I had Huevos a la Mexicana, Cafe con Crema, and some really great Mark Twain
That man is so good, he makes me want to never write another word again, simply out of reverence.
All Good Things...
12 years ago
Monday, July 21, 2008
for breakfast
I had Huevos a la Mexicana, Cafe con Crema, and some really great Mark Twain
That man is so good, he makes me want to never write another word again, simply out of reverence.
No speaka the language
There are a few benefits to not speaking the local language.
One is sweet oblivion, a sort of ignorance is bliss. There is a calmness that comes from not knowing when people are making fun of you, especially when you know they should be. Or when men are saying things about you that you would just rather not hear. Then, if you chose, you can assume most people mean well, unless proven otherwise through vibe or action. (It is safer than it sounds)
Silence is another perk. It keeps your mouth shut and thoughts inward, alternation of meditation and progressive obsession that works out deep seated worries, fears and problems.
There are drawbacks too, of course, like, well, not understanding what people are saying to you... and the consequences of such situations. Like paying for a first class bus ticket and ending up on a second class bus with no AC. Which I suspect is what has happened here, as I write from my bumpy, very warm seat. At least there is plenty of room, the scenery is lovely and I can smell everything, which keeps it real.
And at least I am going to the right town... I think.
One is sweet oblivion, a sort of ignorance is bliss. There is a calmness that comes from not knowing when people are making fun of you, especially when you know they should be. Or when men are saying things about you that you would just rather not hear. Then, if you chose, you can assume most people mean well, unless proven otherwise through vibe or action. (It is safer than it sounds)
Silence is another perk. It keeps your mouth shut and thoughts inward, alternation of meditation and progressive obsession that works out deep seated worries, fears and problems.
There are drawbacks too, of course, like, well, not understanding what people are saying to you... and the consequences of such situations. Like paying for a first class bus ticket and ending up on a second class bus with no AC. Which I suspect is what has happened here, as I write from my bumpy, very warm seat. At least there is plenty of room, the scenery is lovely and I can smell everything, which keeps it real.
And at least I am going to the right town... I think.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Barra de Navidad
Decided to cut the movement short a little. Part of it is due to the very nature of bus travel and the fact that I was often assigned aisle seats and couldn´t see out the window. Part of it was due to bad food availability- I was living off trail mix and Cliff Bars from home, mixed with the occassional street quesadilla. And part of it was due to a sort of Come to Jesus experience, of which I will spare the details here... mostly because it´s embarassing and personally revealing. Who wants to read about such things?
I´m in Barra de Navidad. It is one of two towns on a cove made of jungle covered mountains. The streets are cobblestone, chaotically created, and the buildings bright. The beach has a steep approach so just one big green-blue wave crashes repeatedly onto the shore. They sell peeled mangos on a stick: $1 during the day, 50 cents at night. My hotel is cheap, very clean and has a balcony overlooking the street. There´s no AC and the bed is a touch softer than sleeping on a wooden floor but a good fan... and the people are extremely nice. I feel safe and at home. I´m staying here instead of continuing the bus hopping. There´s transportation directly to the Guadalajara airport and I´ve booked a flight to Cancun for about the same price as overland travel. And I get to swim in the ocean, snorkle, eat fish and sleep lying down.
Bus transport was getting repetitive and old and I felt I had mastered that course- maybe with a B+ even. I had logged over 50 hours already and had another 60 hours to go, sleeping sitting up and doing little coloring or writing because of the bumping and swaying. And anyway, what´s the fun of (solo, especially) travel if you don´t get to change your mind? It´ll be nice to get to know the entire layout of just one place, if only for a couple of days. Viva Barra de Navidad!
I´m in Barra de Navidad. It is one of two towns on a cove made of jungle covered mountains. The streets are cobblestone, chaotically created, and the buildings bright. The beach has a steep approach so just one big green-blue wave crashes repeatedly onto the shore. They sell peeled mangos on a stick: $1 during the day, 50 cents at night. My hotel is cheap, very clean and has a balcony overlooking the street. There´s no AC and the bed is a touch softer than sleeping on a wooden floor but a good fan... and the people are extremely nice. I feel safe and at home. I´m staying here instead of continuing the bus hopping. There´s transportation directly to the Guadalajara airport and I´ve booked a flight to Cancun for about the same price as overland travel. And I get to swim in the ocean, snorkle, eat fish and sleep lying down.
Bus transport was getting repetitive and old and I felt I had mastered that course- maybe with a B+ even. I had logged over 50 hours already and had another 60 hours to go, sleeping sitting up and doing little coloring or writing because of the bumping and swaying. And anyway, what´s the fun of (solo, especially) travel if you don´t get to change your mind? It´ll be nice to get to know the entire layout of just one place, if only for a couple of days. Viva Barra de Navidad!
friends make all the difference
I met them in a vestibule between the cars, a little spot with three doors over which you can lean and see the train curve around the bends, the scenery come right at you, and get deep breaths of fresh air mixed with diesel smoke.
A young Mexican couple from Chihuahua City, Alma and Leo. Alma is one of the most naturally charming people I have ever met. The very act of speaking makes her smile, showing off small, bright teeth. And she has a lisp from the top of her mouth, present in both English and Spanish. Delicate face, very dark hair, high but unpretentious cheek bones. Her English is fabulous and flows smoothly. She has never taken a formal class outside high school but worked at a Subway sandwich shop in North Carolina for 8 months, going from "credit or debit?" to near fluency. She went to school for architecture and her intelligence shows in a sharp sense of humor and a light, laid back way, radiating everywhere she goes. Easy to adore.
Leo is full of Rockabilly style: fauxhawk, Armani t-shirt, perfect rebel jeans. He went to University of Texas in El Paso and majored in finance. Driven in everything. He worked summers at a country club in North Carolina, pulling 15 hour days with no breaks so he could save money for his tuition. He´s had interships with NY Life and Microsoft and, like Alma, is currently unemployed. They said they are currently solving the traveling conundrum: no job, no money, with job, no time. They feel confident they´ll find work soon.
They´ve been together 8 years. She´s 25 and he´s 26, so that is their whole adult lives. I´m in love with them as a couple- established, comfortable but still affectionate and in love, and possessing great humor, to each other and as a couple. You can´t help but feel at ease around them. Beautiful.
We talked for hours on the vestibule, alternating the spot at the window. When they found out I was going to Mazatlan as well, Alma simply stated
"Then we go together."
Leo handled everything- taxis, buses, hotel arrangments. We got an overnight bus from Los Mochis at 3am, arriving in Mazatlan at 9am (something I could never brave on my own). I had picked a super budget motel from Lonely Planet, but with the help of the taxi driver, they found another in the same neighborhood that was much nicer. Even though they had selected another place for themselves further up town, they insisted on staying in the room next door to mine.
I can´t explain Mexican hospitality. They listened carefully anytime I offhandedly mentioned what I´d like to do: buy a Lycra rashguard (surf shirt), look for a skirt, eat seafood, see the strange church-shaped nightclub on the jetty. They made these things a priority. What? I couldn´t refuse, but I quit mentioning my plans so there would be more room to do what they wanted too. We went to a perfect spot to enjoy a beer and simultaneously watch the moon rise and the sun set. There we met a couple of other guys who drove us to and from the nightclub, one teaching me all the new Mexican dances.
My time with them gave me great confidence, not only in bettering my Spanish and learning more about this beautiful country, but also in bargaining and making my way around. A confidence that was quickly shaken when, going to buy a coconut by myself, I was charged 25% more than when they were around, and was unable to talk the guy down. Anyway...
I don´t know how the repay them for their kindness but we talked about them coming to Colorado for skiing lessons, so hopefully I´ll get to try. I let them sleep the next morning and just left Alma´s dress she let me borrow on their door, along with contact information and the cowboy hat I had bought on the beach. It looked better on her anyway. The next part of this trip stretches out in aloneness again. Not all that bad, but missing the sweetness that comes from other humans. As my Swiss friend at the farm in New Zealand said:
"Some people don´t leave home because they say all their friends are there. That´s not true. You don´t know where your friends are."
Friday, July 18, 2008
a seat
The ticket man came back and spoke to me in English. I told him I was going to Los Mochis and was a student. He said:
"I think we have a seat for you."
My first thought was "That´s not fair. What about everyone else" There were elderly folk, not to mention a lot of other young, Mexican girls in there with us. They should get first dibs. But it would have be more rude for me to refuse.
His assistant checked his roster and said something to his boss.
"Yes, number 62 in the next car. Do you want a boyfriend? He is sitting in the other seat."
"Haha, no. I already have a novio."
"Well, maybe we can get you a husband instead. There are a lot of single mens on this train."
His teenage assistants in their faux tuxedos and slicked hair stood beaming behind him.
"Thanks. I´ll let you know if I change my mind."
He only charged me $315 pesos for my ticket, about 1/4 what I expected to pay on the 1st class train. I was kind of sad to leave my cramped space, but I had the sense that the man and woman squeezed next to me were plenty happy to see me go.
The seat is on the aisle and the car isn´t AC'ed like the snack bar, but it´s extremely comfortable and I have a place to store my luggage when I explore. My "boyfriend" is keeping to himself and I´m feeling rocked asleep. Nap. Coffee. Beauty out the window.
"I think we have a seat for you."
My first thought was "That´s not fair. What about everyone else" There were elderly folk, not to mention a lot of other young, Mexican girls in there with us. They should get first dibs. But it would have be more rude for me to refuse.
His assistant checked his roster and said something to his boss.
"Yes, number 62 in the next car. Do you want a boyfriend? He is sitting in the other seat."
