So I am listening to Christmas music at work, and this one song comes on – you know, one of those depressingly melancholy songs – and it made me reminisce about Christmas growing up. How incredibly fortunate we were to have such a beautiful and warm celebration each year. I can remember sneaking around with Bill – purposely walking past the tree with our eyes closed just to build anticipation. Or leaving a note for Santa that was answered every year (funny how Santa had the same handwriting as Dad!). Or Doug INSISTING that Sputnik gets a place of honor on the tree. Or Dad holding Mom up by her pants as she tried to get the old glass ornaments high up on the tree before we destroyed them. Mostly, I remember how fun it was. With Manheim Steamroller playing in the background and all of us lounging around the living room. I think how many kids (or parents) never have that sense of warmth and of belonging. How many associate Christmas with materialism. How many rush to get out of the house because they can’t stand being with family. How many struggle just to find enough food for the day.
People wonder why I love Christmas so much.
With those memories, how could I not?
I love you all.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Emotions Spill
Emotions spill out of me
Faster
And with more
Force
Than I can handle
Anger, to the point
Of silence
Then an overwhelming
Joy at some
Moment which I don’t remember
And that begets such a
Sense of sadness
And despair
I am stuck here for a minute
In despair:
It has a way of doing that, doesn’t it?
But then gratefulness for some
Random kindness suddenly remembered
And just as soon forgotten as I
Am overtaken by rage
Shaking, blinded,
Angry stabs at the paper
(but strangely the words come easier now;
Rage the most powerful
Of all inspirations)
And exhaustion
Exhaustion
But not sleepiness ,
The current keeps flowing,
Restfulness, agitation,
As awkward moments,
Embarrassing gaffes are
Relived
Regretted
These, too, find their way
Into my poem
Faster
And with more
Force
Than I can handle
Anger, to the point
Of silence
Then an overwhelming
Joy at some
Moment which I don’t remember
And that begets such a
Sense of sadness
And despair
I am stuck here for a minute
In despair:
It has a way of doing that, doesn’t it?
But then gratefulness for some
Random kindness suddenly remembered
And just as soon forgotten as I
Am overtaken by rage
Shaking, blinded,
Angry stabs at the paper
(but strangely the words come easier now;
Rage the most powerful
Of all inspirations)
And exhaustion
Exhaustion
But not sleepiness ,
The current keeps flowing,
Restfulness, agitation,
As awkward moments,
Embarrassing gaffes are
Relived
Regretted
These, too, find their way
Into my poem
Copyright © 2007
Fabric
I watched a woman
In the store
The other day
She was touching
The fabrics
Of the clothing
Her fingers skimmed down
A beautiful turquoise silk dress,
Lightly trailing along its softness,
Relishing the vanity of it,
Her eyes closed for a
Moment as the silk
Slid along her palm;
She paused, and her eyes caught
A velvet coat, purple, with satin trim
She let her hand rest
In its luxuriousness
A full minute, fingers
Sinking into the purple fabric
As if nesting, relaxed, warm.
Her hands found texture
Worth relishing
Even a simple cotton shirt,
Holding it, almost tightly,
In her fist, perhaps
Finding strength
In the cotton’s sturdy nature;
A lace scarf delighted her,
Tracing its intricate design
Slowly with her index finger,
The gracefulness of the lace
Echoed in her soft movement.
She turned
And walked out
Without purchasing a thing.
I was left with the feeling
That she went home with
More than any of us,
Though, who never bothered
To feel the fabric with anything
More than our skin.
In the store
The other day
She was touching
The fabrics
Of the clothing
Her fingers skimmed down
A beautiful turquoise silk dress,
Lightly trailing along its softness,
Relishing the vanity of it,
Her eyes closed for a
Moment as the silk
Slid along her palm;
She paused, and her eyes caught
A velvet coat, purple, with satin trim
She let her hand rest
In its luxuriousness
A full minute, fingers
Sinking into the purple fabric
As if nesting, relaxed, warm.
Her hands found texture
Worth relishing
Even a simple cotton shirt,
Holding it, almost tightly,
In her fist, perhaps
Finding strength
In the cotton’s sturdy nature;
A lace scarf delighted her,
Tracing its intricate design
Slowly with her index finger,
The gracefulness of the lace
Echoed in her soft movement.
She turned
And walked out
Without purchasing a thing.
I was left with the feeling
That she went home with
More than any of us,
Though, who never bothered
To feel the fabric with anything
More than our skin.
Copyright © 2007
Who Am I?
Who am I?
I am a woman, of that I am certain.
Beyond that, though, the definition gets hazier. And as that haze thickens, so does my sense of self-value, of purpose, of direction.
I work within corporate America, but I am not a professional. I am a wife, but not a subordinate. I am the one who cleans the house and prepares the meals, but I am not a homemaker. I have no children, so, no, I am not a mother. I love to sing, but badly and off-key. I am not a singer. I spend inordinate amounts of time in my car, but I am not a driver. I hate people, so I am not a socialite. I drink, but modestly, and I am not an alcoholic. I complain and criticize, but I am hardly a worthy critic. I love a good argument, but stumble on my words; I am not a debater. Rage empowers me, but I am not a fighter. Color, shape, movement captivate me, but I am not an artist. Music haunts me, but I am no musician. I am not poor, but far from wealthy. I am the nebulous middle class (in and of itself defiant of definition). I am patriotic, but I’m not a fanatic. I cringe at intolerance, but equally so at political correctiveness. I am 29, hardly a 20-something but not yet a 30-something. Am I my parent’s daughter? My brothers’ sister? My lover’s wife?
Am I a writer?
This, this eats at me. Today I feel shriveled, a shrunken, ill-fitting shadow of a former, eloquent self. Of all the uncertainties I contend with, I always had words. With ease, I could wrap myself in their power, their definitiveness, their cathartic nature. But now that question hangs in the air, oppressive, engulfing. Am I a writer?
