driving home

I saw the sun rise today. It's pink hues backlit the San Gabriel Mountains. I remember mornings when I was younger, laying in bed and watching the light (the miracle of light) gradually give shape, color and texture to the objects around me. How strangely they emerged from obscurity, carved out of darkness.

There's something beautiful about the world at rest, before the house stirs and the mechanics of our daily lives are set in motion. The streets are empty and the birds have not yet begun their chirruping. It was like that this morning. Driving home with the windows down I could feel the moisture in the air. Cool and clingy, it was dew settling on every still-calm or sleeping thing.

I have two words for my cousin Sarah:

Picasso Boob

possession

How could you know you'd remind me of my godless days? Those days when I'd stopped singing. His hands around my throat. His fist in my mouth. My happiness choked completely out. I was the farthest from myself I've ever been. This is not a metaphor. It happened. First I was a lover, then an object to him. Objects don't suffer, they don't hurt. You take what you want and discard them. No part of me left untouched, unmolested. No part of me too sacred. By the end his reach had gone so deeply in, I never thought I could feel safe from it again. And yet, here I am. Here I am. Here I am.

I know we're not meant to live forever but after losing Nana, an important figure in my life and also my maternal Grandmother, all I want to do is hold even more tightly to my own Mom.

I also thought about my Dad tonight. Sometimes when I read bedtime stories to the twins I hear his voice in mine - the one on the tape he sent Melissa and I because he couldn't be there himself (it was a white cassette tape with rainbow stickers on it). I liked the one about the birds who couldn't get along. Those fables might have actually been my first indirect introduction to Sufism. 

the way home

One of the greatest gifts I received growing up came in the form of a sunny afternoon's walk home from the bus stop. I was overcome with the sensation that, regardless of what trials lay behind and what awaited me at home, I was ok. I was not only safe in this green, insulated bubble of Copland Drive, but happy. I took a seat on the curb and basked in this realization before continuing on my way. For those few gloriously stretched out minutes I felt liberated from fear and from the kind of debilitating worry which, we come to find, renders us powerlessly ineffective as adults and taints far too many of our experiences with mental anguish and physical tension. This experience (and many since) of momentary awareness is what emboldens me in my study of the Alexander Technique and why every return to length and width feels fresh after having lapsed into anxiety. This place of opening and gentle release is a home you can never return too often. It is the kind that leaves your sheets made up, your favorite quilt on the bed, the lights on. 

my black infinity

I do not regret any of the 30+ acorns which fell from the tree I used to park my car under in Atlanta, or the pock-marks they left in the paint. Nor do I regret the smear Luke left when he permanently rubbed "wash me" into its dirt-covered hood. Like a friend you have both battled with and gone to battle for, these scars only make me love it more.

Love is what got me through my 5 straight years of fasting for Ramadan working at a restaurant where chunks of brownie, vegetables and various kinds of fruit were literally at my fingertips and being called un-American by my family the time it happened to fall on Thanksgiving. I am sad to say the love that carried me through in the past has, over time, slipped into obligation. Sadder still is that I find myself incapable of carrying out this month-long commitment without it.

with me

Someone left a letter for me on the course. It read,  "WE ARE ALL WITH YOU". I may try to find a more eloquent way to say this later on but please accept, for now, that I have found this to be true. And my life has been made immeasurably richer by having all of you in it.

relationships

When I was younger I fancied these hiking boots. They were suede and laced up from the toe. I found a pair on discount and bought them - despite the fact that I was broke and they were the wrong size. Sometimes I just want something, usefulness be damned. I was the proud owner of a pair of hiking boots that never took me anywhere, least of all a hike. Now I ask my self, however little I paid, was it worth it?

vignettes

I

A woman sits at a wobbly table in an urban cafe. The top of it is covered with post cards from foreign countries. She's waiting for someone. A man on a bicycle rides past wearing a woman's straw hat. It has a large plastic daisy on it which makes her think of Sundays in East Atlanta; black ladies climbing out of shiny Cadillacs on their way to church, everything matching - purple with purple, pink with pink, heels, belts, purses.

She is joined by a quiet companion. Will he remark on his bloody mary, her mimosa? Keys are exchanged. The scene ends simply. Everything left unsaid passes between them in silence, spilling out from their eyes. No one notices. A man at the table beside theirs continues to work on his crossword. Sips his coffee. It's only a moment. She pays the bill, gets up and walks out. There is no bell on the door to mark her exit.