"Haha, no. I already have a novio."
"Well, maybe we can get you a husband instead. There are a lot of single mens on this train."
His teenage assistants in their faux tuxedos and slicked hair stood beaming behind him.
"Thanks. I´ll let you know if I change my mind."
He only charged me $315 pesos for my ticket, about 1/4 what I expected to pay on the 1st class train. I was kind of sad to leave my cramped space, but I had the sense that the man and woman squeezed next to me were plenty happy to see me go.
The seat is on the aisle and the car isn´t AC'ed like the snack bar, but it´s extremely comfortable and I have a place to store my luggage when I explore. My "boyfriend" is keeping to himself and I´m feeling rocked asleep. Nap. Coffee. Beauty out the window.
Tren
We´re picking up speed and rocking ever so gently. Class Economica. My Spanish is horrendous. Apparently at least two people told me the first train was at 8am. I thought they were saying it that was when the ticket office opened. Silly girl. Ain´t no stinkin´ ticket office here. Only in Chihuahua. So I missed the 1st Class train, which Lonley Planet says is the only way to see the good scenery. Oops.
When the train arrived, the kid next to me asked if I spoke English. He translated for the men yelling out the car doors:
"No room! No room!"
The train stopped anyway and something else was yelled. People started pushing their way into the car in front of us. My new friend told me we could ride if we could fit. I grabbed ahold of the railing and pulled myself into the crowd, up the stairs. The man at the top asked me:
¨
"Tren?"
I wasn´t sure how to take that. This obviously wasn´t the bus, but I also obviously had little idea of what was going on.
"Um, si, gracias"
We had fought for a spot on the snack cart. No seats left anywhere else. I chose, as Lonely Planet suggested, the left side of the train and laid my bag flat. Sitting on it gave me viewing level for the scenery. I think the ticket man is coming through. With that out of the way, I plan to take my blanket out and sleep solidly, slumped over on the window.
At home, I kept waking up around 4am, thrashing in my sheets. During the day, even when everything feels heavy, I´m able to pull the reigns on my thoughts a bit. But in the deepest REM, subconscious takes over and my mind caves in. Last night in Cuahtemoc, though, I slept solidly, deep, dreamless. Planned to do the same thing now. I think travel should be prescribed for anxiety and depression.
When the train arrived, the kid next to me asked if I spoke English. He translated for the men yelling out the car doors:
"No room! No room!"
The train stopped anyway and something else was yelled. People started pushing their way into the car in front of us. My new friend told me we could ride if we could fit. I grabbed ahold of the railing and pulled myself into the crowd, up the stairs. The man at the top asked me:
¨
"Tren?"
I wasn´t sure how to take that. This obviously wasn´t the bus, but I also obviously had little idea of what was going on.
"Um, si, gracias"
We had fought for a spot on the snack cart. No seats left anywhere else. I chose, as Lonely Planet suggested, the left side of the train and laid my bag flat. Sitting on it gave me viewing level for the scenery. I think the ticket man is coming through. With that out of the way, I plan to take my blanket out and sleep solidly, slumped over on the window.
At home, I kept waking up around 4am, thrashing in my sheets. During the day, even when everything feels heavy, I´m able to pull the reigns on my thoughts a bit. But in the deepest REM, subconscious takes over and my mind caves in. Last night in Cuahtemoc, though, I slept solidly, deep, dreamless. Planned to do the same thing now. I think travel should be prescribed for anxiety and depression.
At Chuahtemoc, I asked the lady at the bus ticket window where Hotel San Francisco was. I understood ¨"una" and a hand signal, then "tres- cuatro" and another gesture.
Sounds close.
Sun was nearly set and I found it no problem. The desk clerk immediately realized how bad my Spanish is and spoke slowly, pointing to signs, using his hands and smiling sympathetically. The train station? 4 calle away. I love this town.
Room schedule was back to Asia days- unpack so it all fits in better tomorrow. Hot shower. Spy on the neighboring building where there was a private boxing lesson in progress. And the crown of every evening- up the iPod and dance out the day´s time spent sitting. New, energetic music and I prayed no one could spy in this direction as well.
This trip is about me finding my footing again, my own voice. Even if that means being mostly mute in a sea of foreign tongue. Especially if it means that.
Sounds close.
Sun was nearly set and I found it no problem. The desk clerk immediately realized how bad my Spanish is and spoke slowly, pointing to signs, using his hands and smiling sympathetically. The train station? 4 calle away. I love this town.
Room schedule was back to Asia days- unpack so it all fits in better tomorrow. Hot shower. Spy on the neighboring building where there was a private boxing lesson in progress. And the crown of every evening- up the iPod and dance out the day´s time spent sitting. New, energetic music and I prayed no one could spy in this direction as well.
This trip is about me finding my footing again, my own voice. Even if that means being mostly mute in a sea of foreign tongue. Especially if it means that.
smelling the scenery
I´m finally allowing myself to finish a book I´ve held in court for months. But am constantly distracted by my window and this countryside of green rolling hills and distant purple mountains, topped in highlighted thunderclouds. I think tomorrow, on the train, I´ll spend all day just staring out the window, or standing in the platforms between the cars, smelling the scenery.
sold
I changed my plans from one coast to the other, mostly so I can take the Copper Canyon train. As my friend Barry says when he travels:
I´m here. It´s there. Why not?
Purusing the guidebook on the way to Chihuahua, I found the train leaves from the city at 6am. But a little town up the way, Cuahtemoc, has a station too, with a departure time of 9:30am. It´s smaller, easier to negotiate and Lonely Planet says there´s a Hotel San Francisco that´s cheap, clean and has great Mexican breakfasts done simply.
Sold.
Bought my ticket, got on the bus, then looked for it on the map.
I´m here. It´s there. Why not?
Purusing the guidebook on the way to Chihuahua, I found the train leaves from the city at 6am. But a little town up the way, Cuahtemoc, has a station too, with a departure time of 9:30am. It´s smaller, easier to negotiate and Lonely Planet says there´s a Hotel San Francisco that´s cheap, clean and has great Mexican breakfasts done simply.
Sold.
Bought my ticket, got on the bus, then looked for it on the map.
On the way down
Sitting here in the Ojinaga bus terminal with my selfdone pink manicure, bits of dark blue Smartwool sock stuck in the topcoat, I´m still a little anxious, but it´s lessening. I don´t feel like I´m fully in Mexico yet, as border towns are. The man who sold me my bus ticket had an almost accent free English. But this will change, I´m sure.
On the drive down from Alpine, there was a dust devil, sucking thick white dirt into the air. Tall, it was soild. And I thought about how, in my worst dreams, tonadoes hunted me down. But when things turned to good, I was able to unravel their funnels, disapating the fear. On the top of this devil was disperson, a thinning cloud as it gave up power over its captives, letting them loose to float or fly. I couldn´t take my eyes off it, off its gentle self destruction and return to peace.
And I couldn´t help but think: Yes, that´s what I want. I want to be like that.
On the drive down from Alpine, there was a dust devil, sucking thick white dirt into the air. Tall, it was soild. And I thought about how, in my worst dreams, tonadoes hunted me down. But when things turned to good, I was able to unravel their funnels, disapating the fear. On the top of this devil was disperson, a thinning cloud as it gave up power over its captives, letting them loose to float or fly. I couldn´t take my eyes off it, off its gentle self destruction and return to peace.
And I couldn´t help but think: Yes, that´s what I want. I want to be like that.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Mexico and a forward gaze
Before deciding to make this trip to Mexico, I had to question whether or not I was running away from something. Came to the conclusion that it is seldom we depart a place voluntarily and not feel happy to leave a few things behind. Waiting for emails from my traveling love, the internet in general, an empty house, the lack of job, an all-too-open schedule... there are a few things I wouldn't mind a break from.
But what's all this about running AWAY? What about running TOWARDS?
Thought about it on my 45th or whatever lap around the gym today (it's a small gym). Running, running, running. Then occasionally singing random notes and disturbing the basketball players below. Hum, instead of looking behind, let's refocus to a forward gaze for this trip:
1) Hours on the bus for reading and doing nothing else; getting through some things I keep putting aside because I feel guilty being lazy, or at least not producing something.
2) Waters lapping at my toes and boats out at sea.
3) The quiet tombs of old Mexican cathedrals, echoing the voices of thousands past from their cool walls. And a reconnection to Catholic heritage in them, remembering now that I am more united with God that I have ever been and that this started in Sacred Coeur.
During a layover in Paris on the way to Madagascar, I knelt to pray at the front of this amazing church, and could think of nothing to request. The only thing I could say honestly was, "Thank you. Thank you for everything. Whatever happens on this trip, I am grateful for. You owe me nothing, and I owe you the same. Let's give each other all we have."
4) The chance to mail postcards.
5) Everyday survival awareness and taking that alertness wherever I go after (wherever being grad school, a tough place to thrive if you are feeling numb).
6) Women and their children and hopefully (*crosses her fingers*) chickens on a few rickety voyages.
7) Being anonymous. Alleluia.
8) New people, new influences on my life, new ways of thinking, and being, and talking, and framing the world.
These came alive to me when a friend reminded me of our previous Mexico trip, and particularly that moment in the ocean when a storm was rolling in. I had drank a touch of tequila and was trying hard to conquer the waves. No matter how low I dove or how fast I kicked, they wouldn't let me out past their breakers. I was standing in the small waves screaming at the ocean to bring it on, as my daring friend, for the only time I've ever seen, pulled the safety card and talked me out of the water.
9) I'm looking forward to something like that too.
