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.)

god, do i hope this is rock bottom.  have you noticed?  i mean, obviously.  i might as well admit it.  yeah.  i’m kind of going through a thing, worst ever.   and no, actually, i’m not ok.  not at all.  thanks for asking. 

i tend to get these “signs” of comfort or of direction when i am low or confused.  i get to a place (and it is predictable, but i always forget) where i am so lost and/or incapable of functioning that i reach out, beg really, for some sign that will tell me what to do.  these signs have been abundant, and mind-boggling, as they always are when i am in touch with my truth.  but where they have led me has pissed me off, in an ignorance is bliss (though bliss is definitely not the word.  more a flat affect stupor) sort of way.  so on a recent bike ride, i had a conversation with myself.  or, Myself, or whoever it is that gives me these signs.  i said something like so what’s that about then?  the fucking signs?  could you just stop with the fucking signs?  or could you just stop pretending that you’re seeing signs? (that’s another self-talk voice.  apparently there are many.)  ooh!  ooh!  i know!  i know!  i need a sign about signs!  a sign to tell me that i am actually seeing signs!  and that they matter!  and then i went crazy.  absolutely lost it.  i was angry at myself for being such an idiot, for having such outrageous self-talk discussions, for actually asking for such a thing.  a sign about SIGNS?!?!  my eyes were blurred with tears, so i had to steer my bike off of the road (and almost collided with a truck in the process).  i stopped at an abandoned house and threw my bike onto the overgrown grass and wildflowers.  i saw a shed, and thought it would be a lovely place to have a breakdown.

when i stood in front of the open shed, this is what i saw:

i’ll give you a sign about signs.  how about a fucking shed full.

and i cracked up.  out loud.  i mean, not that that is any less confusing.  but it does validate the whole . . . sign . . . thing.  i retrieved my bike, wanting to go home for my camera, and there was another very specific sign in front of my face.  but i won’t tell you about that one.  maybe eventually.

also, when i returned with my camera, i considered breaking into the house.  this was on the door, after all.  but i didn’t.  next time?

I’ve just rolled down the windows so I can turn off the ignition (and the air conditioning). The flag pole is clanging and dogs are barking and people stand on their front lawns and talk about the pointless things that interest them. Comma? I’m supposed to be writing. I want to be writing, this story that has come to me, this culmination of stories. I even have the title.  But this is what I’m writing instead. Just a big rambling whine. I don’t ever finish anything, anyway. It doesn’t matter whether I start a new story or not.

How do I get out of here? I have to get out of here. Not this parking lot, not this sadness, but this place. This place where sidewalks matter; this place where baby tree trunks, all uniformly planted, are protected by corrugated plastic tubes; this place where someone will cut all the queen anne’s lace down with a weed-wacker. This place where somebody actually named something “weed-wacker.” How the hell do I get out of here? Why can I not find the exit? There must be one. There’s got to be one.

I feel like the only one awake at a slumber party at 2:26 AM. I feel like the only one not possessed by zombies in a horror flick. I feel like the designated driver that’s just dropped her keys down the gutter. The buzz kill, the scapegoat, the bastard heir, the mad hatter, selectively unforgiven and unheard and misunderstood and lonely and insane but insisting that I’m NOT! to a sea of blank stares.

This would be a good thing, I think, if I could identify with a blaspheming Jesus, or a stuttering Moses, or some other legendary hero down on his luck before the grand triumphant finale, destined to make some grand contribution to the world. But shit. Though I have descended to the underworld, I’ve returned without a talisman. I’ve spun my cocoon, slept in it, but emerged prematurely, my wings yet unformed. I’ve gained insight, but I don’t know how to implement it here. I’ve touched enlightenment beside the river, but upon returning to the village, I’ve forgotten it all. Or, not necessarily forgotten, but what was once this roaring fire of intuition, seems only like a faint glimmer in the darkness of this nonsensical weed-wacking reality. When I open my mouth to share, I stand there drooling and mute in the spotlight. My hands begin to shake, and heavy tears threaten the back of my wide, crazed eyes.