And if not, who am I?
I was introduced to the most phenomenal band a few weeks back. Watching them perform, I felt in the presence of a power I had never experienced. They weren’t performing the music, they were the music. Their songs had no words, and did not need them. Beauty, sadness, loneliness, redemption, realization, pain…their songs were laced with emotion, not one note played that did not bore directly into my soul. I thought, as I sat in the theatre, “These guys are defined by their music.” Who are they? They are that power. They are that emotion. They are those feelings that each song urges the listener to share. They embraced creativity so completely that it enveloped them: they and their music were indistinguishable, the music, the symphonic interpretation of the human who created it. The magnitude of this thought has not left me, even as I write this weeks later. Why? Because their definition of who they are is so real, so substantial, that I will never forget it.
Particularly since I haven’t even figured out my own definition yet.
I yearn for that so much it hurts.
I want my definition to be real. To be substantial. To be me. Who am I? Am I me? Or am I some interpretation of myself, someone I’ve created to fill in for me? Am I a variation on a theme? Or the prelude? I pray I am not the refrain; this is not a self I care to repeat. I feel too nebulous. Too in-between. I feel like I am staring at the door marked “Me” yet my hand stays frozen at my side. Perhaps I’ve grown too comfortable in this caricature I allowed life to draw. Perhaps fear is what keeps me from opening the door. Fear that I won’t like the definition. Fear that maybe I won’t ever be defined. Fear that I will fail at the one thing I’ve always assumed would one day define me. Fear that if I do, there won’t be another door marked, “Me”.
I am a woman, of that I am certain.
Beyond that, though, the definition gets hazier. And as that haze thickens, so does my sense of self-value, of purpose, of direction.
I work within corporate America, but I am not a professional. I am a wife, but not a subordinate. I am the one who cleans the house and prepares the meals, but I am not a homemaker. I have no children, so, no, I am not a mother. I love to sing, but badly and off-key. I am not a singer. I spend inordinate amounts of time in my car, but I am not a driver. I hate people, so I am not a socialite. I drink, but modestly, and I am not an alcoholic. I complain and criticize, but I am hardly a worthy critic. I love a good argument, but stumble on my words; I am not a debater. Rage empowers me, but I am not a fighter. Color, shape, movement captivate me, but I am not an artist. Music haunts me, but I am no musician. I am not poor, but far from wealthy. I am the nebulous middle class (in and of itself defiant of definition). I am patriotic, but I’m not a fanatic. I cringe at intolerance, but equally so at political correctiveness. I am 29, hardly a 20-something but not yet a 30-something. Am I my parent’s daughter? My brothers’ sister? My lover’s wife?
Am I a writer?
This, this eats at me. Today I feel shriveled, a shrunken, ill-fitting shadow of a former, eloquent self. Of all the uncertainties I contend with, I always had words. With ease, I could wrap myself in their power, their definitiveness, their cathartic nature. But now that question hangs in the air, oppressive, engulfing. Am I a writer?
And if not, who am I?
I was introduced to the most phenomenal band a few weeks back. Watching them perform, I felt in the presence of a power I had never experienced. They weren’t performing the music, they were the music. Their songs had no words, and did not need them. Beauty, sadness, loneliness, redemption, realization, pain…their songs were laced with emotion, not one note played that did not bore directly into my soul. I thought, as I sat in the theatre, “These guys are defined by their music.” Who are they? They are that power. They are that emotion. They are those feelings that each song urges the listener to share. They embraced creativity so completely that it enveloped them: they and their music were indistinguishable, the music, the symphonic interpretation of the human who created it. The magnitude of this thought has not left me, even as I write this weeks later. Why? Because their definition of who they are is so real, so substantial, that I will never forget it.
Particularly since I haven’t even figured out my own definition yet.
I yearn for that so much it hurts.
I want my definition to be real. To be substantial. To be me. Who am I? Am I me? Or am I some interpretation of myself, someone I’ve created to fill in for me? Am I a variation on a theme? Or the prelude? I pray I am not the refrain; this is not a self I care to repeat. I feel too nebulous. Too in-between. I feel like I am staring at the door marked “Me” yet my hand stays frozen at my side. Perhaps I’ve grown too comfortable in this caricature I allowed life to draw. Perhaps fear is what keeps me from opening the door. Fear that I won’t like the definition. Fear that maybe I won’t ever be defined. Fear that I will fail at the one thing I’ve always assumed would one day define me. Fear that if I do, there won’t be another door marked, “Me”.
Copyright © 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Afraid
I get afraid
that I will have nothing to say
and then who will I be?
a writer without words
useless
and soulless
so I am silent
and allow the pieces of poem
that arise in my mind
no air, no life
and convince myself,
almost,
that this is the lesser
of the crimes.
that I will have nothing to say
and then who will I be?
a writer without words
useless
and soulless
so I am silent
and allow the pieces of poem
that arise in my mind
no air, no life
and convince myself,
almost,
that this is the lesser
of the crimes.
Copyright © 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Youth
I hear the kids outside, shouting, screaming, hitting balls, generally causing a raucus in the otherwise serene evening. I envy them this moment of complete abandon. I envy them their bike ramp made out of two-by-fours. I envy them their toys strewn across the lawn. I envy them their voices, loud and strong against the world. I envy them their defiance of the coming night, their ability to suck every drop of marrow from the skeletal remains of the day. I envy them their simple contentment, their unashamed joy.
I want to run outside, grab, them, and sit on the curb. I want to say to them, “Just be still, for a minute.” I want them to remember it: that magical feeling that they and everything in their world is complete and, to their young eyes, just fine. I want them to treasure this feeling, capture it, hold in to them forever. They will not understand me. They will think I am crazy, maybe drunk. They will be obedient, sitting with me on the curb, but as I stand and walk slowly back to my house, they will look at each other, make faces and laugh. They will be disappointed at the loss of 10 minutes, and will play all the more recklessly to compensate. In two weeks time, they will have forgotten.
