The Dull Pounding of a Grief Song

I had just finished my morning yoga. My body felt all tingly and warm. My mind was awake and primed for a day spent exploring in the sunshine. It was that beloved "before the fall" moment. The "all I could see were flowers and rainbows and then I smacked my face into a telephone pole" moment. It wasn't quite noon and already the sun was penetrating the leaves in front of my window making them look like key lime pie. I've never had a liking for key lime, but even so, the light show was delicious. I hopped over to the window to get a taste of the breeze. My hands wrapped firmly around the top of the sill as I courageously pushed up. And then...JAM. Suddenly, my right index finger was on fire. Stupefied, I stared at it, stuck in between the pane and the top of the window. In a ridiculous panic, I muscled the window back down with my free hand while my index flew to find comfort in my mouth. My cat stared at me as I performed the world's sorriest jig on the carpet in front of him. "Hahhhhhhhh", I exhaled over and over. The stupid finger was all red and inflamed. The nail was growing this dark purple spot, and all I could think was to run and wake up Mikael. Mikael, who had just finished his night shift and was desperately trying to catch up on sleep in the other room, yes, he needed to be witness to my childish performance. I flopped into bed dramatically, my lips pulled into, what I can only imagine, was the most pathetic pout ever donned by a woman. Not even Marie Antoinette facing the guillotine could have mustered a more martyred expression. I wailed and whined as he looked at me with his eyebrows burrowing down to form two thick black lines with his lashes. He seemed confused. I swear he snorted. I might have snorted, too, aware of my obnoxiousness. But I couldn't deny the shrill ringing in my ears. The sharpness of the pain sliced through me over and over. "It's still hurting", I cried, like I was doing a bad parody of Charlie Bit My Finger. "Get some ice", he said. "Maybe take an Advil or two." I wanted him to kiss it. Give me a Hello Kitty Band-Aid and then maybe a lollipop for my troubles. He was being very indulgent, but I could see his eyes rolling back as sleep became victorious over my whimpering. Downcast, I soddenly lurched from the bed and shuffled to the shower. I lay down  and stretched out as my breath smoothed itself out. I took notice of my feet planted below the faucet. They looked like, felt like, roots. Gradually, I began to notice the rest of my body. That sharp, sharp pain was dulling down and my awareness was expanding beyond my finger to my whole being. My limbs looked so capable as they pressed into my splayed toes. I noticed a whiteness forming around that ugly dark spot on my nail. I realized, somewhere inside of me, sirens had sounded and troops had begun dutifully marching toward the pain, even as I complained of its aching insistence. The little indentation that had been forcibly formed on my phalange's pad was magically filling in. My finger was tender and swollen as the blood pulsed and danced inside it. Just a dull pounding now. Like a bassist thrumming one long, low, even note over and over until...it imperceptibly becomes part of you. That low humming sort of becomes part of the song inside you. Like the pain was just making space to play itself into your symphony. The song inside hiccups for a second and then expands into something more complex. Drums where there were only strings before. And all I can use as evidence of this magnificent union is a purple bruise on my right index fingernail. I remember the moment it jammed and the moment it began to heal. The space in between though...just a mad blur of sensations and shapes I couldn't recognize and fail to describe now. So very much like the year of his passing. I'm aware only of sharp cuts here and there. A subsequent screaming blindness. Then throbbing, throbbing as the blood congealed and forced a shift in my dermis, a discordant note bellowing out in my symphony until it levels out, finds the melody. But the melody changes, doesn't it? The song winds down, speeds up, sometimes stops altogether. Those are the worst moments. The blankness. Frozen musicians staring out into a darkened audience, the only music is that of chattering teeth and creaking joints. Then the pain. The pain sends blood surging back into the body and the limbs are warmed and it makes the players move again. It's nice to compare it to a song, isn't it? Sort of romanticizes it. Of course, I can speak in symbols and metaphors and never really touch on the truth of it. The memory itself is far too ugly a thing. Why not paint it up to resemble a drum beat against a fray of whimsy violins, or a croak in an operatic solo? Poetry is so much prettier than prose. Song makes plain speech look terribly naked. So, I will brush color over that dreadful moment where I placed the pen in his quivering hand, the frail acceptance of his death sentence sprawled out in a wavering signature. Following the ambulance. Stone-faced. Brother in the backseat. The frailty. The utter villainy of cancer. Little pieces of glass strung together in a necklace that cuts as I wear it around my neck. The ever-present desire to run. I'll remember that most of all. The overwhelming compulsion to look away and will myself to apathy as my father was torn from me. The hatred. The bottomless rage towards the happy, and the healthy. The death sentences I wished upon so many old, perverted men. Angry at death while averting life. Avoiding contact. Playing the same damn song over and over while I drank until I felt the click. I know this post is nonsensical. I know there isn't a hint of salvation in it. It isn't particularly humble of me to say that I don't believe in the power of prayer anymore. But there are splotches of light. And I am not the same girl that I was a year ago, or even a few months ago. Somewhere inside of me, there is a brightness growing. The troops were marching toward the pain even as I complained at its vengeful insistence. I think I knew all along that the song would play itself out. The limbs will warm again, and the feet will take root, and bit by bit, the players will find their sway as old and new notes tinkle together to form a song never before played.