The great boon and danger of being human is the ability to rationalize anything. I am probably doing that here. But I'll take it. Sometimes I know I'm just not ready to surrender entirely.
But what's all this about running AWAY? What about running TOWARDS?
Thought about it on my 45th or whatever lap around the gym today (it's a small gym). Running, running, running. Then occasionally singing random notes and disturbing the basketball players below. Hum, instead of looking behind, let's refocus to a forward gaze for this trip:
1) Hours on the bus for reading and doing nothing else; getting through some things I keep putting aside because I feel guilty being lazy, or at least not producing something.
2) Waters lapping at my toes and boats out at sea.
3) The quiet tombs of old Mexican cathedrals, echoing the voices of thousands past from their cool walls. And a reconnection to Catholic heritage in them, remembering now that I am more united with God that I have ever been and that this started in Sacred Coeur.
During a layover in Paris on the way to Madagascar, I knelt to pray at the front of this amazing church, and could think of nothing to request. The only thing I could say honestly was, "Thank you. Thank you for everything. Whatever happens on this trip, I am grateful for. You owe me nothing, and I owe you the same. Let's give each other all we have."
4) The chance to mail postcards.
5) Everyday survival awareness and taking that alertness wherever I go after (wherever being grad school, a tough place to thrive if you are feeling numb).
6) Women and their children and hopefully (*crosses her fingers*) chickens on a few rickety voyages.
7) Being anonymous. Alleluia.
8) New people, new influences on my life, new ways of thinking, and being, and talking, and framing the world.
These came alive to me when a friend reminded me of our previous Mexico trip, and particularly that moment in the ocean when a storm was rolling in. I had drank a touch of tequila and was trying hard to conquer the waves. No matter how low I dove or how fast I kicked, they wouldn't let me out past their breakers. I was standing in the small waves screaming at the ocean to bring it on, as my daring friend, for the only time I've ever seen, pulled the safety card and talked me out of the water.
9) I'm looking forward to something like that too.
The great boon and danger of being human is the ability to rationalize anything. I am probably doing that here. But I'll take it. Sometimes I know I'm just not ready to surrender entirely.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
relaxed at the spine and wide to the world
Little girl: "Does God have wings?"
Mom: "I don't guess so. He doesn't need wings to fly. God can do anything he wants."
Little girl: "So He can draw without a pen?"
My mind just opened like a glossy-photo, table-top book, pages sliding to their natural position, relaxed at the spine and wide to the world, crease of stress between plucked eyebrows finally smoothed. Infinite. Realizing for the umpteenth time that existence is endless and sometimes unimagined.
Mom: "I don't guess so. He doesn't need wings to fly. God can do anything he wants."
Little girl: "So He can draw without a pen?"
My mind just opened like a glossy-photo, table-top book, pages sliding to their natural position, relaxed at the spine and wide to the world, crease of stress between plucked eyebrows finally smoothed. Infinite. Realizing for the umpteenth time that existence is endless and sometimes unimagined.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Old Chairs
Yes, I'm procrastinating.
Wilco does so many fabulous songs fabulously (you can quote me on that). "Reservations"- the lyrics are brilliant, but I am partial to the instruments at the end. As with many songs on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, it's sounds like sonic randomness at first. But as you close your eyes and hone in, you can hear movement and emotion and visions.
Two empty rocking chairs, wooden, moving slightly in the wind. Sometimes the chairs belong to an old couple, empty because they are inside making a basil and homegrown tomato salad together, enjoying what they grew in the backyard garden. Sometimes, they have passed away and that low, muffled voice filtering through the creaks and moans is the ghost of the husband, telling his wife about that piano he wanted to buy for her wedding gift- a shiny, mahogany standup. No doubt the porch is weathered grey with time and rain, family gatherings and slamming doors. It looks out onto something vast and dry, Texan in the FarWest way- miles and miles for your mind to run down, nobody coming but that old Chevy delivering mail. Quiet.
Sometimes the chairs belong to a young couple, inherited from her grandmother. The deck is newly waterproofed and screened to keep the bugs at bay. They are inside now, discussing the color of yellow they should pick for the nursery, looking for the keys to the car, a trip to the local hardware store. Those chairs will stand guard for them... will cuddle that little girl coming in the spring, lull her to sleep when she has a nightmare, tilt dangerously as she tests her balance, rock wildly as she remembers her first kiss. And they will be there when this couple becomes old, whispering secrets of the past.
*creeaak* *chills* *creeeaaak* *chills*
Again, again, again, I have to hear it again...
Wilco does so many fabulous songs fabulously (you can quote me on that). "Reservations"- the lyrics are brilliant, but I am partial to the instruments at the end. As with many songs on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, it's sounds like sonic randomness at first. But as you close your eyes and hone in, you can hear movement and emotion and visions.
Two empty rocking chairs, wooden, moving slightly in the wind. Sometimes the chairs belong to an old couple, empty because they are inside making a basil and homegrown tomato salad together, enjoying what they grew in the backyard garden. Sometimes, they have passed away and that low, muffled voice filtering through the creaks and moans is the ghost of the husband, telling his wife about that piano he wanted to buy for her wedding gift- a shiny, mahogany standup. No doubt the porch is weathered grey with time and rain, family gatherings and slamming doors. It looks out onto something vast and dry, Texan in the FarWest way- miles and miles for your mind to run down, nobody coming but that old Chevy delivering mail. Quiet.
Sometimes the chairs belong to a young couple, inherited from her grandmother. The deck is newly waterproofed and screened to keep the bugs at bay. They are inside now, discussing the color of yellow they should pick for the nursery, looking for the keys to the car, a trip to the local hardware store. Those chairs will stand guard for them... will cuddle that little girl coming in the spring, lull her to sleep when she has a nightmare, tilt dangerously as she tests her balance, rock wildly as she remembers her first kiss. And they will be there when this couple becomes old, whispering secrets of the past.
*creeaak* *chills* *creeeaaak* *chills*
Again, again, again, I have to hear it again...
lay me the garden/ Jack-Jack
February 6, 2008
The beautiful song below was playing in my ears last night as I cruised down the busy streets to trivia. A memory washed over me:
The same week the sixth Harry Potter came out, I found a baby jackrabbit. I thought he was lost after a recent flood; he seemed to be nursing on a cactus. He was so tiny but had these beautiful, long silky ears that stretched down his back. Allen and I were on a walk and after some discussion, we decided to take him home. A few months earlier I had nursed a three week old kitten for the Humane Society- Yoda, for the way his ears moved when he ate.
The vet said to mix Pedia-lite and goat's milk and administer it via bottle, so we tried that with this little guy as well, with Jack-Jack.
Touch is really important to all mammals and especially baby ones, so I held him next to my heart every chance I had. I'd lay on the couch reading Harry Potter and he's ride my breath up and down, twitching his nose, having his ears stroked. He came with me to church, to the store, on walks. I loved that Jack-Jack. It was so beautiful to see him grow and change- the first time he lifted his ears off his back, the first day he jumped across the Airstream, his first nibble of grass. He was moving from baby to rabbit right before my eyes. It was a miracle.
He usually jumped inside his box in the morning, but one Saturday there was no movement. It appeared he had emptied his stomach all over the blankets, his body was cool, his eyes tired, he couldn't muster enough energy to hop. I knew he was sick, but I didn't know why.
Was grass introduced too soon? Did I not wash the bottle well enough?
I lifted him up to my heart and held him there for all the morning chores. We had to run to the town for milk and I took him with me, laid him in the box for the ride, and covered him with a blanket. When we got to the store... I could just feel it. I slid the blanket over and he was smaller somehow, breath stopped, eyes glazed, ears sunken to the side of his body. His soul had left. I started wailing.
Allen, four steps from the truck, said nothing. Just about-faced, gently closed my door and drove me back home. I muttered tear-filled gibberish the whole drive back, completely inconsolable. There was something so wrong, so painful about the senseless loss of innocent life. There wasn't room in my heart to understand it, to take it all in. I felt guilty, hopeless, and so, so sorry.
There's a mile of dirt road before the ranch and about a quarter in, I asked Allen to pull over. I had an uncontrollable urge to lay Jack-Jack in a patch of swaying tall grass, let him return to the earth just as he would have if I had never found him, had never touched him. Allen protested- there were so many good trees and special spots near our home- why here? I don't know. I just had to let him go this way. I laid his limp body right on the earth, let the weeds and blades of grass fold over him and said goodbye. I never saw him again, never could find the spot. I'd just wave on every trip to work and home, somewhere in his general direction, in the direction of all the wilderness I'll never understand, that I'll return to myself one day.
__________________
Garden
Gregory Alan Isakov
(Not entirely sure I got all the words right, but this is what I hear)
On the long road, we are just trees
Waving in the wind storm
We are slow wheels
We are potholes
And it passes
Just like lightening
When it's over
We remember nothing
Lay me in the garden
Lay me in the garden
So I can feed you
Lay me in the garden
And I may live beneath your skin
On the long road, we are tall weeds
Misplaced and misconceived
We are wind blown
I want to go with you
And there's too many streets and avenues
From me to you
Lay me in the garden
Lay me in the garden
So I feed you
Lay me in the garden X5
There's too many streets and avenues
Lay me in the garden
From me to you
The beautiful song below was playing in my ears last night as I cruised down the busy streets to trivia. A memory washed over me:
The same week the sixth Harry Potter came out, I found a baby jackrabbit. I thought he was lost after a recent flood; he seemed to be nursing on a cactus. He was so tiny but had these beautiful, long silky ears that stretched down his back. Allen and I were on a walk and after some discussion, we decided to take him home. A few months earlier I had nursed a three week old kitten for the Humane Society- Yoda, for the way his ears moved when he ate.