I forgot once, too. I forgot the ease with which the world unfolds when you are a child. I forgot the joy of simple pleasures. I forgot how to build a bike ramp. I forgot what it feels like to shriek with laughter. I forgot what it was like to get grass stains and dirty fingers and bug bites. I forgot how much pleasure one’s own backyard can hold. I forgot the importance of having a friend to play with. I forgot how to be happy without an analysis of why I’m happy. I forgot how to live in a single moment, so enraptured and free of thought about schedules and appointments and projects and deadlines. I forgot how much more able a child is to just live.
I pause at the doorway, with half a mind to run across the street and do just as I imagined: sit on the curb with the neighborhood kids. Let them think I’m a kook. They don’t understand how much they taught me in the past 5 minutes. Instead, I turn back inside. I know they are destined to forget. I know they, too, will need to be reminded some years from now, long after their bikes are rusted and gone, their games of tag forever finished, and their young, recklessly happy voices mellowed and worn.
I want to run outside, grab, them, and sit on the curb. I want to say to them, “Just be still, for a minute.” I want them to remember it: that magical feeling that they and everything in their world is complete and, to their young eyes, just fine. I want them to treasure this feeling, capture it, hold in to them forever. They will not understand me. They will think I am crazy, maybe drunk. They will be obedient, sitting with me on the curb, but as I stand and walk slowly back to my house, they will look at each other, make faces and laugh. They will be disappointed at the loss of 10 minutes, and will play all the more recklessly to compensate. In two weeks time, they will have forgotten.
I forgot once, too. I forgot the ease with which the world unfolds when you are a child. I forgot the joy of simple pleasures. I forgot how to build a bike ramp. I forgot what it feels like to shriek with laughter. I forgot what it was like to get grass stains and dirty fingers and bug bites. I forgot how much pleasure one’s own backyard can hold. I forgot the importance of having a friend to play with. I forgot how to be happy without an analysis of why I’m happy. I forgot how to live in a single moment, so enraptured and free of thought about schedules and appointments and projects and deadlines. I forgot how much more able a child is to just live.
I pause at the doorway, with half a mind to run across the street and do just as I imagined: sit on the curb with the neighborhood kids. Let them think I’m a kook. They don’t understand how much they taught me in the past 5 minutes. Instead, I turn back inside. I know they are destined to forget. I know they, too, will need to be reminded some years from now, long after their bikes are rusted and gone, their games of tag forever finished, and their young, recklessly happy voices mellowed and worn.
Copyright © 2007
Sunday, July 8, 2007
I hate days like this.
So much to say.
and no tongue to say it.
I sit idle, mute, helpless.
I hate myself for my silence,
even more for my failure.
I am nothing if I cannot write.
I am no writer if I cannot speak.
Words are my enemies today
The power they hold in their
definitions stifling me.
Shrinking before their confidence, their
doubtlessness of their place:
they hold no pity for me
still uncertain of where I stand.
I am hollow now. I hold no
mind, no dream, no soul.
I stare out at the sunset.
It’s beauty beyond my grasp.
So much to say.
and no tongue to say it.
I sit idle, mute, helpless.
I hate myself for my silence,
even more for my failure.
I am nothing if I cannot write.
I am no writer if I cannot speak.
Words are my enemies today
The power they hold in their
definitions stifling me.
Shrinking before their confidence, their
doubtlessness of their place:
they hold no pity for me
still uncertain of where I stand.
I am hollow now. I hold no
mind, no dream, no soul.
I stare out at the sunset.
It’s beauty beyond my grasp.
Copyright © 2007
Hollow now.
And before me,
Emotions, like fallen soldiers.
Littering my path.
It does not occur to me
That these are all my corpses,
The smoldering
remains of what I once
Harbored inside.
The private war is waged, decided
Final
But I hardly notice
Thinking only about how I will
Find my way home
Again
And if I will ever really
Leave the battlefield behind.
And before me,
Emotions, like fallen soldiers.
Littering my path.
It does not occur to me
That these are all my corpses,
The smoldering
remains of what I once
Harbored inside.
The private war is waged, decided
Final
But I hardly notice
Thinking only about how I will
Find my way home
Again
And if I will ever really
Leave the battlefield behind.
Copyright © 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
For Him, From Her
In uncomfortable
Darkness behind
Eyes that won’t shut
The image dances
Taunting with its clarity
Each feature perfect
Each touch, each breath.
Her body shivers.
She hears the words
And sighs
And lets longing
Hang in the air, languid
Its heat carried
In the humid night,
Sustained, weighing against
Her bare skin
And forming droplets of
Sweat, as if his body,
In beads, was against hers
Again.
Darkness behind
Eyes that won’t shut
The image dances
Taunting with its clarity
Each feature perfect
Each touch, each breath.
Her body shivers.
She hears the words
And sighs
And lets longing
Hang in the air, languid
Its heat carried
In the humid night,
Sustained, weighing against
Her bare skin
And forming droplets of
Sweat, as if his body,
In beads, was against hers
Again.
Copyright © 2007
I am.
I define myself by summer
When one asks me
About myself.
I am the warmth, the sun,
The never-ending days
Juxtaposed with an inevitable darkness
That brings, in an odd way,
Relief.
I am bare feet and fresh face
I am sun-kissed.
I am laughter.
I am bikinis
And towels
And the business suit
Long-forgotten in the closet.
I am languid, I am fluid.
I am the not-in-a-hurry
Attitude that pervades these
Warm months.
I am stretched out bodies
Glistening with sweat.
I am cannonballs into pools,
Grilled steaks and chilled beer.
I am youthful sexuality free from school.
I am ice-pops an ice-cream and
Delicious icy margaritas. I am summer.
I am temporal.
I am fleeting.
When one asks me
About myself.