It’s all gibberish, anyway, isn’t it? I know there is something, something in it all—it’s like when I dig in my disastrous purse for the keys I can hear jangling, I know they’re in there, I swear. . . . But I just can’t find them. Maybe it’s only lost change. Maybe it’s a figment of my imagination.

I want to quote the “wrong” Alice (I just watched the movie the other night, while the grown-ups played Trivial Pursuit) and say, “Lost my muchness, have I?” and then proceed to kill the dragon while a cheering everyone bears witness to said muchness. But, lost my muchness? I don’t know. Maybe I have.

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.

This is worth pondering. Does nature in her wisdom intentionally produce nonconformists, or find a use for them, enlisting their disparate talents in her service. Is there a place for everybody, a reason for everything, and we fail to understand some underlying cosmic logic?

Do acts that appear the most senseless to us have a rationale that we fail to appreciate? Are what we consider errors and mistakes really part of the grand design? How encompassing and integrated is the mosaic of life? Just how big and complex is this world that we define so freely and understand so poorly?

The Queen Must Die, And Other Affairs of Bees and Man – William Longgood

(thanks for the words, Lisa, and for the model, Julie!)

one pre-snow, two post-thaw magnolia blossoms. (digi)

Pour the wine and raise a cup
Drink up, brothers, you know how
And spill a drop for Orpheus
Wherever he is now

Some birds sing when the sun shines bright
My praise is not for them
But the one who sings in the dead of night
I raise my cup to him

Wherever he is wandering
Alone upon the earth
Let all our singing follow him
And bring him comfort

Some flowers bloom when the green grass grows
My praise is not for them
But the one who blooms in the bitter snow
I raise my cup to him

I raise my cup and drink it up

I raise it high and drink it dry

To Orpheus and all of us
Goodnight, brothers, goodnight

 ~Anais Mitchell, from Hadestown (for which, by the way, I’m in need of either babysitting or a date or both:  Chicago, Sept. 11)

the one who bloomed in the bitter snow. . .

It is different for me to remain objective during the dark of the moon.  But for whatever reason (serotonin receptors saturated with chocolate?  all other receptors saturated with coffee?  extra sunny vitamin D doses?), I am relatively . . . happy.  Receptive, new-moon-ish, but . . . happy.  And in this strange state, I’m noticing that a lot of people aren’t.  I don’t mean un-grateful, un-zen, what’s wrong with all of you pathetic, un-happy people.  I mean tragedy-induced grief, crisis-induced overwhelm, hormones and cycles and hermitage and clinical depression.  Valid shit.

If you’re one of them, I give you a virtual pat on the shoulder and an “I’ve been there.”  Because I have been there; I visit relatively often, actually.  I offer you virtual sympathy, but I don’t do pity (who wants pity, anyway?).  I raise my cup to you, if, like Orpheus, you’re singing in the dead of night.  And I site Rilke as my excuse to virtually slap you in the face if you are faking it, and/or hoping for something better, you “spendthrift of sorrows,” you. 

May I, one day, emerging from this grim vision,
sing jubilation and praise to assenting angels.
May no clearly struck hammer of my heart
fail to sound from slack, doubting, or
breaking strings.  May my tear-filled face
make me more shining; may my simple tears
flower.  how dear will you be to me then,
you nights of affliction.  Why couldn’t I kneel more deeply
     and accept you,
inconsolable sisters, or loosen myself
freely into your loosened hair.  We spendthrifts of sorrows.
How we keep peering beyond them ahead into sad duration,
to see if perhaps they might have an end.  But they are truly
our winter-enduring foliage, the dark green of our life’s meaning,
one season of our secret year—, not only
time—, but also place, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Tenth Elegy, (trans. Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann)