II

Years earlier the same woman, a girl then with shorter hair, undresses hesitantly in an all-but-bare room. There's a mattress on the floor and a man on it in fetal position, wailing. She doesn't know why. Somewhere in her child-head she imagines her sacrifice can relieve his pain. She exists in a world of raw potential - vague notions and possibilities, magic and love. She still believes she can change things; she just doesn't know how.

Treasure Hunting

I

Every summer my sister and I rode in the back seat of an old yellow Ford with no air-conditioning and vinyl seats our legs would stick to. Our parents couldn't pass an antique shop without stopping. This was my initiation to treasure hunting. We'd walk up and down rows of clothes, stalls full of tattered books and every kind of nick-knack looking for that one "great catch". Once I found in the corner of an antique mall in Tifton, Georgia (known to be the Reading Capital of the World) a great piece of Van Briggle; the turquoise mug I now drink my morning coffee from. Sometimes it's the small wins that keep us coming back.

II

There's a great love buried in all of us. I've denied it's voice for so long it takes real effort to hear it now: a window slides open in an apartment on the west side. Across the street the whistle of a kettle. Two doors down, a sneeze. Most of our lives go unheard, unseen. Each morning I wade through these. Like a stroll down the aisles of some dusty roadside flea market. I search for your voice through the din. The same which coaxes flowers open at dawn. And in some mysterious corner of my cluttered being was once a small win.

In the past three months I've attended two Guitar Craft courses. One in Seattle the other in Barcelona. There seem to be more opportunities for silence on courses (remember I've only been to two) than off. It arrives and takes hold of the room. Stops my tongue wagging. Reminds me to listen. That I can listen. Even in a room erupting with sound.

I fell into the role of silence nazi with relative ease. During one of the solo performances (given by Patrick) a rude individual at the far end of the table had the audacity to pour themselves a glass of water in the middle of his piece. It was highly audible. Downright loud. I leaned in to see who this person was but stopped short. The performance ended. Conversation ensued. I heard a voice across the room and realized. The person I had been judging was a guest on the course. But not just any guest, a child. Greg had brought his two lovely children to visit. I was ashamed, deeply.

It was hard then not to ask the question. What would happen if we treated each other with the same patience and tenderness we treat children?

It's all too easy to forget this question or to formulate an answer to it that suits our laziness and fear more than our sense of humanity and compassion. I nannied today and witnessed, with complete, unadulterated acceptance and love, a child being themselves. On my way home I thought about how very lucky I am for this experience and was forced to ask my self yet another question. Have I ever loved and accepted, fully, another person without judgment, without expectation, without exception. I've taken stock of all those I hold closest to me and don't think so. No. This is partly because I, along with most children, have been hurt by adults my whole life. But this is not the point.

The point is that I am very, very sorry. I am ashamed to my core. And I'm going to work on that.

concentric circles

It's only been a month, but the Atlanta I knew no longer exists. It is having a gas crisis and I'm paying a dollar fifty three at the pump. The people I love there are still moving in concentric circles. Are meeting on purpose and by accident in any number of places. Are battling six foot cockroaches under the deck and drinking beer. They're looking out at the city from the patio of the Standard and trying to get comfortable in those unreasonably high metal chairs. I know it would be easier and healthier for me to put these aside. Live in the present. But the smells and sounds of that city are with me. As you are with me. And it's not so easy.

Camp Caravan, NST - My first course.

the people and the space they provided allowed me to be. neither good, nor bad. I was there to learn as a beginner, not pay for my deficiencies as a person. and because I allowed my self to be, I was what I needed most. and even more surprisingly magical, by my being my self, I also became what others needed.

that's all I want in a relationship. any kind of relationship.
what about love, you ask?
that is love.

Barber, Concerto for Violin and Orchestra op. 14

I walked into the orchestra room one afternoon for rehearsal and heard this. It was one of Mr. Kim's many gifts to me. I was floored. I sat motionless in front of the speakers, completely fixated. I still can't listen to it without having galaxies swirl around in my head - fabulous, colorful nebulae, with me floating amongst them. This and the Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2 used to put me to sleep every night in high school. If I could gift these two recordings to you people right now I would. We could all lie on our backs and stargaze.

