes, a coronavirus may kill us. Yes, one day the sun will vaporize the planet, but yes, yes, yes today we experience wondrous layers of protection we know, where they came from.

“They’re really going to like this!” he said — bark, dermis, film, membrane, carapace, shell, scale, sheath, skin, hull, capsule, chamber, package, pocket, packet, pouch, layer, strata, sphere!”

Steady yourself soul.

Protections all around.

You Are My Emotional Banquet

Posted: December 30, 2018 in Emotion, Uncategorized
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I’m sorry if I ever shamed you for your emotions.

Did I, or did I simply say what was true?

The other day you yourself said you cry-laugh, and I’ve seen you do it — snot and not, triggered, then bravely out-riggered. 

Its not that unattractive. In fact it’s actually beautiful  — a kind of moistured sentience, a textured perceiving — an emo-glow right in the pupils. 

People have always vilified the emotional extremes —  or worshiped them: silence, yelling, sulking, telling. 

But with you I don’t think of it like that. 

You fluctuate, beautifully, like a lighthouse, like a human being, being. You experience what we all do  — but compacted, intense — like an espresso machine drooling crema from a double-shot portafilter. 

You are acutely and emotively valid, affectional, certified by the heart, authenticated by the amygdalae, bona fide, good faith, unfaked, affectowoobly, then sure-footed. 

You are for all of us who know you well our own special emotional banquet. 

I think of you as my feeling friend, an affective millionaire, an emotive genius — undone, super fun, on the run, heart flung. 

Please keep doing this — feeling —  and of course you will, and I will too, and everyone else — blushing, gushing, singing, adjusting, anything but stuffing it, and hushing yourself or anyone else up too much. 

Do this — do anything but dodge the central nervous system, or quell it. Do anything but deny, shrivel or flatten your emotions.  

Do this. Do what you do best — rise, summit; dive, plummet; roar, soar. 

And then finally, always remember that I love you, all of you, and in doing so I love myself, and all of us — all living, reacting, trembling, responding things, the earth’s shuddering skin bags of weeping and whooping, all gorgeous fragile, feeling things. 

Cancer

Posted: March 1, 2018 in Bodies
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Who knew?

Ugg!

The lurk, the shirk, the sting, the thing.

Blur, blank, blinder, blink.

There were those super-specific moments — fixed in memory now like old family photographs — the fatigue, the fever, the test, the spike, the biopsy.

Then it was Christmas, and work, questions, and finally — the doctor’s office.

“It’s cancer.”

Sleep walking to the parking lot, the surreal drive to lunch, at home in the evening in a soft chair — the fading sun.

We wake at night.

We ply the web.

We fumble through vocabulary.

We blanch at complications, fear treatments, shrink from side effects. We wipe our eyes through memoirs. We question questions, hang out in online communities, consult consultations, brood, balk, blink, blind and blunt.

The catastrophic complexity of the human cell, the massive, mutating mystery of the human body!

Reactions gather, like the clouds, and we — fight!

Slash the mass; chem the thing!

Damn it; hack it; slam it; whack it!

Math it; thrash it!

Fearful to have; terrible to witness; excruciating to treat; the clonal bout, the charnel house, the backdoor out.

Acceptance?

Got and not — wrought in snot, clot in thought, chemo-bot and bio-rot.

And yet, but yet — just possibly yet — there is the kind of wild, wonky wonder of life in it all — like foreign travel; mountaineering — sundry bitter-sweet relational distillations, supportive social essences, surprising gratitudes — scents of grace.

And too, perhaps finally — in it all and through it all — those surprisingly bright, blasted blinks at blinding beauty.

Tell!

Posted: December 5, 2017 in Abuse, bravery, Relationships
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Cluck — then duck.

And there, in that dark park — shark and spark — mark, their responses.

Oh the powerful, how they bluster, hulk, sulk and skulk when exposed. And if they can’t deny it, they mouth crafty-drafty-daffy apologies.

I hate it!

I asked you, “Why?”

“Why do you think that even after you complained, he or she or they or Ray — his supervisor or even, say HR — did nothing?”

You weren’t sure why; I wasn’t either.

Systemic evil, personal stupidity, good-old-boy culture, a bark beetle, a comet, tormented egos, black holes, massive incompetence, weakness of character, fleas — money?

We couldn’t sort it out.

Think about it, all the complaints lodged all over the world — then dodged. It’s maddening!

You do the same job as he does and get paid less? Really?

You are assigned work that isn’t even in your job description? Are you kidding me?