The vet said to mix Pedia-lite and goat's milk and administer it via bottle, so we tried that with this little guy as well, with Jack-Jack.
Touch is really important to all mammals and especially baby ones, so I held him next to my heart every chance I had. I'd lay on the couch reading Harry Potter and he's ride my breath up and down, twitching his nose, having his ears stroked. He came with me to church, to the store, on walks. I loved that Jack-Jack. It was so beautiful to see him grow and change- the first time he lifted his ears off his back, the first day he jumped across the Airstream, his first nibble of grass. He was moving from baby to rabbit right before my eyes. It was a miracle.
He usually jumped inside his box in the morning, but one Saturday there was no movement. It appeared he had emptied his stomach all over the blankets, his body was cool, his eyes tired, he couldn't muster enough energy to hop. I knew he was sick, but I didn't know why.
Was grass introduced too soon? Did I not wash the bottle well enough?
I lifted him up to my heart and held him there for all the morning chores. We had to run to the town for milk and I took him with me, laid him in the box for the ride, and covered him with a blanket. When we got to the store... I could just feel it. I slid the blanket over and he was smaller somehow, breath stopped, eyes glazed, ears sunken to the side of his body. His soul had left. I started wailing.
Allen, four steps from the truck, said nothing. Just about-faced, gently closed my door and drove me back home. I muttered tear-filled gibberish the whole drive back, completely inconsolable. There was something so wrong, so painful about the senseless loss of innocent life. There wasn't room in my heart to understand it, to take it all in. I felt guilty, hopeless, and so, so sorry.
There's a mile of dirt road before the ranch and about a quarter in, I asked Allen to pull over. I had an uncontrollable urge to lay Jack-Jack in a patch of swaying tall grass, let him return to the earth just as he would have if I had never found him, had never touched him. Allen protested- there were so many good trees and special spots near our home- why here? I don't know. I just had to let him go this way. I laid his limp body right on the earth, let the weeds and blades of grass fold over him and said goodbye. I never saw him again, never could find the spot. I'd just wave on every trip to work and home, somewhere in his general direction, in the direction of all the wilderness I'll never understand, that I'll return to myself one day.
__________________
Garden
Gregory Alan Isakov
(Not entirely sure I got all the words right, but this is what I hear)
On the long road, we are just trees
Waving in the wind storm
We are slow wheels
We are potholes
And it passes
Just like lightening
When it's over
We remember nothing
Lay me in the garden
Lay me in the garden
So I can feed you
Lay me in the garden
And I may live beneath your skin
On the long road, we are tall weeds
Misplaced and misconceived
We are wind blown
I want to go with you
And there's too many streets and avenues
From me to you
Lay me in the garden
Lay me in the garden
So I feed you
Lay me in the garden X5
There's too many streets and avenues
Lay me in the garden
From me to you
at the end of 34th Street
November 29, 2007
There's a magical world at the end of 34th Street. I pass through it on every southbound journey.
You must cross over a little footbridge to reach this world. Underneath the bridge flows a creek, a growing mosaic of giant snowflake ice. On the other side lies section 8 housing, Boulder style. Big, newly painted colorful buildings with wide lawns and a soccer field. But the cars- Pintos, old Lincolns, minivans with broken windows- show the income. Makes me feel sane, not so cut off from the world.
At one end, near the creek, there is a cul-de-sac. It has two wonderous features. The first is a center median, filled with wildflowers. Today I saw a man with one arm chopping down their remaining stalks. The other is a little family of shopping carts from all different stores around the Boulder area. They change out almost every day, trading big ones for the little two-level jobs, trading Target for Safeway. I don't know their purpose, their tenders, or why there are at least 20 at a time, but I feel as though I visit a little mystery each time I pass.
My entry into this world is always an adventure; it's the only time I really go off road, riding down a steep dirt trail to the sidewalk. I love standing up and coasting down this short *wheeee!* Cul-de-sac mystery, and broken pavement requiring concentration and fair weaving leads to the end, before it meets Valmont; there are planted trees with low lying branches. Stand high and touch their leaves, or now, their bare arms.
This place has become haven for me. It's the beginning of the day and a re-entry to home. It's alive with people, children, someone working on their car, Mexican men with their low whistles. Boulder is, with it's very clean streets, new buildings, shiny exterior, quite nearly out of reach. But here I feel human, normal, almost home.
There's a magical world at the end of 34th Street. I pass through it on every southbound journey.
You must cross over a little footbridge to reach this world. Underneath the bridge flows a creek, a growing mosaic of giant snowflake ice. On the other side lies section 8 housing, Boulder style. Big, newly painted colorful buildings with wide lawns and a soccer field. But the cars- Pintos, old Lincolns, minivans with broken windows- show the income. Makes me feel sane, not so cut off from the world.
At one end, near the creek, there is a cul-de-sac. It has two wonderous features. The first is a center median, filled with wildflowers. Today I saw a man with one arm chopping down their remaining stalks. The other is a little family of shopping carts from all different stores around the Boulder area. They change out almost every day, trading big ones for the little two-level jobs, trading Target for Safeway. I don't know their purpose, their tenders, or why there are at least 20 at a time, but I feel as though I visit a little mystery each time I pass.
My entry into this world is always an adventure; it's the only time I really go off road, riding down a steep dirt trail to the sidewalk. I love standing up and coasting down this short *wheeee!* Cul-de-sac mystery, and broken pavement requiring concentration and fair weaving leads to the end, before it meets Valmont; there are planted trees with low lying branches. Stand high and touch their leaves, or now, their bare arms.
This place has become haven for me. It's the beginning of the day and a re-entry to home. It's alive with people, children, someone working on their car, Mexican men with their low whistles. Boulder is, with it's very clean streets, new buildings, shiny exterior, quite nearly out of reach. But here I feel human, normal, almost home.
Poptarts in the treadmill
November 21, 2007
One of the perks of being three years old, from what I can tell, is the lack of artifical boundaries.
For example, I spent a good 20 minutes cleaning poptarts out of the treadmill last night.
Poptarts
Treadmill
These things don't go together in my head, but maybe there's just an artificial boundary between them. To Lanham, the question is not "why would you combine them?" but rather "why wouldn't you?" It makes great crumbs, a royal mess AND breaks expensive machinery. All good things.
(I got in a little trouble for laughing at this- apparently that gives permission and a bad response- "Mommy, it's not BAD, it's FUNNY.")
I'm noticing several such juxapositions, hanging out with him. Putting dinosaurs in a cattle truck, drinking soapy water in the sink, standing on the toilet paper. Maybe these things that seem so common sense are actually drilled into our heads as artificial lines in the sand.
It's a bit like traveling, I guess. You show up in a new country and have only a general sense of what's going on. I can't judge- I wore African lingerie in Madagascar for two weeks until someone told me differently.
Lingerie
Public
Didn't go together in their heads, but made perfect sense to me.
Such a fuzzy boundary between society and our minds.
One of the perks of being three years old, from what I can tell, is the lack of artifical boundaries.
For example, I spent a good 20 minutes cleaning poptarts out of the treadmill last night.
Poptarts
Treadmill
These things don't go together in my head, but maybe there's just an artificial boundary between them. To Lanham, the question is not "why would you combine them?" but rather "why wouldn't you?" It makes great crumbs, a royal mess AND breaks expensive machinery. All good things.
(I got in a little trouble for laughing at this- apparently that gives permission and a bad response- "Mommy, it's not BAD, it's FUNNY.")
I'm noticing several such juxapositions, hanging out with him. Putting dinosaurs in a cattle truck, drinking soapy water in the sink, standing on the toilet paper. Maybe these things that seem so common sense are actually drilled into our heads as artificial lines in the sand.
It's a bit like traveling, I guess. You show up in a new country and have only a general sense of what's going on. I can't judge- I wore African lingerie in Madagascar for two weeks until someone told me differently.
Lingerie
Public
Didn't go together in their heads, but made perfect sense to me.
Such a fuzzy boundary between society and our minds.
that was fun!
December 23, 2008
My family and I went to the mall today to see choo-choos. Lanham loves trains- Thomas the steam engine is his hero and he can lable all the different types- box cars, diesels, steam engines, cabooses, other things I've never heard of. I was a bit nervous about this field trip for several reasons, most revolving around the natural ups and downs of a family holiday.
There were high points- my favorite was linking arms with my dad, Lanham holding his other hand and Christina, my sister, holding Lanham's. The four of us wove in and out of the crowds, sometimes becoming like a congo line, sometimes ducking and negotiating, but always staying linked. It was beautiful.
Then, of course, there were sticky moments that aren't worth elaborating upon.
Lanham, in his wise three year old self, summed it up well. When we finally got to the train exhibit... the entry way, anticipation, excitement, overstimulus, lack of nap... something, really got to him and he started screaming bloody murder. So upset. He calmed down a bit inside, but Christina and Brad rushed him through so as to avoid another melt down. My parents and I came out 10 minutes behind them and found him happily sipping a smoothie. He looked up at us and smiled- "That was fun!"
Just like the holidays, I guess. Or childbirth, maybe. A bit rough getting through, but in hindsight, you remember the good points and think how fun it was, think how you might just do it again.
My family and I went to the mall today to see choo-choos. Lanham loves trains- Thomas the steam engine is his hero and he can lable all the different types- box cars, diesels, steam engines, cabooses, other things I've never heard of. I was a bit nervous about this field trip for several reasons, most revolving around the natural ups and downs of a family holiday.