“The gift you carry for others is not an attempt to save the world but to fully belong to it. It’s not possible to save the world by trying to save it. You need to find what is genuinely yours to offer the world before you can make it a better place. Discovering your unique gift to bring to your community is your greatest opportunity and challenge. The offering of that gift – your true self – is the most you can do to love and serve the world. And it is all the world needs.”
– from Soulcraft by Bill Plotkin

It is still February.  February somewhat sucks.  For a while there, I had decided that I was going to pump Wellbutrin into our village water system, and maybe try to transmit it electronically, as well.  Or Prozac.  Or Heroin.  The other day, a friend read a phone-text and shook her head, laughing.  “Everyone’s depressed!”  And it’s true.  There is some hard core depths of despair happening ’round here.

We are deep into the dark season here in Wisconsin.  I’ve seen other bloggers talk about the signs of returning spring, and I want to throw a chunk of ice at them.  Oh no, honey.  Not here.  Here we do not mention the S word, for fear of a collective breakdown.  Except, shit.  I just mentioned it, didn’t I?  I will now pause for my fellow Doldrum-experiencers to cry with longing for the season that lingers in the distance too far beyond hope.

*  *  *  *  *

Everyone OK?  Yes.  See, that’s the thing.  I think that everyone is OK.  (I’m OK, you’re OK, OK now I’m sounding like a self-help book.  ack.)  I just think that a turn toward darkness in winter is a healthy, natural movement.  Remember?  It is when we fight it that we cause ourselves harm.  I shouldn’t be feeling this way, it is his/her fault, how can we fix this, what is the problem . . . 

There is no problem.  There is no spoon.  These Winter Doldrums have brought me some really nasty-but-good, awful-but-helpful, raw-but-fresh stuff.  Stuff that productive spring will do great things with, surely.  (shoot!  S-word!  hope!  sorry!) 

But, oh . . . . . spring.  Spriiiiiiiiiiiiing.  Maybe it is not actually so far off?  I mean, it is currently snowing.  And everything is still deader than dead.  And the sun does still set before 6 pm.  But . . . shoot!  I’ve done it again!  Sorry!  Moment of silence.

*  *  *  *  *

And in case that pathetic little attempt at inspiration doesn’t do it for you, here are some pictures that might.  They are not spring-ish in the least, but they are happy, I think.  (?)

Do you know the joy of this? Can you hear it? Feel it under your feet? yesssssssssssssssssss. This is, perhaps, the best part of winter. (aside: I asked my husband, showed him the pictures, and he said, "that just looks sad." So maybe I am totally off on this?)

Ecstasy, I tell you. Sheer bliss. crrrrrack.

And, of course, there is the licking of a big hunk of snow. (Dimples) Who can resist that?

And a few more.  I gave up putting them into nice little black rectangles for you:

I'm just going to assume that this was not in the driveway. (Mowgli)

And I learned something last weekend. Running in the winter can be fun! Avoiding the poorly-shoveled spots was honestly fun. Like an obstacle course. I'm serious! (Shortcake)

And name-spelling in the snow. There are few things in life as thrilling as a big stretch of undisturbed snow that you are about to have your way with. (Kiki)

excuse me please, while i have a temper tantrum.

i am just all whiny and piny and altogether feeling like throwing things and screaming.  strangely enough, it’s not a terrible feeling.  i think it would feel really good and not at all negative.  the negative part is not being able to do it right now. 

hmpf.

so over the weekend (this is not the temper-tantrum.  just my exposed soul, is all.)  i had the worst dream i’ve ever had.  not one of the truly terrifying ones; no loss of a loved one or anything.  i mean like gory, horror-flick style.  i am still quite amazed at the twisted horrificness (nope.  not a word.) that came from the depths of my subconscious.

i’m going to tell you about it, which is sort of a problem because a.) it’s just nasty and not really inspiring blog material, and b.) if you were so inclined, you could analyze a road map of my inner workings.  and i don’t want you to know.  i really don’t.  and yet, i’m telling you.  (idiot.)  so look away if you must.  i will have a lovely guitar-playing, dread-headed, tube-sock-ed girl to post soon, and you can just hold out for that if you came here hoping for loveliness.