I am the warmth, the sun,
The never-ending days
Juxtaposed with an inevitable darkness
That brings, in an odd way,
Relief.
I am bare feet and fresh face
I am sun-kissed.
I am laughter.
I am bikinis
And towels
And the business suit
Long-forgotten in the closet.
I am languid, I am fluid.
I am the not-in-a-hurry
Attitude that pervades these
Warm months.
I am stretched out bodies
Glistening with sweat.
I am cannonballs into pools,
Grilled steaks and chilled beer.
I am youthful sexuality free from school.
I am ice-pops an ice-cream and
Delicious icy margaritas. I am summer.
I am temporal.
I am fleeting.
Copyright © 2007
Sunday, June 3, 2007
The Race
The mind’s exhaustion matched
Only by physical pain
Wanting only to collapse
And sleep and sleep
Forcing each footfall
Forward and each
Tear, back.
Even in this most
Defeating moment
When mind and body fail
There is triumph
In the pain
There is pride
When he cries.
Only by physical pain
Wanting only to collapse
And sleep and sleep
Forcing each footfall
Forward and each
Tear, back.
Even in this most
Defeating moment
When mind and body fail
There is triumph
In the pain
There is pride
When he cries.
Copyright © 2007
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Music
Live music
Is perhaps the most
Powerful current
Of emotion
Hearing it,
I am arrested.
Flooded with memories,
My soul is not thrashing
In their water
But rejoices in the
Drink.
My eyes slide shut
And my heart beats
In time with the guitar
Or the piano or the sax
I cannot stop the tears
But pray I shed them
Without drawing attention
Away from the miracle
Happening on stage.
Is perhaps the most
Powerful current
Of emotion
Hearing it,
I am arrested.
Flooded with memories,
My soul is not thrashing
In their water
But rejoices in the
Drink.
My eyes slide shut
And my heart beats
In time with the guitar
Or the piano or the sax
I cannot stop the tears
But pray I shed them
Without drawing attention
Away from the miracle
Happening on stage.
Copyright © 2007
Defeated: A Poem
Sapped of strength
She collapses in her mind
That outward
Permanent smile
Wavering,
Only slightly.
She collapses in her mind
That outward
Permanent smile
Wavering,
Only slightly.
Copyright © 2007
Lie: A Poem
How long can I
Tell myself
This lie
Before I believe it?
Yes…this is my life.
As usual
It fails to ring true.
Tell myself
This lie
Before I believe it?
Yes…this is my life.
As usual
It fails to ring true.
Copyright © 2007
Women, Sex: A Poem
Women think the details of sex are art
The fine nuance of touch
And smell
And taste
All as brushstrokes against the flesh,
Their canvas.
Each portrait
Indelible
Each shade of color
Singed into memory
Until they can paint in the dark
With eyes closed
And no effort at all
But these later works
Lack the power
Of their earlier years
The fine nuance of touch
And smell
And taste
All as brushstrokes against the flesh,
Their canvas.
Each portrait
Indelible
Each shade of color
Singed into memory
Until they can paint in the dark
With eyes closed
And no effort at all
But these later works
Lack the power
Of their earlier years
Copyright © 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Thank you...
...to the person who sent me a very nice comment about my writing. I tried to reply this morning but your message was gone. Please know that your kind words meant a lot to me - thank you!
Sunday, April 29, 2007
On Disappointment
A well-hewn blade
strikes me
here, across the chest
stealing from me
at first
my breath
then my hope
then my dreams;
it’s tip poisoned,
I know now,
systemic paralysis
its end: the body, the mind,
the soul.
Kneel here quietly.
My chin ought not be raised
today.
strikes me
here, across the chest
stealing from me
at first
my breath
then my hope
then my dreams;
it’s tip poisoned,
I know now,
systemic paralysis
its end: the body, the mind,
the soul.
Kneel here quietly.
My chin ought not be raised
today.
Copyright © 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Childhood
I have always valued, in myself and in others, the ability to retain some of the wonder of childhood. There is something magical and rejuvenating in being awed by simplicity: in finding joy in an afternoon spent playing in the sun, in catching butterflies, in sledding and throwing snowballs, in spending time with a friend without gossiping, in taking a long walk with no particular destination in mind. This sounds phony and canned, I know, but I firmly believe that this unadulterated happiness is central to our well-being. Pre-packaged joy, fueled by advances in technology, by societal perceptions that what a child enjoys cannot transcend the age barrier, perpetuating a misconception that happiness must be complicated: if there are no buttons or batteries, no accompanying video or high price-tag, no gadgets or instructions, it cannot possibly be capable of bringing us joy.
In fact, such items do provide a diversion and can make us happy. But should they do so at the expense of childlike awe? Should they negate the value of the imagination? Does a loss of sense of wonder in the world around us necessarily have to accompany the loss of childhood?
Isn’t there a freedom to be found in surrendering yourself, even for a few minutes, to the delight we inexplicably keep reserved for children? Or am I too much of a dreamer, too much of an optimist, too naïve?
In fact, such items do provide a diversion and can make us happy. But should they do so at the expense of childlike awe? Should they negate the value of the imagination? Does a loss of sense of wonder in the world around us necessarily have to accompany the loss of childhood?
Isn’t there a freedom to be found in surrendering yourself, even for a few minutes, to the delight we inexplicably keep reserved for children? Or am I too much of a dreamer, too much of an optimist, too naïve?
Copyright © 2007
Running, and the Spirit
My spirit is cyclical, I’ve decided, at times robust, impenetrable, without fissure or fault. But something happens to chip it, even just the tiniest bit, and the subtle erosion begins. Piece by simple piece, and without warning, or perhaps with warning unheeded, every blessed hurt and doubt and taunt and misgiving gets through, wreaking havoc, feasting freely on my stores. My spirit, at these times, lays withered. My mind, defeated. My soul, susceptible.