There were high points- my favorite was linking arms with my dad, Lanham holding his other hand and Christina, my sister, holding Lanham's. The four of us wove in and out of the crowds, sometimes becoming like a congo line, sometimes ducking and negotiating, but always staying linked. It was beautiful.
Then, of course, there were sticky moments that aren't worth elaborating upon.
Lanham, in his wise three year old self, summed it up well. When we finally got to the train exhibit... the entry way, anticipation, excitement, overstimulus, lack of nap... something, really got to him and he started screaming bloody murder. So upset. He calmed down a bit inside, but Christina and Brad rushed him through so as to avoid another melt down. My parents and I came out 10 minutes behind them and found him happily sipping a smoothie. He looked up at us and smiled- "That was fun!"
Just like the holidays, I guess. Or childbirth, maybe. A bit rough getting through, but in hindsight, you remember the good points and think how fun it was, think how you might just do it again.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
solar panel
I am sitting in a tank top and the sun is filtering over my friend's shoulder onto mine, my face, my hair, my book. And it is the sweetest absorbing- like happiness in light form. A tiny round rainbow spectrum is radiating from somewhere, following the words down my page,
"I have suggested that our quest for radical alterity shapes and is shaped by our conceptualizations of "cultures" as discrete, self-contained, self-reproducing universes of of shared customary practices and beliefs...."
Breathe
"I have suggested that our quest for radical alterity shapes and is shaped by our conceptualizations of "cultures" as discrete, self-contained, self-reproducing universes of of shared customary practices and beliefs...."
Breathe
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
like liver/ hitting the bag- still workshopping
The more you mess with emotions, the more they fall apart in your hands, like operating on a liver... so I think I’ll just let her be...
It does her in
The difference in him
Between actions and words
It’s absurd
The weight she put in it
and now she sits
on the fence with everyone else
Hesitate at their belts
wondering if they’re the same, desire their game
Left her down and confused, feeling used as a prize set aside by pathetic lies,
Tried to be honest and bare, let down her hair,
heart on sleeve,
and she’d like to believe
She has the strength to burn again, keep a thin skin, take the pin out of the weapon
and throw it in the den
of another lion.
She’s trying.
She’ll take devils out with this punch
like numbers she’ll crunch in her head about the choices
emotions to the surface...
Love will never be perfect
What is she aiming for?
Even the score?
Or those patterns on the back of leaves
Their movement and grace
*breath* She’s shaking
Is it really worth taking
a heart out and looking at it?
It does her in
The difference in him
Between actions and words
It’s absurd
The weight she put in it
and now she sits
on the fence with everyone else
Hesitate at their belts
wondering if they’re the same, desire their game
Left her down and confused, feeling used as a prize set aside by pathetic lies,
Tried to be honest and bare, let down her hair,
heart on sleeve,
and she’d like to believe
She has the strength to burn again, keep a thin skin, take the pin out of the weapon
and throw it in the den
of another lion.
She’s trying.
She’ll take devils out with this punch
like numbers she’ll crunch in her head about the choices
emotions to the surface...
Love will never be perfect
What is she aiming for?
Even the score?
Or those patterns on the back of leaves
Their movement and grace
*breath* She’s shaking
Is it really worth taking
a heart out and looking at it?
Reassurance
Beat the hell out of the bag today. No bag gloves allowed for sanitary reasons, so I just used wraps. It started with shadow boxing in the mirror and a few form-oriented hits on the bag. Then, I don't know what happened. Lasted 5 minutes, maybe- free flowing thoughts of frustration and disappointment and upset and anger and all those things I haven't been feeling lately. They went through my feet, past twisting hips and out the arm, my shoulders lightly popping me in the chin as I blocked.
*right* *right left* *right left*
*right right right right left*
*RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT LEFT*
*LEFT LEFT RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!!!*
Stepped back a bit dazed and looked down at purple knuckles. I could feel slight cuts under the wraps. *whew* What the fuck?
Walked out of the gym feeling 10 pounds lighter. The emotions weren't gone- just brought at the surface to be sloghed off by radio cures and a cool night air. The moon was blinding.
Returning to study, I reread a poem I received this week.
Reassurance
I must love the questions
themselves
as Rilke said
like locked rooms
full of treasure
to which my blind
and groping key
does not yet fit
and await the answers
as unsealed
letters
mailed with dubious intent
and written in a very foreign
tongue.
and in the hourly making
of myself
no thought of Time
to force, to squeeze
the space
I grow into.
-Alice Walker
*right* *right left* *right left*
*right right right right left*
*RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT LEFT*
*LEFT LEFT RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!!!*
Stepped back a bit dazed and looked down at purple knuckles. I could feel slight cuts under the wraps. *whew* What the fuck?
Walked out of the gym feeling 10 pounds lighter. The emotions weren't gone- just brought at the surface to be sloghed off by radio cures and a cool night air. The moon was blinding.
Returning to study, I reread a poem I received this week.
Reassurance
I must love the questions
themselves
as Rilke said
like locked rooms
full of treasure
to which my blind
and groping key
does not yet fit
and await the answers
as unsealed
letters
mailed with dubious intent
and written in a very foreign
tongue.
and in the hourly making
of myself
no thought of Time
to force, to squeeze
the space
I grow into.
-Alice Walker
Tortilla Del Ray
Sitting the tortillaria I've been eyeing for days. It smells of compressed corn and grease- the tables garish blues and reds and yellows with raised portraits of catci and men in sombreros creating distorted tops. I've ordered my favorite- huevos rancheros con chili verde. The whole menu was in Spanish.
The tortillas are fresh off the press and they burn fingers. The green sauce gives my mouth a body high. It tastes like Oaxaca and that back street shop where I learned how to say "Sugar."
Before dreaming of my New Years escape to Mexico, I think of my friends who are traveling or who will be soon- all their back streets and new words.
Then it's to the balcony at some small hotel I hope to find, overlooking a colonial street echoing with laughing children and stray motorbikes. My feet are propped on the railing and my breath opens up the space between my shoulder blades. The waitress and tortilla pressman are teasing each other, yelling in Spanish over the mariachi music. I'm here but I'm gone.
I feel a road trip calling....Sometimes I wonder if it matters anymore *where* I am, if it's always in my own body, thinking my own thoughts, dreaming of the next spot on the map, the next town down the road.
The tortillas are fresh off the press and they burn fingers. The green sauce gives my mouth a body high. It tastes like Oaxaca and that back street shop where I learned how to say "Sugar."
Before dreaming of my New Years escape to Mexico, I think of my friends who are traveling or who will be soon- all their back streets and new words.
Then it's to the balcony at some small hotel I hope to find, overlooking a colonial street echoing with laughing children and stray motorbikes. My feet are propped on the railing and my breath opens up the space between my shoulder blades. The waitress and tortilla pressman are teasing each other, yelling in Spanish over the mariachi music. I'm here but I'm gone.
I feel a road trip calling....Sometimes I wonder if it matters anymore *where* I am, if it's always in my own body, thinking my own thoughts, dreaming of the next spot on the map, the next town down the road.
ghost goodbyes
My ghost got married October 20th, last Saturday.
He doesn't get to be my ghost anymore and I want to say goodbye. Best of luck to you and your new bride, Larry Edward Magee. Wishing you all beautiful things in this world, and only the fullest life. Wrote this July 2006.
I just woke from a most distinct dream about you. I had snuck into some two story house you had been living in for some time. I was going to knock but you were in your old blue robe, talking to someone on a chair and I didn't want to interupt. I moved to a side room, watching TV and petting Chloe and you came in laughing at me, wanting to know what I was doing there, how my day had gone. You had braces and were a local high school teacher. Every time you tried to ask me a question about my life, I'd turn it back on you- I couldn't hear enough about what you were doing and how your life was going. Then the phone rang, and rang and rang and I woke up from your ghost, to the Airstream wrapped brightly around me, my hand petting Chloe on the bed. I was so mad at that phone, taking me from a moment with your ghost when he actually spoke to me, even if the information was false.
Usually your ghost just sneaks up silently, hovering around the passager seat of my car. He hides in songs, tons of them, even ones that weren't alive yet when we knew each other. Last weekend he was in Esquire magazine, in an article written about Teriligua. It was his voice, if not his words. If I were being honest, I'd say I see or feel him every day.
Every damn day.
I've stopped being angry with him for coming around and just expect him to pop up at odd times.
I miss you, Edward. I'm not asking to get back together. That, apparently, isn't right. We couldn't be in the same place and I wasn't mature enough to work through difficult issues. But I miss talking to you. I miss hearing your guitar. I miss your friendship, I miss your presence.
YOUR presence, not his. He's just whisps of memory.
I understand why you haven't written me back, that it's safer that way. I also know the last letter I wrote wasn't 'real'- I started to tell you about your ghost, but pulled back, afraid it would come across all wrong. I wrote draft after draft, and feeling like I was running out of time, finally just wrote the simples about my life. "Can't find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read" WIlco, Box Full of Letters. It must have seemed fake. And you don't have to write me back from this one. If you don't, then I'll know for sure our knowing each other is over and knowing for sure is a good thing.
I'm getting married, next June. We've been engaged since January. He's a good man- intelligent, handsome, loves music, is a little hippie, a little nerd, is laid back and, well, spoils me rotten. (He's of course more than that, but how do you fully describe someone you love?) We've lived in this Airstream together for almost a year and are making it just fine. I stick out our arguements, although all I want to do is run (sometime I still do, to the back of my head and pretend nothing's wrong- such a coward). He doesn't know what a big deal that is for me. He meets me halfway and tries to help me fulfill this long list of crazy dreams I store up over time. This September I'll spend a few weeks in Hawaii, surfing and working on an organic farm. And hopefully this time next year, we'll be getting ready to move to Boulder where I'll start graduate school in nutritional anthropology, he in either math, physics or engineering, whichever appeals to him most at the time of application.