Transparency Schmarancy

I wish I could see people transparent. Like a mist that only barely veils the morning sun, the skin could thin and clear and give way to lucidity, to light. When we reach for each other is that our subconscious desire? We pull, and clutch, and stroke as if to rub away a skin-and-bone barricade. Perhaps only ugly science lies underneath. Garish grinning skulls, careless organs flung together, pumping hearts that heartlessly extend existence. The intangible quality that we call our "inner light" finds no real space in our bodies. The soul remains undiscovered, supposedly trapped beneath ropes of intestines or quietly slipping in and out of cellular corridors. Like a forgotten monster from legend or an extraterrestrial being flitting amongst the clouds, we search for that essential wisp of a soul whose necessity became ingrained at infancy. Maybe before. Stories whispered like secrets at night , lines of poetry read by the fire, the repetition of song. "What a piece of work is man...in action, how like an angel." We have glorified man. Like the Greeks. Like folks from the enlightenment smoking and postulating on man's supremacy, we nod and agree that yes, yes, we must be something quite special. Yet how prone to darkness he is, too. Capable of the crippling degradation of his own species, and passive blindness to pain, he moves amongst the world like a villainous wretch intent on himself and his own pleasure. Yet there are gentle hands. Hands that smooth salty tears away from a sick man's cheek, that crack and contort after years of lifting, pulling, reaching for provision's sake, and that press themselves intimately into piano keys to send sweet music to listening ears. But who tells these hands where to go? What bids one man to cause destruction while another brings revival? I suppose each man is capable of each. How terrifying. Sitting in a café observing fellow diners and passersby, I see myself in each. The homeless man shuffling his feet, worn, each tired step like a lurch that could send him tumbling to unforgiving concrete. The waitress who is only keeping up, on the verge of snapping, impatiently clattering dishes and shaking her head quietly as if to ask, what am I doing here? The businessman buried in his newspaper, in his iPhone, in his sandwich. Avoidance of the world passing slowly by, he builds a construct of busyness around him, terrified that slowing down might mean just ending it altogether. The elderly widow sitting primly, like a solitary forgotten queen poised in front of her decaf coffee. She is alone, but her napkin is neatly folded and her jewelry has been recently polished. She is alone, but she will be alone and she will go gracefully. A girl my age passes by and I smile at her. She ignores the offering and lets her stiletto heels do the talking for her as she strides away. I don't blame her. I don't judge her pride, or his weary shuffling, or the impatient clattering, or the busyness, or her grace. It is, all of it, a carefully concocted way to cope. To get on with it. I'd like to tell them all, it's okay. I understand. You're going to be fine. We are all trapped inside, outside, somewhere, somehow. And the we that we wish we were, that we hope we someday could be, it could be the soul speaking to us, an inner light beckoning us onto higher heights. We may never know down here. We may never know the source of the quiet prod that coaxes us into becoming angels, or the shadow that sinks our hands into malevolence. Yet isn't it a comfort to know that we all have a choice between one or the other? Perhaps wishing for transparent people is silly. Maybe it would be best to grip the whole of someone in our arms, not excluding romance or science. We could wrap our arms around the flesh, and the soul, and the shadow. Because we know what's in us, too. And enlightened or not, pretty or not, we all have to get on with it.