It is easy for me to wallow in this state, to find comfort in the familiarity of feeling wretchedly sorry for myself. It's a trap, a ploy to swap contentment with resignation, to escape the climb to the surface. I've been there too often, wrapped in resignation, shivering, cold, imagining myself lost.
I don't like it there.
There’s a simplicity to running the demands a simplicity of mind – a time to cleanse and clear, wipe away the clutter. The mind/body relationship during a good run is incredible – the body’s challenge demands a focused mind; the simplicity of the mind drives the successful run.
Running is my way out: it is my escape from those depths, an escape from the things that drive me to those depths. I start out by running away, hard, fast, panting, sweat building on my brow, putting distance, as much as possible, between me and everything else; and then, without fail, it falls away from me, out of breath, out of contention...it is just me now. My mind clears; with each pounding footfall, each drop of sweat, a little more is swept away. The body finds harmony, striking the pavement in resonant chords, the mind, at peace, focused solely on the machine it steers. A balance is struck: mind and body, renewed, empowered, surging forward, a single, solid force.
Turning home, exhausted physically, but cleansed, strengthened in spirit.
Copyright © 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
On Rain, Shop-Vacs and the Mystery of Life
I have come to despise rain, temporarily, at least. After spending 24 hours in my basement, watching the slow evolution of a river where my dryer normally stands, it has become a nemesis. Likewise, the mere mention of the Shop-Vac now sends me into convulsions. Kneeling in the water, trying desperately to plug leaks with some miracle dry lock material that, thus far, has proven anything but miraculous, I think to myself, "What the hell am I doing here?"
Which leads me, somewhat unceremoniously, to the mystery of life.
Ten years ago, had you told me that I would one day be a homeowner, kneeling in the basement, cursing the ever-pouring rain; a professional, with a career, an office and colleagues who respect me; a runner, registered for her very first half marathon, I would have laughed, shook my head, and continued dreaming of the day I would be sitting on the beach, living a simple, care-free existence. That vision was so firmly implanted in my mind that any other outcome, any twist or change in direction seemed laughable, not just unimaginable but ridiculous.
So how, then, did I end up here?
Stepping back, I examine my life and understand it is a good one: solid, loving, comfortable. But also, somehow, wrong. I feel ashamed by this admission.
I wonder: is there any benefit in such a realization? Or is a numbed existence, or, perhaps I should say, a forced contentment, the wiser choice? In the realization there is pain, but beyond the pain, liberation. In the latter, there is a nothingness. This can be of a certain comfort and protection, too.
I have ended up in someone else's life. A good one, to be sure, but not mine. Do I make it mine? Or do I retrace my steps, seek my original path? This second choice would seem the more honest one: living a life true to one's self is the foundation of integrity, no? Yet when I look that direction, why the cold wind against my face? Why the sense of foreboding? Perhaps I am being childish, immature, selfish. Perhaps the sacrifice of past dreams is some sign of moral strength, some kind of indicator of one's progression towards...what? Towards a happy future? Towards fulfillment? I cannot believe that. Self-sacrifice, on one level, is truly a step towards personal fulfillment; but the abandonment of the self? No. A fulfilled, complete life cannot follow that.
And therein lies the mystery of life. My mystery, at least. Everything I have ever learned tells me to embrace the life I have, to welcome it, be thankful for it, and relish it: don't look back at what could have been. Don't look too closely at the discrepancy between here and there. Just...exist.
But everything in my soul tells me I am dying inside, begs me "Find some piece of yourself, grab it, cherish it, depend upon it. Exist in this life you now have, but float on this piece of yourself, be anchored to it."
I am being dramatic; I realize that. It is hard to ignore, though, how far removed I have become from my own self. It is terrifying to consider that the journey back to that familiar and welcome ground may exceed what strength I have.
Which leads me, somewhat unceremoniously, to the mystery of life.
Ten years ago, had you told me that I would one day be a homeowner, kneeling in the basement, cursing the ever-pouring rain; a professional, with a career, an office and colleagues who respect me; a runner, registered for her very first half marathon, I would have laughed, shook my head, and continued dreaming of the day I would be sitting on the beach, living a simple, care-free existence. That vision was so firmly implanted in my mind that any other outcome, any twist or change in direction seemed laughable, not just unimaginable but ridiculous.
So how, then, did I end up here?
Stepping back, I examine my life and understand it is a good one: solid, loving, comfortable. But also, somehow, wrong. I feel ashamed by this admission.
I wonder: is there any benefit in such a realization? Or is a numbed existence, or, perhaps I should say, a forced contentment, the wiser choice? In the realization there is pain, but beyond the pain, liberation. In the latter, there is a nothingness. This can be of a certain comfort and protection, too.
I have ended up in someone else's life. A good one, to be sure, but not mine. Do I make it mine? Or do I retrace my steps, seek my original path? This second choice would seem the more honest one: living a life true to one's self is the foundation of integrity, no? Yet when I look that direction, why the cold wind against my face? Why the sense of foreboding? Perhaps I am being childish, immature, selfish. Perhaps the sacrifice of past dreams is some sign of moral strength, some kind of indicator of one's progression towards...what? Towards a happy future? Towards fulfillment? I cannot believe that. Self-sacrifice, on one level, is truly a step towards personal fulfillment; but the abandonment of the self? No. A fulfilled, complete life cannot follow that.
And therein lies the mystery of life. My mystery, at least. Everything I have ever learned tells me to embrace the life I have, to welcome it, be thankful for it, and relish it: don't look back at what could have been. Don't look too closely at the discrepancy between here and there. Just...exist.
But everything in my soul tells me I am dying inside, begs me "Find some piece of yourself, grab it, cherish it, depend upon it. Exist in this life you now have, but float on this piece of yourself, be anchored to it."
I am being dramatic; I realize that. It is hard to ignore, though, how far removed I have become from my own self. It is terrifying to consider that the journey back to that familiar and welcome ground may exceed what strength I have.