I am waking from that dream now, and am again not quite sure what to say to you, not even sure I'll send this letter, like so many before. I know, though, if I have any hope of any friendship, it's time for me to be more bare, more honest. Somewhere over these last fews years, I've grown a stronger backbone, a better bluntness and I'd like to share those with you, to see what happens in return. But again, if there is no return, I can just accept that peacefully as the way it is. I hope this finds you well, Edward, and happy- moving forward in life and unafraid to take on the things you need to feel awake. My nephew is still in Dallas, and I still travel up to visit regularly- maybe a cup of coffee would be better than letters.
He doesn't get to be my ghost anymore and I want to say goodbye. Best of luck to you and your new bride, Larry Edward Magee. Wishing you all beautiful things in this world, and only the fullest life. Wrote this July 2006.
I just woke from a most distinct dream about you. I had snuck into some two story house you had been living in for some time. I was going to knock but you were in your old blue robe, talking to someone on a chair and I didn't want to interupt. I moved to a side room, watching TV and petting Chloe and you came in laughing at me, wanting to know what I was doing there, how my day had gone. You had braces and were a local high school teacher. Every time you tried to ask me a question about my life, I'd turn it back on you- I couldn't hear enough about what you were doing and how your life was going. Then the phone rang, and rang and rang and I woke up from your ghost, to the Airstream wrapped brightly around me, my hand petting Chloe on the bed. I was so mad at that phone, taking me from a moment with your ghost when he actually spoke to me, even if the information was false.
Usually your ghost just sneaks up silently, hovering around the passager seat of my car. He hides in songs, tons of them, even ones that weren't alive yet when we knew each other. Last weekend he was in Esquire magazine, in an article written about Teriligua. It was his voice, if not his words. If I were being honest, I'd say I see or feel him every day.
Every damn day.
I've stopped being angry with him for coming around and just expect him to pop up at odd times.
I miss you, Edward. I'm not asking to get back together. That, apparently, isn't right. We couldn't be in the same place and I wasn't mature enough to work through difficult issues. But I miss talking to you. I miss hearing your guitar. I miss your friendship, I miss your presence.
YOUR presence, not his. He's just whisps of memory.
I understand why you haven't written me back, that it's safer that way. I also know the last letter I wrote wasn't 'real'- I started to tell you about your ghost, but pulled back, afraid it would come across all wrong. I wrote draft after draft, and feeling like I was running out of time, finally just wrote the simples about my life. "Can't find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read" WIlco, Box Full of Letters. It must have seemed fake. And you don't have to write me back from this one. If you don't, then I'll know for sure our knowing each other is over and knowing for sure is a good thing.
I'm getting married, next June. We've been engaged since January. He's a good man- intelligent, handsome, loves music, is a little hippie, a little nerd, is laid back and, well, spoils me rotten. (He's of course more than that, but how do you fully describe someone you love?) We've lived in this Airstream together for almost a year and are making it just fine. I stick out our arguements, although all I want to do is run (sometime I still do, to the back of my head and pretend nothing's wrong- such a coward). He doesn't know what a big deal that is for me. He meets me halfway and tries to help me fulfill this long list of crazy dreams I store up over time. This September I'll spend a few weeks in Hawaii, surfing and working on an organic farm. And hopefully this time next year, we'll be getting ready to move to Boulder where I'll start graduate school in nutritional anthropology, he in either math, physics or engineering, whichever appeals to him most at the time of application.
I am waking from that dream now, and am again not quite sure what to say to you, not even sure I'll send this letter, like so many before. I know, though, if I have any hope of any friendship, it's time for me to be more bare, more honest. Somewhere over these last fews years, I've grown a stronger backbone, a better bluntness and I'd like to share those with you, to see what happens in return. But again, if there is no return, I can just accept that peacefully as the way it is. I hope this finds you well, Edward, and happy- moving forward in life and unafraid to take on the things you need to feel awake. My nephew is still in Dallas, and I still travel up to visit regularly- maybe a cup of coffee would be better than letters.
visceral remembrances
After Ray La Montagne on my iTunes comes Robert Earl Keen Jr., someone I don't listen to all that much. But straightening my room, I was slammed into an immediate memory: sitting on the floor of Ray's Bar in Marfa, staring wide-eyed and awed like a kindergartener at story time. Crosslegged at the feet of Robert Earl Keen and David Byrne, I watched them pound out "Amarillo Highway", singing, laughing and forgetting the lines. It was Terry Allen's wedding anniversary and he flew his friends out to Marfa to jam and reminisce. $5 cover change and it had nothing to do with us. We were just lucky-ass bystanders.
Then I'm transported to a road trip with Edward, this song's on and I'm the girl in barefeet. Our Lonestar's waiting somewhere on the other end of things. We're flying out of Lubbock, headed to New Mexico, or maybe it was Austin, or Big Bend or Dallas, windows down, singing this song with all our might. He'll always be a ghost, that one.
I am hit with these mind-visuals, and I want to write about it but I can't pull out the threads. There's so much in there- emotions and touch, desires and satisfaction. Following one, I get to a tangled knot with another until all I can do is sit down in the middle and breathe it in. Like smell, these songs- visceral remembrances.
Then I'm transported to a road trip with Edward, this song's on and I'm the girl in barefeet. Our Lonestar's waiting somewhere on the other end of things. We're flying out of Lubbock, headed to New Mexico, or maybe it was Austin, or Big Bend or Dallas, windows down, singing this song with all our might. He'll always be a ghost, that one.
I am hit with these mind-visuals, and I want to write about it but I can't pull out the threads. There's so much in there- emotions and touch, desires and satisfaction. Following one, I get to a tangled knot with another until all I can do is sit down in the middle and breathe it in. Like smell, these songs- visceral remembrances.
Miles said
"You need to know your horn, know the chords, know all the tunes. Then you forget about all that, and just play." Davis
the center of desire is bliss- 2 entries
juicing desire
October 3, 2008
Don't write fiction (yet) but if (when) I ever start, my first main character will be someone who always thinks about how great it would be to have things or pursue people but never fulfills her desires. She would follow her action impulses- climbing a mountain, admitting a love, dancing like a fool-things that have to do with expression. But action that aimed towards acquiring, she would leave outside her realm.
Because there's this thing about desire. It's naturally filled with an energy that has a powerful control over people. Eastern religion does a lot with that. Buddhism says "get rid of it!" The absence of desire is the presence of peace. Hinduism, specifically Vishnavites and Krsna worshippers say "harness it!" The love story of Radha and Krsna, especially in the Gitagovinda, brings this out beautifully. Krsna, player of all players, lures the cow herdesses out their homes at night with his flute playing. When they all assemble in the forest clearing, he splits himself into hundreds of Krsnas- one for each girl and proceeds to dance an erotic dance with them. And right before the culmination, right before the organsm, he dissappears. This naturally makes the girls crazy, and one, his favorite, Radha, has a special affair with him and experiences a special kind of separation:
"The down on her body stands on end and she draws in her breath, a hissing sigh;
She laments, she shivers, she swoons, she sinks into reverie, laughs and cries;
She closes her eyes, she starts up, she droops; and if you, a heavenly physician
Should calm down her high state of fever, O would she not live? or her wordless gestures too she will end!
Her body is wholly tormented by the heat of the flame of desire;
Her mind, when ever at times in thoughts of the moon and sandal and lotus,
Even then it is still exhausted, uncooled- most strange to relate!"
And he experiences the same apart from her. The whole poem contains some extremely sexy imagery:
"To whose act of desire accomplished the ankets upon my feet bejewelled;
Vibrated sounding, who gave his kisses seizing the hair of the head,
And to whom in his sweet passionate love my girdle sounded in eloquence sweet."
(I'm blushing),
But it's supposed to represent the desire for the divine and the pain of being separated from it, never truly able to unite with it in this life. This desire is seen as good, as in its own way. Yes, she is in pain, but she's also very much alive, feeling every breeze, hearing every bee, laughing and crying. I see this over and over again in myself and those around me- the desire to possess another, thinking about being united makes us so alive. (Whereas the actual uniting seldom carries the same kind of energy).
______________________________
itsastretch.blogspot.com
Music is throbbing and the whole room is moving in a sort of rhythmic trance. She's on a point system with friends- bum a cigarette 10pts, start conversation 5 pts, get a number 20pts, asked for a number 50pts, get the bartender to smile and show off his dimples 15 pts. She saw him the first few minutes after arrival. He wasn't there for anything but the music. By himself, drinking water, he moved like it was filling all his being, and not too badly either. Pageboy hat and a sweater, he was dressed for himself and no one else. He's currently taking a break, leaning an elbow on the tall, circular table next to him. "How many points if I get him to dance?" "40, at least." "Alright then."
"Hey, I know you can move, and I can tell you love it, so why are you just standing here?"
"I wasn't feeling it. Or I was feeling it, but not here." Points to his heart.
"That's the only place that matters, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I guess I was taking a break- like a thirty minute break- but just needed someone to come kick my ass."
"That's what I'm here for, as a kick in the ass."
He starts to move again and she takes a few steps back to watch. He looks like the lead in "Once"- strong European features, light scruff decorating his face. High fives from the group, but she knows that's not what this is about. It's about making a connection with someone who has their heart in something.