this is not lovely.  and also it is long.

there was more to the dream in the beginning, but this is where it got ugly:  it was my first day back to work as a nurse.  the hospital building was dark and there were no patients in the rooms.  the hospital was also sort of a dormitory and maybe a church and had a mental institution vibe.  i stood with three other new workers, and we wondered what we were supposed to be doing.  we figured out that we had been assigned to some experimental project that had, that night, been suddenly abandoned.  the phlebotomist came onto the floor and asked where all of the “scions” were.  (i should note that i woke up from this dream wondering where i came up with the word “scion.”  i can’t ever remember hearing it.  googling it gave me the chills: a descendant or offspring.  a shoot or twig from a plant for grafting.)

we told the phlebotomist that apparently, the project had been abandoned.  she stared at us in horror, then relief, and went running, full-speed, from the room.  slowly, the “scions” or patients or subjects or whatever began to wander into what was like a large surgical area.  they were sort of zombie-like and bloody, but cordial enough.  (ha!) one doctor was with them, and it seemed like he was trying desperately to save the experiment, and he took a few of them into the operating room. 

somehow we new workers ascertained that this experiment or whatever it was was intended to help the human race live to its highest potential.  the scions were people who were dead or dying, their bodies (but not souls) salvaged by some new medication.  the surgeons, we learned, performed procedures not unlike lobotomies, nipping and scraping off different internal organs, trying to find the right combinationfor their ambitious goal.  some of the patients ended up being exceptionally “good,” or moral, after a procedure, some gained genius intelligence, some could actually fly.

as we were learning this all (maybe the surgeon was telling us, as he operated?  i don’t remember), a beautiful blonde woman sat up on her surgical table, her chest oozing new blood upon the old dried blood.  she was screaming and screaming in agony and pain and sorrow, pointing at a stainless steel table across the room.  there, on the small table, sat her heart, bloody and beating.

i backed away slowly, half-listening to the doctor explain that things had started to go terribly wrong.  i quickly found a set of many open doors, and walked outside into a group of scions.  i was about to just walk away, the fresh air felt so fabulous in my lungs.  but i noticed the scions staring at the humans playing in the snow in the distance.  the other workers were with me, and we decided that we could not just let these things escape.  there was a definite sense of martyrdom:  “save the human children!”

suddenly we workers all had bloody swords, and we ushered the scions inside.  it all got really terrifying, then.  they were disgusting and putrid and it was a bloody mayhem amidst the surgical steel hospital equipment.  there were too many, and there was no controlling them.  it became every-man-for-himself, and i was running, opening doors that led only to windowless rooms, finding small openings and squeezing through them only to find another room, often dorm rooms or classrooms or apartments.  i would search under beds for trap doors, climb into empty elevator shafts, scream and pound on locked doors.  it was endless, and each new escape led to another prison.  and all around, there were scions.

at last, i found myself in a darkened hallway, dark rooms with locked doors everywhere.  i noticed the sword still in my hand, and suddenly remembered a rule that i could leave if i took a scion outside with me.  there was a woman in a lobby trying to deal with the chaos, and i was trying to show her my xeroxed rulebook, to point out the rule about escape.  but she could not hear me.  i grabbed a bloody scion anyway, the sword to her neck, and suddenly i noticed a glass window open a crack.  i could hardly contain my emotion.  it opened onto a rooftop, but we were a story or two above that.  i had to muster the courage to jump out, and to kick out the entire window so both of us would fit, but i was desperate, and left with no other choice.

i kicked, i jumped, and then beside me, (real) Shortcake woke me up.  i couldn’t even find the courage to look around the room.  i held my little teddy bear girl and shivered.  to take my mind off of the dream, i imagined a story plot about secret lovers sending letters to post office boxes, and a granddaughter discovering them.  i didn’t go back to sleep for hours.

how bout them apples?