I’ve got a bit of a thing with the moon. I couldn’t sleep last night with her hanging up there all bright and almost full, so I walked outside, intent on drawing her down and swallowing her whole. When I reached a place to sit, I decided not to eat her (as if I had a choice!), but to breathe her in. And out. And it was delicious.
Every man wants to be settled, but only insofar as he is unsettled is there hope. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
shortcake, dimples, kiki, at the "real" lake
She was poorly behaved yesterday, at a bridal shower. She did not want to sit and socialize. She did not perform, smile, or give affection appropriately or on command. And she screamed like a pterodactyl if she was not allowed to watch the hockey game (what? whose kid is this?) being played in the adjacent ice arena. Then, after a while in the hockey rink, she screamed when i wouldn’t let her climb all over the bleachers. So, I took her outside to continue her screaming.
I stood on the jogging trail while she threw a fit at my feet. My eyes followed the too-perfect curve of the artificial lake, and i compared the identical rows of too-perfect rocks where the water met the too-perfect grass. The windsurfers and canoers looked plastic. Imperfect, sweaty people passed us by, most of them smiling at the tantrum-ing toddler. Above it all, loomed the ugly power plant, which Shortcake noticed was making clouds.
The screaming eventually became whimpering, and the whimpering eventually became silence. I thought she was asleep on my shoulder when I heard her addressing the seagulls.
“Duckies. Not birdies? I hold him.”
I set her down so she could pursue the flock. She exaggerated a tiptoe, whispering “I’m just like you, birdie. Come back!”
She picked up white feathers, and after studying each one, held it up to the seagulls.
“Here you are, birdies.” The ugly creatures continued to evade her, but she followed them—north, then south, then north, again and again.
“Here you are! Here is your feather.” Defeated every time, she would eventually wait for a gust of wind, hold the feather up to the sky, and let the wind take it. And she would laugh.
We missed the gift opening. She did not finish her cupcake.
I’ve just done all of this, too: the tantrum, the whimpering, the silence. There are changes afoot, and uneven currents in the air. A dear friend has just blessed me with some red hawk medicine, with the reminder of the hawk’s sharp vision, its awareness of interconnectedness and the highest Intent, and its ability to see beyond what seems to be to what truly is. Yes, I do believe it is just about time to feel that wind.
It happens in a pattern, becoming almost predictable. The girls do handstands, their legs sticking out of the water in a V. There is a large splash, then a small one, over and over again, everywhere. Most of the mothers try to cover their feminine curves with clingy wet fabric. There is sunscreen and waterwing-ing and squealing and running and splashing and jumping and eating and sitting and sculpting and scolding. It is all so random and recurrent that it is balanced, and the entire place is drenched with visible, audible, palpable chaos.
Surrounding the man-made lake, mirroring the vibration, the leaves tremble in the wind, and the clouds above them, and the stars above them. I notice the pockets of space between swimmers. I listen for pockets of space between sounds. I consider the imperceptible space between molecules. I breathe and feel the same stillness within me, despite the warring emotions and thoughts, despite the trembling atoms and all the chaotic processes that keep me blinking. I laugh when suddenly the loud speakers begin to play “The Space Between.”
I think of meditation, of stillness, of how it remains among the chaos and the noise, this pervasive stillness, this infinite silence. And then I think of the following song, because of the lyrics: “we are all notes in this eternal song / god plays his flute, we all dance along,” and its overall reference to meditation. The dance and the stillness, all superimposed, it makes me feel crazy (CRAZY!), in a good way.
(This also embarrasses me to think about because dammit, now every time I think of Trevor Hall, I will think of the concert on Friday night. The crowd was awful and really small, the music was wonderful, but I was so moved beyond reason that I offered Trevor a dread bead as he passed me in the hall on his way out. I mean, what? Why is that OK? From my nappy dread to yours? Because I feel the words you sing, and we have matching hair? This is when maybe the ego could have stepped in and helped me save face? But no. It did not. And Trevor looked at me, raised a finger dismissively, and said “one second…” and then did not come back. And so now I am going to stop talking about Trevor Hall, for goodness’ sake. Right after this blog post.)
A fish swims through the sea,
while the sea is in a certain sense
contained within the fish!
Ah, what am I to think
of what the writing of a thousand lifetimes
could not explain
if all the forest trees were pens
and all the oceans ink?
(mewithoutYou, the dryness and the rain)
i haven’t been dreaming for weeks. dammit, i always dream. but i woke the other day with a faint memory of an image that was the ocean. then there was a quote (a couple, actually) on twitter about the ocean that moved me, and a link to a song that referenced the ocean. then i put my ipod in and heard a song that i hadn’t yet listened to, which ended up being about the ocean. and the public tv show i sat down to watch with shortcake, while listening to the song about the ocean, was . . . about the ocean. i’m a little bit annoyed with the whole sign thing, and i fought with my ego regarding the agenda here (trip to tahiti, anyone?), but i thought, ok ok fine. got it. ocean. fine.
then a package arrived in the mail. a gift from pixie, torch-bearer-sister-parachute-medicine-woman-extraordinaire, beautifully crafted by lauren: a necklace, called “whale song,” with an abalone shell pendant. lauren listed the beads and explained their unique properties, all extremely relevant to me right now. and the abalone shell, of course: “intimately connected to the sea . . . harmony . . . tides of emotion . . . trust in intuition.” she also made a sachet of herbs and crystals for me that contained the same wonderful things as her dream pillows.