A few songs pass and he's moving less. She comes from behind, "On your next thirty minute break, I have a question for you."
He points to himself, pantomiming, eyebrows up, "Who, ME?!"
"Yes, you."
A few minutes later and he's leaning again.
"Okay, why do you dance?"
"I'm a dj at home. When I got into this scene years ago, in middle school, I couldn't get enough of it. It moves me."
"I can tell. You're the only one in this place who really wants to be here."
"Why are you here?"
"On a dare. But I like to dance, so it works out."
He looks offended, but she just smiles. Moving again, they share some beats and she fades back into the crowd.
______________________________________
She's seldom distracted from her book but feels it before he comes into view. He's on a the phone, walking very slowly, his movements mesmorizing, tantalizing. He glances up briefly and catches her eye then continues to walk past the windows. She knows he's coming back, not for her necessarily- just because he is.
A few minutes later he rounds the corner of the shop and joins the line at the counter. She stares as discretely as she can out of the side of her vision. The sentences in her book keep swimming and her heart re-pulses itself to the beat of his steps to the condement stand. She stares unabashedly now, watching how his shoulder blades move the muscles in his back, creasing and uncreasing his green shirt. When he turns his head, she catches sight of eyes in matching green, so contrast to his dark features. His hair is tosseled, scruff on his face, small, black gauge earings in his lobes, pants slung a little low with a studded belt attaching to a chain wallet. One of those lone wolves, probably riding with the motorcycles she's heard roaring through town. He puts the stirrer in his mouth and sucks out the drops of coffee.
He steps down out of the shop and wanders off slowly. She pulls out her pen and pad:
"The hottest man in Boulder just walked through The Cup. My eyes are watering, he was so beautiful. I wanted to eat him alive, like good chocolate. My heart is still beating hard. Dark skin, thick black stripes of tatooes running down the backs of his arms, gauged piercings in his ears, scruff, messy hair, wallet chain, hankerchief in his back pocket, black shoes with bright green laces. He moved slowly, deliberately, shoulder blades flexing muscles under a green shirt that lit up his bright eyes. I watched him walk away slowly, meandering; I loved that sensation of him leaving. He stopped to look in a shop window and I leaned out to catch one last glimpse- gone.
I know this sort of movement is of confidence shadowing self awareness, but damn- pheromones branching meters of separation. I got a sense of why animals mate without pretense."
Then rips it out, folds it in thirds, writes " 'Bar Fly' Ray La Montagne" on the outside, and puts it in her jacket pocket. She envisions coming up from behind on the ride home, and slipping it into his hand- so he could own his effect- taking one good look into green eyes, getting a sense of who he is, and riding away.
_____________________________________________________
"I don't write fiction (yet) but if (when) I ever start, my first main character will be someone who always thinks about how great it would be to have things or pursue people but never fulfills her desires. She would follow her action impulses- climbing a mountain, admitting a love, dancing like a fool-things that have to do with expression. But action that aimed towards acquiring, she would leave outside her realm.
Because there's this thing about desire. It's naturally filled with an energy that has a powerful control over people. Eastern religion does a lot with that. Buddhism says "get rid of it!" The absence of desire is the presence of peace. Hinduism, specifically Vishnavites and Krsna worshippers say "harness it!" The love story of Radha and Krsna, especially in the Gitagovinda, brings this out beautifully. Krsna, player of all players, lures the cow herdesses out their homes at night with his flute playing. When they all assemble in the forest clearing, he splits himself into hundreds of Krsnas- one for each girl and proceeds to dance an erotic dance with them. And right before the culmination, right before the organsm, he dissappears."
juicing desire, itsastretch.blogspot.com
October 3, 2008
Don't write fiction (yet) but if (when) I ever start, my first main character will be someone who always thinks about how great it would be to have things or pursue people but never fulfills her desires. She would follow her action impulses- climbing a mountain, admitting a love, dancing like a fool-things that have to do with expression. But action that aimed towards acquiring, she would leave outside her realm.
Because there's this thing about desire. It's naturally filled with an energy that has a powerful control over people. Eastern religion does a lot with that. Buddhism says "get rid of it!" The absence of desire is the presence of peace. Hinduism, specifically Vishnavites and Krsna worshippers say "harness it!" The love story of Radha and Krsna, especially in the Gitagovinda, brings this out beautifully. Krsna, player of all players, lures the cow herdesses out their homes at night with his flute playing. When they all assemble in the forest clearing, he splits himself into hundreds of Krsnas- one for each girl and proceeds to dance an erotic dance with them. And right before the culmination, right before the organsm, he dissappears. This naturally makes the girls crazy, and one, his favorite, Radha, has a special affair with him and experiences a special kind of separation:
"The down on her body stands on end and she draws in her breath, a hissing sigh;
She laments, she shivers, she swoons, she sinks into reverie, laughs and cries;
She closes her eyes, she starts up, she droops; and if you, a heavenly physician
Should calm down her high state of fever, O would she not live? or her wordless gestures too she will end!
Her body is wholly tormented by the heat of the flame of desire;
Her mind, when ever at times in thoughts of the moon and sandal and lotus,
Even then it is still exhausted, uncooled- most strange to relate!"
And he experiences the same apart from her. The whole poem contains some extremely sexy imagery:
"To whose act of desire accomplished the ankets upon my feet bejewelled;
Vibrated sounding, who gave his kisses seizing the hair of the head,
And to whom in his sweet passionate love my girdle sounded in eloquence sweet."
(I'm blushing),
But it's supposed to represent the desire for the divine and the pain of being separated from it, never truly able to unite with it in this life. This desire is seen as good, as in its own way. Yes, she is in pain, but she's also very much alive, feeling every breeze, hearing every bee, laughing and crying. I see this over and over again in myself and those around me- the desire to possess another, thinking about being united makes us so alive. (Whereas the actual uniting seldom carries the same kind of energy).
______________________________
itsastretch.blogspot.com
Music is throbbing and the whole room is moving in a sort of rhythmic trance. She's on a point system with friends- bum a cigarette 10pts, start conversation 5 pts, get a number 20pts, asked for a number 50pts, get the bartender to smile and show off his dimples 15 pts. She saw him the first few minutes after arrival. He wasn't there for anything but the music. By himself, drinking water, he moved like it was filling all his being, and not too badly either. Pageboy hat and a sweater, he was dressed for himself and no one else. He's currently taking a break, leaning an elbow on the tall, circular table next to him. "How many points if I get him to dance?" "40, at least." "Alright then."
"Hey, I know you can move, and I can tell you love it, so why are you just standing here?"
"I wasn't feeling it. Or I was feeling it, but not here." Points to his heart.
"That's the only place that matters, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I guess I was taking a break- like a thirty minute break- but just needed someone to come kick my ass."
"That's what I'm here for, as a kick in the ass."
He starts to move again and she takes a few steps back to watch. He looks like the lead in "Once"- strong European features, light scruff decorating his face. High fives from the group, but she knows that's not what this is about. It's about making a connection with someone who has their heart in something.
A few songs pass and he's moving less. She comes from behind, "On your next thirty minute break, I have a question for you."
He points to himself, pantomiming, eyebrows up, "Who, ME?!"
"Yes, you."
A few minutes later and he's leaning again.
"Okay, why do you dance?"
"I'm a dj at home. When I got into this scene years ago, in middle school, I couldn't get enough of it. It moves me."
"I can tell. You're the only one in this place who really wants to be here."
"Why are you here?"
"On a dare. But I like to dance, so it works out."
He looks offended, but she just smiles. Moving again, they share some beats and she fades back into the crowd.
______________________________________
She's seldom distracted from her book but feels it before he comes into view. He's on a the phone, walking very slowly, his movements mesmorizing, tantalizing. He glances up briefly and catches her eye then continues to walk past the windows. She knows he's coming back, not for her necessarily- just because he is.
A few minutes later he rounds the corner of the shop and joins the line at the counter. She stares as discretely as she can out of the side of her vision. The sentences in her book keep swimming and her heart re-pulses itself to the beat of his steps to the condement stand. She stares unabashedly now, watching how his shoulder blades move the muscles in his back, creasing and uncreasing his green shirt. When he turns his head, she catches sight of eyes in matching green, so contrast to his dark features. His hair is tosseled, scruff on his face, small, black gauge earings in his lobes, pants slung a little low with a studded belt attaching to a chain wallet. One of those lone wolves, probably riding with the motorcycles she's heard roaring through town. He puts the stirrer in his mouth and sucks out the drops of coffee.
He steps down out of the shop and wanders off slowly. She pulls out her pen and pad:
"The hottest man in Boulder just walked through The Cup. My eyes are watering, he was so beautiful. I wanted to eat him alive, like good chocolate. My heart is still beating hard. Dark skin, thick black stripes of tatooes running down the backs of his arms, gauged piercings in his ears, scruff, messy hair, wallet chain, hankerchief in his back pocket, black shoes with bright green laces. He moved slowly, deliberately, shoulder blades flexing muscles under a green shirt that lit up his bright eyes. I watched him walk away slowly, meandering; I loved that sensation of him leaving. He stopped to look in a shop window and I leaned out to catch one last glimpse- gone.
I know this sort of movement is of confidence shadowing self awareness, but damn- pheromones branching meters of separation. I got a sense of why animals mate without pretense."
Then rips it out, folds it in thirds, writes " 'Bar Fly' Ray La Montagne" on the outside, and puts it in her jacket pocket. She envisions coming up from behind on the ride home, and slipping it into his hand- so he could own his effect- taking one good look into green eyes, getting a sense of who he is, and riding away.