Copyright © 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Following Blog is Presented With Tongue Firmly Planted in Cheek
Is it just me or is the obsession with American Idol strangling our nation, feeding on any remaining mental capacity found in the general public, growing bloated, self-important, as we wither away, slaves to its perplexingly inescapable draw?
Every radio station I heard this morning - from hip hop to classic rock -dissected last night's episode with the concern of a neurosurgeon, the DJs impassioned to the point of lunacy. I panicked: was I the last Mohican? Frantically I sought solace from those around me. I stood in the weight room of the gym this morning, surrounded by middle-aged men grunting their disapproval of the song choices for, apparently, the last female contestant and lamenting the fact that she was covering her fabulous body in sacks (this latter, at least, was of some comfort. If men were to abandon this complaint altogether, and focus solely on her song choice, it would be indisputable proof of the power of this inane show to turn us into pod people). I realized with sad resignation and a heavy heart that I am the only person within a 175-mile radius of myself to have not watched this show.
I will give you a moment to process this lamentable fact.
Do not pity me. Don't mourn my loss, don't bemoan the fact that I am missing out on the country's most critical television event. Because, really, I'm OK with it.
Forced to go through my day, quietly left out of office conversations about American Idol, bets on the winners, blogs about predictions, radio shows with critiques, I must turn to other, less-important tasks. I do laundry. I clean. I cook. I chat when the conversation drifts to other topics. Somehow, someway, I survive, intact - barely - and ready to face another American-Idol-free day. It's tough, truly, to lack knowledge of what this week's theme will be, or who wears the best outfits, or whose voice is oh-so-bluesy. Sometimes I cry about it. Sometimes I just feel hurt and alone, excluded from the chatter, the excitement, the unbelievable preoccupation. Sometimes I get angry at myself, angry at my resistance, my inability to just give in, tune in, shut down and be swept away in the mindlessness. Mostly, though, I am perfectly fine.
Why do I have the unshakable feeling that one's house could burn down around them tonight as they watch, mesmerized, captivated, dumbfounded, by the announcement of the results? Why in the name of all that's good and sane in this world does it matter who wins? OK, ok, I suppose I see the excitement - like the Olympics, everyone has their favorite and wants to see him or her win. But the obsession, the sheer numbers of concerned viewers, the time people spend on their phones texting votes, the hours on the web reading predictions? The complete and utter despondency, the incredulity, the cries of injustice when a favorite doesn't win? I freely admit this: I don't get it.
Whatever will we do when this show ends? Could such a dark day happen? Will there be a national day of mourning?
And if so, do I get off from work?
Original post date 5-10-06
Every radio station I heard this morning - from hip hop to classic rock -dissected last night's episode with the concern of a neurosurgeon, the DJs impassioned to the point of lunacy. I panicked: was I the last Mohican? Frantically I sought solace from those around me. I stood in the weight room of the gym this morning, surrounded by middle-aged men grunting their disapproval of the song choices for, apparently, the last female contestant and lamenting the fact that she was covering her fabulous body in sacks (this latter, at least, was of some comfort. If men were to abandon this complaint altogether, and focus solely on her song choice, it would be indisputable proof of the power of this inane show to turn us into pod people). I realized with sad resignation and a heavy heart that I am the only person within a 175-mile radius of myself to have not watched this show.
I will give you a moment to process this lamentable fact.
Do not pity me. Don't mourn my loss, don't bemoan the fact that I am missing out on the country's most critical television event. Because, really, I'm OK with it.
Forced to go through my day, quietly left out of office conversations about American Idol, bets on the winners, blogs about predictions, radio shows with critiques, I must turn to other, less-important tasks. I do laundry. I clean. I cook. I chat when the conversation drifts to other topics. Somehow, someway, I survive, intact - barely - and ready to face another American-Idol-free day. It's tough, truly, to lack knowledge of what this week's theme will be, or who wears the best outfits, or whose voice is oh-so-bluesy. Sometimes I cry about it. Sometimes I just feel hurt and alone, excluded from the chatter, the excitement, the unbelievable preoccupation. Sometimes I get angry at myself, angry at my resistance, my inability to just give in, tune in, shut down and be swept away in the mindlessness. Mostly, though, I am perfectly fine.
Why do I have the unshakable feeling that one's house could burn down around them tonight as they watch, mesmerized, captivated, dumbfounded, by the announcement of the results? Why in the name of all that's good and sane in this world does it matter who wins? OK, ok, I suppose I see the excitement - like the Olympics, everyone has their favorite and wants to see him or her win. But the obsession, the sheer numbers of concerned viewers, the time people spend on their phones texting votes, the hours on the web reading predictions? The complete and utter despondency, the incredulity, the cries of injustice when a favorite doesn't win? I freely admit this: I don't get it.
Whatever will we do when this show ends? Could such a dark day happen? Will there be a national day of mourning?
And if so, do I get off from work?
Original post date 5-10-06
Oh The Shore
Stepping aside, outside, beyond, moving to a spot from where I observe, watch, memorize...
I feel the need to capture this moment, this time, an urgent, overwhelming need, sensing its importance in the way my body trembles, fills, veins pulsating with inexplicable energy, heart yearning for something I cannot clearly see but feel with every fiber of my being. Something paramount to my soul.
Time slips by, gently stubborn in its persistence, and from this vantage point I see how incredibly intricate life is, how detailed the pain, how masterful the joy, how complex the indecisions, the fears, the loss. I see, too, how it fades, how the colors from just a few years ago shine less brightly, the lines blur, the power to move there, but quieter, less explosive. Kneeling now, as over a stream, watching hopelessly upstream as it moves, so far, then here, now, in front of me, swirling, beautiful, treacherous, and, instantly, gone, moving down to an unseen end. Submerging my arms, angry, frustrated when it flows through them, around them, over them, defying my insistence that it stop, pool here, and allow me to bathe in it, relish it.