Identity and Living a Life of Apology

Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps mine is a solo sickness, a unique illness. But I doubt it. I doubt it because I've listened to enough conversations, seen enough struggle to realize that the lifestyle of living as if sorry to be alive is a pandemic. It's the sort where you walk into a room, breathe, and immediately apologize for it. Apologize for intruding, taking up space, wasting the oxygen of the more important people surrounding you. For making a joke. That was stupid. What a waste, you think. For not being as pretty as her. For being prettier than her. Weighing too much. Weighing too little. For singing like an angel. For singing off-key. For being anything more or less than static, than a monotone buzz on the frequency of everyone else's radio. I find this apologetic state is rooted mainly in fear, even terror. Terror of not meeting the expectation. Whose? Peers, professors, parents. Anyone whose opinion is given absurdly gargantuan and undeserved weight. I could blame society. Many do. It is easier to blame a "they" than a "me", isn't it? "They" do this to me. And we pick apart "their" conduct like jurors examine a culprit marching up to the witness stand. We don't realize that the ultimate Judge lies inside. The constant criticism, unfair expectation, and refusal to be really, truly happy has ugly root in our own hearts, not in the heart of any "they" in existence. The wild imaginings that all eyes are picking me apart are false. And yet. Yet. There is more to this. The idea of trying to meet certain expectations, and living in fear directly correlates to the notion of identity. Identity. Our attempt to nail down the essence of who a person is. We take personality tests, develop clothing styles, choose favorites (favorite colors, songs, celebrities, movies, books, vacation spots), pay thousands of dollars to specialize in a single field, and then accept shallow labels like "bubbly", "sarcastic", "silly", and "logical" as part of our innate nature. Perhaps this strange compulsion to apologize arises when we think we've stepped out of the boundaries of these labels. Or discover that one cannot, (and should not) be "bubbly" every hour of every day. I know that I am romantic. But that doesn't mean I am not also severely pessimistic. I discover that being "logical" does not remediate this strange desire to dance like a deranged monkey in front of my three year-old nephew. I can spill beautiful words onto a page, concoct pretty sentences, and inspire audiences with my manner of articulation, but I also think gibberish and cursing can be more expressive and enjoyable than anything Hemingway said on his best day. My heart pounds with delight and my breath quickens when I step foot into a Catholic church, but I can be irreverent, too. I cry over PETA videos one day and eat foie gras the next. Because I am not limited to one identity. Because identity is fluid. It cannot be stagnant, nor predictable. We should toss out labels like moldy bread. Feel free to kick someone in the shins if they call you a "kind" person. Or laugh if "they" say you're morose. Or make farting noises with your arm if they dare call you "elegant". Because while "their" intentions may be perfectly nice, they are laying a trap wherein you feel inclined to apologize for turning out to be anything but what's expected. Dare to fluctuate. Dare to accept where you are today. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't set goals. Or that you shouldn't reach for your highest potential. It doesn't mean you should defy everyone's high expectations by becoming a permanent fixture on the couch forever, but it does mean you should feel free to take a nap there if necessary. What was said yesterday doesn't have to become a prediction for all of your tomorrows. Stand proud in the imperfect you today. In the you that isn't fully developed or finessed. The final product of you doesn't exist on this earth. So, what are you apologizing for? And the ugly voice inside that constricts your lungs, that prevents a full inhale-exhale when you walk into the room? Feel free to laugh heartily at him. Write him off. Ignore his very existence. And he will become smaller. This new lifestyle requires practice. A practice that must be very conscious and deliberate. It's turning the spoon away from the mouth of insatiable Insecurity to the deserving mouth of Acceptance. As I write this, I find myself breathing in and out, fully. Completely. And I realize that it's been too long since I've done this. Allowed my lungs to expand to their fullest potential. Breathing fully is the natural requirement of laughter. I'm sure this is the next step. Laughing with less question and more ease. Laughter is, after all, the ultimate defiance of life's curveballs and the last thing anyone would expect in the midst of crisis. May as well get used to the laugh lines now. :)

"the Shadow was only a small and passing thing"

