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.

Copyright © 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?

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

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.

Copyright © 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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

Copyright © 2006