Cupping my hands, bringing this life water to my lips, drinking it in, tasting, absorbing, but painfully, sadly aware that so much passes by, that I cannot drink it all, that no matter when I drink, where, how much, it will never be enough to quench, there will always be more. But finding solace as it slides down my hands, my throat, filling me with experience, sustaining me, nourishing, in its own way, with good and with bad.
Gathering some of my life in a large jar, a glass jar, clear, keeping it visible to me, keeping this keepsake, this treasure. I want a thousand jars, a million, I want to bottle all that I drink, line the bottles here, along the shore, sun backlighting, shining through, shimmering as I recollect, remember what each jar holds, re-live, re-drink. Surrounded by jars, by the beautiful and the sad, the clear and the muddy, the pure and the unfiltered, kept safely forever, I would lie here, watching each, knowing, satisfied, happy that I've captured the stream, that it passes by no more, and I can hold it to my chest, comforted by its tangible presence.
But I have only a few jars, a few memories captured, and not an infinite supply of jars for those to come. So I kneel here on the shore, quiet, removed, observant. Watching life flow by, drinking when I can, but always with one eye on that water that I cannot capture, always wondering how it would taste, what it would bring me. Always thirsty for more.
Original post date 5-23-06
I feel the need to capture this moment, this time, an urgent, overwhelming need, sensing its importance in the way my body trembles, fills, veins pulsating with inexplicable energy, heart yearning for something I cannot clearly see but feel with every fiber of my being. Something paramount to my soul.
Time slips by, gently stubborn in its persistence, and from this vantage point I see how incredibly intricate life is, how detailed the pain, how masterful the joy, how complex the indecisions, the fears, the loss. I see, too, how it fades, how the colors from just a few years ago shine less brightly, the lines blur, the power to move there, but quieter, less explosive. Kneeling now, as over a stream, watching hopelessly upstream as it moves, so far, then here, now, in front of me, swirling, beautiful, treacherous, and, instantly, gone, moving down to an unseen end. Submerging my arms, angry, frustrated when it flows through them, around them, over them, defying my insistence that it stop, pool here, and allow me to bathe in it, relish it.
Cupping my hands, bringing this life water to my lips, drinking it in, tasting, absorbing, but painfully, sadly aware that so much passes by, that I cannot drink it all, that no matter when I drink, where, how much, it will never be enough to quench, there will always be more. But finding solace as it slides down my hands, my throat, filling me with experience, sustaining me, nourishing, in its own way, with good and with bad.
Gathering some of my life in a large jar, a glass jar, clear, keeping it visible to me, keeping this keepsake, this treasure. I want a thousand jars, a million, I want to bottle all that I drink, line the bottles here, along the shore, sun backlighting, shining through, shimmering as I recollect, remember what each jar holds, re-live, re-drink. Surrounded by jars, by the beautiful and the sad, the clear and the muddy, the pure and the unfiltered, kept safely forever, I would lie here, watching each, knowing, satisfied, happy that I've captured the stream, that it passes by no more, and I can hold it to my chest, comforted by its tangible presence.
But I have only a few jars, a few memories captured, and not an infinite supply of jars for those to come. So I kneel here on the shore, quiet, removed, observant. Watching life flow by, drinking when I can, but always with one eye on that water that I cannot capture, always wondering how it would taste, what it would bring me. Always thirsty for more.
Original post date 5-23-06
Copyright © 2006
A Poem
Watching the sunset
I am always grateful for the delayed
night:
the sun grasps just a little longer to the sky,
and come morning
triumphs quickly
over the dark;
attempting to mirror this
in my own life
I always, inexplicably,
fail.
Original post date 3-11-07
I am always grateful for the delayed
night:
the sun grasps just a little longer to the sky,
and come morning
triumphs quickly
over the dark;
attempting to mirror this
in my own life
I always, inexplicably,
fail.
Original post date 3-11-07
Copyright © 2007
What Scares Me...
...is that I am too worn out to care anymore. I have so much to say, to write. It's simmering here, somewhat unpatiently, just waiting to pour out. But the energy, god the energy it takes to tap into those emotions, to face them, to deal with them. It's beyond that which I am capable of right now. I sat tonight with every hope of writing something moving (to me, at least), to recapture some of the ease with which the words once flowed. But the page sits empty still. I spent that needed effort already on societal survival, on playing the corporate game, on cleaning, cooking, being normal. And now it's time for what's critical, for what truly matters, and I have nothing left for it.
That scares me.
The wind howls outside, an awesome display of power. Unbridled, untamed, undefined except by that which it moves.
The magnitude of that is not lost on me.
Originally posted 2-14-07
That scares me.
The wind howls outside, an awesome display of power. Unbridled, untamed, undefined except by that which it moves.
The magnitude of that is not lost on me.
Originally posted 2-14-07
Copyright © 2007
A Poem
Keep sharp the blade
Against the hidden wretchedness of the soul
Tainted
Not inexplicably
But unspeakably
Even here in the sunlight
Wield it
Be at the ready
Don't go unarmed
To face the reflection
It will not meet you
Without its own quick knife
Original post date 9-19-06
Against the hidden wretchedness of the soul
Tainted
Not inexplicably
But unspeakably
Even here in the sunlight
Wield it
Be at the ready
Don't go unarmed
To face the reflection
It will not meet you
Without its own quick knife
Original post date 9-19-06
Copyright © 2006
My Mind, Exposed
I have almost two years' worth of blogs on myspace, but I shrink from the idea of cutting and pasting them all here. I will choose a select few, some of my favorites, to move here. The rest remain there. My myspace profile is "private" - thanks to the frightening prevalence of some true wackos - but if you are so inclined, I will open them to you.
But now I move forward, here, in a much more public arena. My mind: exposed. I am not yet convinced of my own sanity, or logic, or ability to perform at any level that can be considered rational, so forgive my incoherence.
I present my mind.