P.

the story of a girl silhouetted by lamplight and mist. smoke swirling from her lit cigarette. a blotted scrap of paper she holds up to the light (trying to decipher its code). she thinks it means nothing and is right.

old entry which somehow feels relevant today

I prefer the smell of chai to the man sitting in front of me. This is an immediate preference. I'm drinking a chai and the man in front of me reeks of patchouli, hair gel and salty food - food that would give me indigestion were I to eat it. I have indigestion anyway. And my body doesn't fold like it used to. I like the familiarity of buttons. This too is immediate. Right now I prefer the word button to zipper. Tomorrow I might fancy a different word, Salat perhaps, in Farsi or something else I saw while sitting idly and somewhat displaced in a book store. I'm tired now so I don't mind lingering on tastes. My body doesn't fold like it used to. A bend at the hip or waist creates an uncomfortable bubble of flesh-not-muscle. If you were to fold me in half you'd find it impossible to create a single crease. It would instead be a succession of three or four. 

A man in a jeep (on his way to me, wondering if I'm mad at him for being late) doesn't walk like others. He lopes. He'll be loping his way here in a few minutes. Maybe relationships themselves are nothing but this. Not what is said, not what's done and undone by time, stepped in or out of, but the timing of the entrance itself - into my life and then into this book store. Relationships carry their own unique rhythms and pauses, starts and stops.  I am drawn to and repelled constantly by romantic love. How infuriating always winning and losing each other to time and circumstance. One day you might find me searching endlessly for those red, beaded earrings I swore I left atop the dresser (to the right of my grandfather's picture and to the left of my hairbrush, also tangled and floating, strand by strand in time). You might commit yourself to writing your name on boxes, annotating carefully their contents only to later refill them with something different. The permanent marker marks remain, everything else changed.

Persephone

I've always enjoyed pomegranates. perhaps I'm just drawn to disaster. to inevitability. everybody leaves if they get the chance. I wonder who and where I will be leaving from or returning to next fall. a new season has come to Atlanta, as surprising as ever. I've begun knitting. it's easy to appreciate bead-work and lace in Spring. the dogwoods have come alive so many other blossoming trees.

I was sitting on the front porch, sock monkey flannel pajamas, watching the storm roll in. I've always lived close to a highway or railroad. trains are sentimental (who doesn't enjoy the passing of a train?), but no one ever told me I would grow to love the sound of the highway. a poor-man's substitute for living by the beach.

there's a tornardo in the city and I'm easily swept away. I don't understand love. a night in Chicago. so much time to have passed. this was in 2005, a week before my marriage. I was there for a conference. I think I told you about it, the one where I was massively impressive?

my sister met us at our hotel. we had dinner at the navy pier. the ferris wheel climbed its great height. none of us could deny its beauty. the city spread before us and (I shit you not) fireworks went off as we reached its apex. lake michigan. the fairground swings. I suggest leaving your shoes behind. round and round bare feet and buildings spinning. I've never written about it. I have to say it was one of my happier moments.

and of course the blues bar we ended up at. I was a hoochie-cootchie woman. these past months I've had a crash course in embarrassment. bit of a light weight. but that night was absolute abandon. I may never be myself again. that night I was beautiful for sure.

does it ever mean as much to others as it does to you? I think not, but I digress.

thanksgiving reminds me of Lucile. when we arrived she would always be in the kitchen, working a pie crust or checking the turkey. her hands covered in flour or some other ingredient, she’d be careful to wipe them in her apron before giving you a hug.

we move a little farther from her as it moves a little closer to us. the familiar clock of nothing unexpected. everyone bothered by death they make a list. leftovers become more valuable and are fought over. everyone bothered by death. my father next to my mother can't sit still. my mother describes his mother. fetal position, blood-soaked tile, night gown lifted up, toilet full. 

Dancing at the Righteous Room

Somewhere it is written, people are supposed to be sad when something breaks. If you accept this without question, you're missing out. There is some utility and joy to be found, even in broken things, if one is only open to it. Loss is a poor excuse for sadness, and an even poorer excuse for lack of creativity and imagination.

This is how, despite our great loss, we found ourselves dancing to the Smiths in an almost-empty bar in the middle of the day. How appropriate, how phoenix-like, how poetic - our voices rising in unison to the chorus, "why do I give valuable time to people who don't care if I live or die."

Together we can stamp out world hunger, trigger events that will eventually lead to world peace, tip the scales of unhappiness in the universe and replace thousands of haters with lovers. Together we can do all this. You and I. Cannot be replaced, dear. Not with sadness.