He said, what?

Smut!

He touched you inappropriately?

My God!

He sexually assaulted you?

Ugg!

The thug!

The sick creep!

Hell!

Go tell — in order to get well!

Yes, I can see that, and I’m so sorry!

It is horribly and terrifyingly humiliating! But to not tell — that’s devastating!

Prepare yourself. Do it. Of course there will be the denial. the revile, in the aisle, the social media pretrial, the counter attack and threat to sack.

But, keep this clearly in front of you:

Secrets perpetuate sicknesses.

For there within the sinister silence of relational violence oozes the foul psychic puss of false shame and self-blame, a suppurating sepsis of misapplied guilt and a fetid, festering biotoxin of furious fear mingled with ferocious anger.

My God girl!

The organizationally administered inflammagens are virtually dripping out of the open crack at the base of your skull, running off the tip of one of your shoulder blades and bio-trailing you along the office floor.

This cannot continue.

I want you well.

I want you healed.

I want you empowered.

I want you vindicated!

Therefore, fill the hall, and tell it all!

Make the complaint, lodge the grievance, file the paperwork, notify the press, call a conference, sue their asses off! Trap the fly, smack down the lie, out the tie, exposify — him, and hem and them!

This much is certain. We must not go on without you speaking up.

I’m standing with you.

Pellmell, raise hell, go tell!

Shame

Posted: October 23, 2017 in emotions, Uncategorized
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When we spoke on the phone yesterday I loved your honesty — and you.

You told me you have some shame.

You too?

You gorgeous bouquet of cut flowers in a fine, crystal vase. We’re all the same — did you know that? — although we won’t say it, but you did, bravely, to me.

And yet it breaks my heart to see shame bend and crack your lovely looking glass like this.

And there you go again, down the Rabbit hole and across the watery horizon, leaking strength and beauty.

Soul funk junk,

Heart-hate drunk,

Ache-cry,

Sad eye.

Ugg!

This is dangerous smack!

This is street grade emo-crack!

Listen to me.

The cure is not in doing the enough that will never be enough.

It is not in trying to be more attractive or smarter or more accomplished. That won’t do it for thee, or me, or them or even him.

The emotion that eats itself cannot be eaten.

I know.

I’ve eaten it.

You can only be held, heard and healed by you — with the rest of us making sure you keep your arms wrapped around yourself.

The cure is love, for yourself — straight up — and the shame-eraser of a massive rain storm of total grace.

Do this: Go get a good night’s sleep, you shattered-smattered beauty thing.

Really! I’m serious. Sleep matters in this — as in all things.

And tomorrow morning, get up, and first thing go into the bathroom, and look in the mirror, and say softly to your self,

“You’re a good girl,” and say your name.

And then say, “I love you”

Say it again.

Mean it.

Paris

Posted: June 7, 2017 in Cities
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Paris!

You magical line of lambency!
Sparkled Champs,
Eiffel glow,
Musée d’Orsay.
San Chapelle rose.

Where have you cradled all of your people tonight?

My God, big city,
What have you done with the poor?
We don’t see them too much in Le Bon Marché.

Yum, tum, rum d’rum,
We love your seats,
Love, love your treats,
Love the repeats!

Your fine baguettes,
And thinest crepes.
The chocolatier?
Sip some liqueur?
Get an éclaire?

I don’t know where the man we saw begging for Euros on Rue Renne is sleeping tonight.

Avenue Montaigne?
Seine-Saint-Denis?
Svelte or slummed?
Head off or free?

Is it zinc or is it pink?
Or is it tin-bin-din-twin thin?

They tell me Paris is dangerous and I believe them.
I’ve seen the men with their fingers near the triggers of their automatic weapons.
They have bullet proof vests and watchful eyes.

They tell me Paris is safe, and I believe them.
I gave Euros to the woman begging on Rue Renne.
She was grateful and stayed on the ground.
No one grabbed my iPhone at Sacré-Cœur.

Money making
Career breaking.
Heart aching.
Muckraking.
Decor staking.

Royal shattered,
Revolution battered,
Art-splattered.

And yet still visited.
Still occupied.

Life-waker.
Vacation Maker
Reputation staker.

You are a floral print dress crossing the street.
The cool zippered leather jacket at the cafe.

Fashion rocket,
Pick-pocket,
Sight socket,
Destination docket.

Train-tracked,
People-packed,
Wine-racked
History-smacked.
Money-backed
Terrorist-cracked —

And yet …

Still ours …

Still the big bright-light-site for the whole world.