so, you know, i cried. a lot.
in colorado, i bought a turquoise necklace from a native american woman parked at a mountain pass. i let it absorb the energy of the mountains, the peaks and valleys, and knew that it would always remind me of the awe i felt there, the connection to Creation, to the earth’s natural power and beauty. so now, apparently, i am collecting the elements, because this talisman is ocean. and it is washing over me, through me: the tides, the currents, the refracted light, the jagged teeth of the sharks, the whale songs, the warm salt water, the remnants of a sunken ship.
i took this picture for pixie and lauren, planning to just crop out the face. yyyyes. i am aware of the puffy eyes and dark circles. they were well earned. (as were the unplucked eyebrows! and also that notch on my nose. and also the poor exposure.) but there is something so raw and honest about how wrecked i am in this photo, and the strength i feel regardless, that i’m showing you all.
pixie also led me to this poem. and so i’m paying it forward.
The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.
It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.
from mesa verde
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world, determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save
(p.s. no. i am not running away… not today, at least. i just found the poem to be thought-provoking.)
If God said,
“Rumi, pay homage to everything
that has helped you
enter my
arms,”
there would not be one experience of my life,
not one thought, not one feeling,
not any act, I
would not
bow
to.
(Jalaludin Rumi, trans. by Daniel Ladinsky)
recently, i’ve begun to see everything in Divine parallel/connection, in a way that i never have before. there is much rumi, of course. and much, much more. i just have to find a way to tell you. which is precisely the point, the entire purpose, isn’t it?
i had intended something a little more obscene with this week’s illustration friday prompt, “double.” but then the lines in her hair reminded me of a rainbow, and i couldn’t help but think of the double rainbow guy. i lummeesum double rainbow guy. in my current state, i would not need to be intoxicated to be so deeply moved by a double rainbow. i can assure you, i too would sob and plead with the universe for the meaning. what does it meeeeeean? and i would answer myself: it means absolutely nothing and “full-on” everything at once. it all has meaning, and then double meaning. it all counts. every breath, every thought, every glimmer, every shadow, every sound, every letter, every space, every single punctuation mark.
[breaks down, sobbing]
!
i don’t belong here, in this
Place where i Belong.
i close my eyes as the mountains fade into the horizon behind me
and think that if this were an addiction, i’d be in the tremors of withdrawal.
but though there are tears, and indeed, there is trembling, i sense that
everything remains
that separation is an illusion
that the peaks that brush the faces of stars, and
the canyons that pierce the heart of the earth, and
all the wild, natural magic—all
is within me.
and with gratitude, i learn that my longing
is essential to the experience of life,
and to my return.
tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr
today, i sever the connection to my inner Wisdom with my own hands.
the Places She leads me, i cannot go because i am weak.
the Light She shows me, i cannot embody, because i am weak.
the River She floods, i cannot swim, because i am weak.
the Truth She sings, i cannot hear, because i am weak.
the Fruit She offers me, i cannot taste, because i am weak.
this threshold of Knowing is crossed, and so perhaps when i return, the door will be propped open.
but i know i will not return. i will search my whole life for that elusive gateway, and will not find it.
today i gather scraps of shed skin, and paste them to my face, because i am stupid.
because i am weak.
today i think of Orpheus, and plant seeds in my garden—let them be the Brave ones,
now that the frost has passed.
(but even Orpheus looked back.)
today i recognize that a bird in my backyard has called out,
(as i write this, shortcake says, “look, mama! a bird!”)
like a reminder of Morning,
and that i chose sleep, as did you, because we are weak.
(did you?)
this is not Bravery. this is not receptive Stillness. this is not bold Foolishness.
this is not silent Power.
this is smallness. because i am weak.
(does anyone have any chocolate?)
i’ll add a few inspiring, though not “pretty” links now, to completely contradict everything i just said:
a poem about dancing. yeow
i’ve always wanted to photograph people in the shower. check out this series. yeow.
in case you missed this on my facebook, yeeeow again:
{the only frame that showed up on this roll of tmax100 from my friend's yashica. this frame also took a beating in the tank, thanks to cheap reels (temper tantrum!). i like the mess, though. just this once.}
I’m suddenly going to be requiring much poetry, for whatever reason. Like, two posts after I just said I don’t even know what a poem is. Now, rhythm and stanza and enjambment please, and frequently.
But poetry isn’t actually what this post is about. The above poem is.
Kind of.
I picked up this book at the library, and it was all I could do to keep myself from making wildly inappropriate noises of bliss back in the children’s section as I read through it. The funny thing about this particular poem is that I got it (ironic, of course, connecting to a poem about disconnect—gehhhht it?). Countless times I’ve felt just that—my words “disintegrating,” victims to an utter lack of connection. There is this ridiculous lack of connection everywhere! Quite depressing.
But 108 Sun Salutations later, I have a new perspective. There is a ridiculous amount of connection everywhere! Quite . . . inspiring. A community event at this yoga center, in which dozens of us moved, sweat, and breathed in unity for two hours, helped me remember. Connection! (It also helped me to get some really friggin sore arms.) There was even an i-want-to-stare-at-you-all-day-because-you’re-so-gorgeous woman next to me with a tattoo of the flower of life. In my ignorance, I did not recognize it, and she explained it to me as a representation of the interconnectedness of all. I nodded, and in my head, shrieked a giddy “connection!”
Except I still really like the poem. And so, hooray for disconnect, too. To be fair.