_____________________________________________________
"I don't write fiction (yet) but if (when) I ever start, my first main character will be someone who always thinks about how great it would be to have things or pursue people but never fulfills her desires. She would follow her action impulses- climbing a mountain, admitting a love, dancing like a fool-things that have to do with expression. But action that aimed towards acquiring, she would leave outside her realm.
Because there's this thing about desire. It's naturally filled with an energy that has a powerful control over people. Eastern religion does a lot with that. Buddhism says "get rid of it!" The absence of desire is the presence of peace. Hinduism, specifically Vishnavites and Krsna worshippers say "harness it!" The love story of Radha and Krsna, especially in the Gitagovinda, brings this out beautifully. Krsna, player of all players, lures the cow herdesses out their homes at night with his flute playing. When they all assemble in the forest clearing, he splits himself into hundreds of Krsnas- one for each girl and proceeds to dance an erotic dance with them. And right before the culmination, right before the organsm, he dissappears."
juicing desire, itsastretch.blogspot.com
the new rule
I was sent this recently... it was too beautiful not to share. The line about the moon changes things
the new rule
It's the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. he falls into a hole.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.
Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street.
I took it as a sign to start singing,
falling up into the bowl of sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.
Here's the new rule: break the wineglass,
and fall toward the glassblower's breath.
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
Your covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.
"I used to want buyers for my words."
Now I wish someone would buy me away from words.
I've made a lot of charmingly profound images,
scenes with Abraham, and Abraham's father, Azar,
who was also famous for icons.
I'm so tired of what I've been doing.
Then one image without form came,
and I quit.
Look for someone else to tend the shop.
I'm out of the image-making business.
Finally I know the freedom
of madness.
A random image arrives. I scream,
"Get out!" It disintegrates.
Only love.
Only the holder the flag fits into,
and wind. No flag
-rumi
the new rule
It's the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. he falls into a hole.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.
Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street.
I took it as a sign to start singing,
falling up into the bowl of sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.
Here's the new rule: break the wineglass,
and fall toward the glassblower's breath.
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
Your covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.
"I used to want buyers for my words."
Now I wish someone would buy me away from words.
I've made a lot of charmingly profound images,
scenes with Abraham, and Abraham's father, Azar,
who was also famous for icons.
I'm so tired of what I've been doing.
Then one image without form came,
and I quit.
Look for someone else to tend the shop.
I'm out of the image-making business.
Finally I know the freedom
of madness.
A random image arrives. I scream,
"Get out!" It disintegrates.
Only love.
Only the holder the flag fits into,
and wind. No flag
-rumi
ground
So I spent the day focusing on my breath when my thoughts ran off in all directions… and I moved my chores aside one at a time. Bought fresh fruits and vegetables at the Farmer’s Market- and a plant to hang on the ceiling hook I found this morning. Visited the Hospice and Human Society Thrift stores, picking up items to make my room into something... other than a disaster area. Bookshelves were key in that. Hit Target on the way home to fill in the gaps. I had to talk a bit, so as not to be rude.
“Where did you get that plant?”
“From that nice lady over there.”
“Would you like a pint of organic raspberries for $3?”
“Hell yeah!” (add to frozen bananas and strawberries with yogurt and cinnamon, you have a funderful smoothie.)
I finished the rest of the insurance paperwork, organizing receipts and creating one last spreadsheet, filed all my school paperwork, found the floor in my room. One key purchase: a cheap plastic cup. Filled it with water, opened my wallet and dumped both my credit cards into it. Placed it in the freezer and shut the door. Time to start living within my means.
Knocked out 100 pages in my bio core book about skeletons and took a hot bath. I have one more nostril breathing exercise tonight to make three for the day.
I don’t get to spend tomorrow in the same silent state. A friend of a friend traveled to Denver to see a boy; they had a falling out and she’s stranded until Tuesday; that's a difficult situation to be in. We’re going up high to see the aspens peak. Some things are more important.
Today was so short but it gave me something to aim for. Maybe long periods of silence are unrealistic in this current lifestyle, but little bits every day, or a few times a week are very doable. It was less not-talking and more a mindfulness of the silence, of not reaching out for the phone every spare second, not spending huge chunks of time returning every email- all these habits I've somehow developed since being back. It was noticing how the leaves in fall look like flowers, what my teeth feel like, touching, what smells accompany which beautiful scenes. Smiling as I ponder why The Sacred Heart of Jesus School was playing “She Talks to Angels” by Black Crowes during their Fall children's party. It was returning to the ground below my feet and being here now.
“Where did you get that plant?”
“From that nice lady over there.”
“Would you like a pint of organic raspberries for $3?”
“Hell yeah!” (add to frozen bananas and strawberries with yogurt and cinnamon, you have a funderful smoothie.)
I finished the rest of the insurance paperwork, organizing receipts and creating one last spreadsheet, filed all my school paperwork, found the floor in my room. One key purchase: a cheap plastic cup. Filled it with water, opened my wallet and dumped both my credit cards into it. Placed it in the freezer and shut the door. Time to start living within my means.
Knocked out 100 pages in my bio core book about skeletons and took a hot bath. I have one more nostril breathing exercise tonight to make three for the day.
I don’t get to spend tomorrow in the same silent state. A friend of a friend traveled to Denver to see a boy; they had a falling out and she’s stranded until Tuesday; that's a difficult situation to be in. We’re going up high to see the aspens peak. Some things are more important.
Today was so short but it gave me something to aim for. Maybe long periods of silence are unrealistic in this current lifestyle, but little bits every day, or a few times a week are very doable. It was less not-talking and more a mindfulness of the silence, of not reaching out for the phone every spare second, not spending huge chunks of time returning every email- all these habits I've somehow developed since being back. It was noticing how the leaves in fall look like flowers, what my teeth feel like, touching, what smells accompany which beautiful scenes. Smiling as I ponder why The Sacred Heart of Jesus School was playing “She Talks to Angels” by Black Crowes during their Fall children's party. It was returning to the ground below my feet and being here now.
right there
I have been noticing my breath a bit more lately- mad puffs peddling up Folsom hill (mountain) every morning, the often unnoticed breathing that moves the stomach instead of the chest, this deep inhale that happens right before I fall asleep on my back, clearing out all bad feelings and thoughts from the day. I am on a silent weekend journey, feeling my tongue on the back of shut teeth, recentering. Time to add breath.
Try it together? Sitting on the floor, cross-legged, close your eyes and with either hand, place your thumb on one side of your nose, forefinger on the other. With the right side closed, inhale through your left nostril- as deep as you can go, starting with the deepest areas of your stomach, all the way through the tops of your shoulders. Now block the left side, unblock the right and breath out, starting from the top and collapsing your lungs, diaphragm, stomach. On the same side, inhale again. When you are full, switch fingers and exhale on the left. This is one cycle.
At first, the mind yammers away- there are four things that need to go in the mail, stop by the DMV, buy a plane ticket, oh don't forget to get your bike looked at and see if you can call your sister- thinking, let it go.
Where is your breath? Are you counting?
A few cycles in, the awareness changes- there’s a bird outside, the trees as rustling. Thinking, let it go.
The back is tight on the left side, hair is still wet. Thinking, let it go.
There are white and yellow spots in front of closed eyes, thinking let it go.
Ears are ringing, the spots have become one big purple dot... something is whole… peace flows in.
Shhhh. It’s right here in front of you.
One step at a time, one task at a time. “Be like the squirrel girl, be like the squirrel”. We can juggle as humans, but are naturally limited in our abilities to hold too many things in mind at once. When my counselor asked what I do to handle tough moments, I surprised myself by saying... look at the backs of leaves. It’s right there in front of me. Getting lost in those little patterns of life-roads delivering nutrients, taking light, I get pulled inside my home- in the tiniest things in the universe.
Taking a hike last night with my friend Aaron, he reminded me that we are minds of the Universe, thinking about itself. What are those thoughts? Are they as big as the moon, rising red over the horizon?
Try it together? Sitting on the floor, cross-legged, close your eyes and with either hand, place your thumb on one side of your nose, forefinger on the other. With the right side closed, inhale through your left nostril- as deep as you can go, starting with the deepest areas of your stomach, all the way through the tops of your shoulders. Now block the left side, unblock the right and breath out, starting from the top and collapsing your lungs, diaphragm, stomach. On the same side, inhale again. When you are full, switch fingers and exhale on the left. This is one cycle.
At first, the mind yammers away- there are four things that need to go in the mail, stop by the DMV, buy a plane ticket, oh don't forget to get your bike looked at and see if you can call your sister- thinking, let it go.
Where is your breath? Are you counting?
A few cycles in, the awareness changes- there’s a bird outside, the trees as rustling. Thinking, let it go.
The back is tight on the left side, hair is still wet. Thinking, let it go.
There are white and yellow spots in front of closed eyes, thinking let it go.
Ears are ringing, the spots have become one big purple dot... something is whole… peace flows in.
Shhhh. It’s right here in front of you.
One step at a time, one task at a time. “Be like the squirrel girl, be like the squirrel”. We can juggle as humans, but are naturally limited in our abilities to hold too many things in mind at once. When my counselor asked what I do to handle tough moments, I surprised myself by saying... look at the backs of leaves. It’s right there in front of me. Getting lost in those little patterns of life-roads delivering nutrients, taking light, I get pulled inside my home- in the tiniest things in the universe.
Taking a hike last night with my friend Aaron, he reminded me that we are minds of the Universe, thinking about itself. What are those thoughts? Are they as big as the moon, rising red over the horizon?
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