Day 1:

I wrote a letter to myself. Unfiltered. Brutal. Honest. I scanned the top of my mind with a net and gathered all the fluttery bits that floated on the surface. I wrangled with the creatures that teemed just beneath, the ugly sort that lash out when its victims would least expect. I raked the bottom, the ocean’s ghetto, the sea’s morgue. I trailed my shovel along the bottom where the carnivorous leeches lie sucking, chewing, devouring the rotting depths. As I pulled, their teeth shuddered across the rough surface, their tongues grasping for some means of resistance, their writhing bodies kicking up dirt. I held them all in my hands, and squeezed them until their life blood seeped out of their lustful, leering, unbounded jaws. I threw everything into a pot. Stirring, searing, scouring, boiling it into an unholy brew. All my life sat tossing around in a volcanic stew. Past mingling with future, regret conspiring with hope, and hate cavorting with love. I called the concoction Rock-Bottom and I chugged it. No chaser.

Day 2:

Blinding white light. White walls. White curtains. White doors. White. White. White. Light. Streaming through the windows, through the cracks, through smiling, radiant teeth. Chandeliers catching the sun. Bodies warmed beneath the pure, rugged gaze of the Cross. Hymns rolling around on the tongue. Sugary, sweet. Like the promise of ice cream after a hard day’s work. Cleansing. Like ice water running down over sweaty backs and aching joints. A voice. Clear. Radiant. True. Speaking forgotten words. Reminders of what Once-Was. Tantalizing hints of What-Will-Be. Sharp slashes at twisted ideals. Dexterous fingers undoing tangled knots. The light that surrounds suddenly invades. Cracks against my skull. Numbs me. Blinds me. Subdues me. Revelation. Slow and soft. Like fiery warmth spreading over frostbitten joints. Like sunlight creeping over dew-ridden mountaintops. A glimpse of freedom. Of newness. Of serenity. Forget what’s past. Look up. Look beyond. Look forward.

Day 3:

I’m running. The pain sends me to walking. The pain of neglect. Once you start, never stop. Muscles awakened start to ache. Music fills my ears as my bones are reminded how to move. My feet are leaded, and my legs unwilling. Once you start, never stop. A song comes on and a note starts me weeping. I see trees. Nothing but trees. Rushing water and trees. The sky is veiled, but the trees are green. I keep going. Two spirits come to rest on my shoulders. I ignore them. Focus on the breath, on the movement, on the pace. They start talking to each other. Louder and louder. Sound increasing, above my breath, above the sound of rubber meeting pavement. Turn music up. Eardrums blasting. Mouthing lyrics. Sinking into rhythm. Ignoring the arguments in my head. One speaks of my Father. Another of my sins. I blink. And blink again. Ignore it. Focus on the breath, on the movement, on the pace. When one is matched against the other, there is One that always wins. When Love is matched against Lust, the Greater will always win. There is one who would Care, and there is One who would Die. Tears seep from my eyelids and collect with the sweat from my stride. Nothing, I whisper. I’m nothing. I feel it all too well as I suck air into my lungs. Butterflies saunter around my feet, and dragonflies flit between stems of grass. We are bound to the dust, but our souls yearn for the stars. I cling to this as I slow to a walk. Slow down. Rest. Music off. Thoughts unfurled. Let it come. Let it flow. Hide no longer. Embrace both dust and sky. Perhaps they both belong inside of me. Perhaps they both define me. One must abide with the other. Find peace in the balance. Isn’t that what running is? A leap between heaven and earth. An attempt to hold hands with high and low. Slow it down. Hide no longer.