But now I move forward, here, in a much more public arena. My mind: exposed. I am not yet convinced of my own sanity, or logic, or ability to perform at any level that can be considered rational, so forgive my incoherence.
I present my mind.
Courage of the Coward
Courage of the Coward
How brave am I to expose myself here? How painful the baring of the soul done here? Is it courage to write words, to weave tales in black and white, yet still find quiet, unobserved corners in which to cry? An expose of the soul, yet in the shadow of every letter typed I still hide, convincing myself that in the writing alone I am purged, healed, reborn. The strength is fleeting, the empowerment superficial, the passion drained soon after the last word.
Tonight, surrounded by peers, colleagues, business parterns, I stood alone, removed, terrified. In the corner I screamed in the depths of my being because I was silent. Beyond silent, what I felt was a mental paralyses, the painful, debilitating manifestation of perpetual self-doubt. That superficial empowerment I pass off isn't strong enough, doesn't hold back the waves of inadequacy. I am nothing here, in front of you, in front of the mirror. I have no voice, not even the echo of wind. In my mind I sink to the floor, heads in between my knees, defeated not by any proven lack but by my inability to speak, to offer to the world all I know I can share. I choose rather to hide here, to use words as my skin, to find strength in the impersonal.
Debilitating. Not by circumstance or fate. Perhaps it is this, the final blow that crushes me. I am defeated only by myself, by my succumbing to my own fears, my own belief that I do not amount...to what? To a professional? To a writer? To a person?
I lay bare my soul on paper, I look down and see it all, simple, beautiful and devastating in its clarity, but safe to a degree that I will not admit, not to myself, not to you. I pull it out of my mind, my heart, my soul, what eats me, what destroys me, and I present it here. Exhibit A. Impersonal. I've relegated ownership and exhausted stewardship. But tonight, tonight I know the decay continues, the foundation crumbles still, the cracks beyond repair. Against the wall a little more of me withered away and I left it there on the floor, numbed by its loss, moved by the tragedy only enough to write. Only enough to write.
What am I if I fear myself enough to let it starve?
Am I any more of a person? Do I stand apart from everyone else in that room?
No...I am less. Voiceless, silent, hollow.
There is nothing to emulate here.
Words flow still. All of the sadness escapes me, down through my arms, my fingers, onto the keys and buried here in an 2 Pt. Arial headstone. Released, never forgotten, but never fully instilled in the consciousness, too afraid to let those thoughts take lodging. There is danger in that. There is saftey in words, in their shadows, in everything they don't say, in the ambiguity.
She's being poetic, dramatic, she likes hyperbole, she exacerbates the point to the extreme.
Or perhaps she is just sad.
I've convinced myself of a path. But this constant death of the self, and the willingness to abandon it, unburied, unceremoniously, that must speak to some wrong turn, some mistaken sign, some misstep along the way.
On my way back, to the beginning, to find the way I should have turned, I sit here on the rocks and write. And write.
And drain that energy onto the paper.
And lie back on the rocks to stare at the sky thinking only, "Tomorrow...".
Original post date 11-6-06
How brave am I to expose myself here? How painful the baring of the soul done here? Is it courage to write words, to weave tales in black and white, yet still find quiet, unobserved corners in which to cry? An expose of the soul, yet in the shadow of every letter typed I still hide, convincing myself that in the writing alone I am purged, healed, reborn. The strength is fleeting, the empowerment superficial, the passion drained soon after the last word.
Tonight, surrounded by peers, colleagues, business parterns, I stood alone, removed, terrified. In the corner I screamed in the depths of my being because I was silent. Beyond silent, what I felt was a mental paralyses, the painful, debilitating manifestation of perpetual self-doubt. That superficial empowerment I pass off isn't strong enough, doesn't hold back the waves of inadequacy. I am nothing here, in front of you, in front of the mirror. I have no voice, not even the echo of wind. In my mind I sink to the floor, heads in between my knees, defeated not by any proven lack but by my inability to speak, to offer to the world all I know I can share. I choose rather to hide here, to use words as my skin, to find strength in the impersonal.
Debilitating. Not by circumstance or fate. Perhaps it is this, the final blow that crushes me. I am defeated only by myself, by my succumbing to my own fears, my own belief that I do not amount...to what? To a professional? To a writer? To a person?
I lay bare my soul on paper, I look down and see it all, simple, beautiful and devastating in its clarity, but safe to a degree that I will not admit, not to myself, not to you. I pull it out of my mind, my heart, my soul, what eats me, what destroys me, and I present it here. Exhibit A. Impersonal. I've relegated ownership and exhausted stewardship. But tonight, tonight I know the decay continues, the foundation crumbles still, the cracks beyond repair. Against the wall a little more of me withered away and I left it there on the floor, numbed by its loss, moved by the tragedy only enough to write. Only enough to write.
What am I if I fear myself enough to let it starve?
Am I any more of a person? Do I stand apart from everyone else in that room?
No...I am less. Voiceless, silent, hollow.
There is nothing to emulate here.
Words flow still. All of the sadness escapes me, down through my arms, my fingers, onto the keys and buried here in an 2 Pt. Arial headstone. Released, never forgotten, but never fully instilled in the consciousness, too afraid to let those thoughts take lodging. There is danger in that. There is saftey in words, in their shadows, in everything they don't say, in the ambiguity.
She's being poetic, dramatic, she likes hyperbole, she exacerbates the point to the extreme.
Or perhaps she is just sad.
I've convinced myself of a path. But this constant death of the self, and the willingness to abandon it, unburied, unceremoniously, that must speak to some wrong turn, some mistaken sign, some misstep along the way.
On my way back, to the beginning, to find the way I should have turned, I sit here on the rocks and write. And write.
And drain that energy onto the paper.
And lie back on the rocks to stare at the sky thinking only, "Tomorrow...".
Original post date 11-6-06
Copyright © 2006
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