This This

Posted: February 27, 2017 in Bodies, Uncategorized
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I am shell-shocked by the sheer hit and hellish hack of human hurt.

Our poor fragile bodies —

These gorgonized, agonized and amplified mélanges of terrified imperfection.

They break, they ache, they bake.

And yet …

To even have a body.

To even move through space and time.

To think and feel, to be alive,

To eat and laugh and love, to lose and gain again.

This, just this,

This contextualized semi-fixity of bodily permanence.

This gorgeous dire-defended-dangling sentience.

This good-sick, savory-bland, sensuous-torturous, bright-dark vivacity.

This brief, brilliant, barreling, biting dash through the thin air of our spinning, sun-smacked, rain-dashed, poxed and rashed blue planet,

This living this of this and this and this.

Ahhhhh, I love this gift of zing and zap and zest.

To lean and tilt and rise and soar.

To breathe, to see, to weigh, to choose.

To be completely and severally existable within the grace-filled, love-packed, picked and wrapped resistible.

Ah and ah and ah,

I love this life paced out within the imperfect-wonderful, immediate-possible of the material miracle.

Because

Posted: January 14, 2017 in love, Uncategorized
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All that love does is from because.

Because of love, because, because.

Because we met in the library.
Because I secretly fell in love with your stunningly gorgeous mind.
Because I am never sure what you are going to say next.

Because it is always honest.

Because you were my first confidant.

Because you love Shakespeare almost as much as I do.
Because I told you I loved you that afternoon in the park.
Because you told me you were honored by that.

Because we kissed in the motor home.
Because we got married at the church.
Because we lost the baby, and had the little girls.

Because you love the girls.

Because I love the girls.

Because we lived through brain damage, learning disability, heartbreak, surgery, the loss of friends, the loss of jobs, the recession and then … the divine provision.

Because we will always have that, and because you are strong, I will always love you.
Because we lived through that and didn’t quit and traveled the world together anyway.
Because our love grew old, and safe and calm.

Because we still sleep with our arms around each other.

Because you take my hand.

Because you kiss my lips.

Because you still tell me I am wrong when I am wrong.

Because you love me.

Love, love, love.

Because, because, because.

Because of love.

We love because.

Striding Toward Bethlehem

Posted: November 22, 2016 in hope, Uncategorized
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Gliding, gliding — centered sure
The new mother draws her baby near.
Things hold together; the center cannot shift.

A new revelation is at hand!

Finger tips touch finger ends,
Foreheads to kisses bend.

Holy water sifting down
Glasses clinking to the sound.

The best exult!

The worst slouch hellishly toward bedlam!

Surely something new is at hand!
Surely a second, third or even fourth coming is at hand.
But even before I am on the roof,
An epiphany!
I am barely up
When a familiar rushing wind
Buries the slow churning thighs in the bottom of the next cradle.
Pitiless lens, mechanical bird, dark-dropped-death smacked flat.
What holy child is this, it’s magic hour come round at last,
Who strides confidently toward Bethlehem.

The Vote

Posted: October 27, 2016 in Politics
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The politicians up for election, how they clobber, club and crucify each other — the back room hacking, the in-your-face attacking, the under-the-table cracking, the character fracking and reputation hijacking.

Campaigns are pretty much a public brawl, in a skirt or a tie, on a hill, in a hall.

I long for something else — a quiet friend, who isn’t running for office, who isn’t telling other people off, who isn’t hiding smutty history, who has no record of groping or doping or wheeling or dealing, the wall or the hall or the floor or the ceiling.

I long for something unselfish, undivided, unbiased — something not frantic, forced, frothing, fierce.

I think of my father, now in his final years, bending over my mother in the bath, gently splashing water on her shriveled, shrunken, surgery-scared skin — softly, soapy sloshing what she can’t clean herself.

I think of my brother, at the City of Hope, wrist band 86, time-wasting wait again, the needle in the arm, the unexpected end  — of work and wish and want. He will be going back to work in a few hours to make sure people are taken care of, to make sure things will be okay when he doesn’t get to go to the office anymore.

I think of my friend who lost her husband two years ago. Thirty years then gone. There she is in the therapy room after the group meeting, waiting until everyone is gone so that she can secretly pay for her disabled friend’s care, even though her own financial future isn’t certain.

Such pauses from ourselves, such thoughts of someone else, such quiet, unseen, brave campaigns — they rise up to the top and rule when all else is lost.

Such kindness as these are of great note.

Such kindnesses as these all have my vote.

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