Stars and Roots

The stars were above me. I could see them. They sparkled as if for me, as if for the world. Someone made those, I thought. Someone made those for pleasure, for love, for pain. They represented another dimension, another world. Tiny, little, rockets, small comets, teeny stars all of them encompassing a life elsewhere, all singing of a place that felt like home. They winked and nodded at me. This way, they said. Yes, said I, for home is where I yearn to be. I stared at them until my eyes glazed, until my thoughts seemed to explode with light. How badly I wanted to hold one in my hand, or to be held in their hand. They’d belong to me, or I to them. Just so long as one of us belonged. Just so long as one of us could nestle in, find safe haven, find peace. A sanctuary. Constructed by God. Somewhere in the great cosmic universe, the great Out-There. I stretched my hands above me. I reached for the stars until my fingers ached, and my shoulders dislocated. So close. So I called for my friends. They knelt in the dirt and made hand baskets for me. They gave me their shoulders, their knees, their encouragement to stand on. I planted my feet in their confidence and reached still higher. Almost there. My fingertips brushed a star and it burned. I tasted sulphur in my mouth and I wanted more. The human ladder beneath me began to tremble and whimper beneath my efforts. Not yet. I told them to endure it for me. Be patient. I’m almost there, I said. I broke their fingers, and their shoulders crushed beneath me. Their toes dug in the dirt for me, splintered in the decay for me, and I ignored it. I ignored their pain for the stars. Then I saw a light beneath me. The human ladder was sparkling. Stars gleamed from the pockets, and lining, and skin of my long-suffering friends. They were glowing on the bottom, while I disappeared into the grey on top. Suddenly the stars above me seemed to move away, further and farther up until they slipped into the blackened sky. I stared into the void. Disbelief spread over my body. I felt the tremble beneath me and the grey above me and I faltered. And I fell. Face in the dirt, hands covered in waste, body converging with earth. Dust to dust. I belong here. Not up there. These thoughts wash over me and I cry out. I cry towards my friends with their stars and their light. But they slink away, they lick their wounds, their broken bones protruding, tears mangled with dirt, confidence melting into hopelessness. I spat at them. Leave me here, I said. I prefer it this way. I felt my heart pound in me as I said it. Leave me alone. Alone, alone, alone. It echoed through the hallways of my heart as something indiscernible defied the impending darkness. I lay there and listen to the drums of battle within me. Something Hopeful and something Despairing. Two things wanted to possess me, reign over me. Neither is victorious, but they won’t leave. They can’t. My innards seem like the place to wage war forever. I listen to the drums of battle within me. And nothing else exists. I see the muck beneath me and I grab a handful. This is tangible. This is life, I say, knowing it isn’t. I fill my pockets to the brim and I let it languish; let it belong to me for a little while. It owns me. I pretend to possess it, but I can’t get the stains out, so who holds who hostage? Salt tears don’t cleanse like they should. Rain doesn’t fall here anymore. So, I wait. I wait in the ground, like a forgotten seed. Perhaps my hands will become vines, and my feet roots. I’ll intermingle with the earth. It’ll become me and I it. This is where I belong, I say, knowing it isn’t. Scoop me up. Plant me in the stars. Leaves clinging to me, roots fused to my bones, scoop me up. Dust creeps in my eyes, but not before they catch a glimmer above. My atrophying heart leaps for a moment. Thorns bore deep, and branches entrap, but I belong up there. I belong up there, I say. Uproot me.

Wallflowers and Introverts

I wonder how much Hemingway or Dickens or Crane thought about their personal identity. Did they try to draw lines between family circumstances and their own quirks and tendencies? Did it plague them or did they just accept it? Perhaps they were able to filter their own angst into their writing, their characters. How much time did the great thinkers of the past spend thinking? Did Plato or Aristotle spend all day postulating and writing? Were their lives encompassed by busy work, side jobs, meaningless enterprises? One can't survive on thought alone. How did they earn their bread? I wonder if these icons liked people. They spent their lives studying people, analyzing them, writing about them. But did they enjoy social interaction? Or were they on the sidelines taking notes? Questions of identity, purpose, eternity, ultimate meaning. These are things worth thinking about, but when do we? Are we given a real chance? I wonder how past philosophers wondered on the mysteries of the world because I am looking for a standard of normalcy. Can I sit and think all day? Or does that make me lazy, inept, and alienated? In an increasingly business-driven culture, it is the extrovert that is valued over the introvert. The introvert is driven to the margins. The introvert is derided for doing what it was created to do: absorbing, analyzing, thinking, and resolving in measured, patient steps. But it is the quick-thinker, the loud-speaker, the flamboyant-gesticulator that wins. He is given precedence because society thinks energy and volume trumps careful deliberation. We know Aesop's fable of the Tortoise and the Hare, but we'd still prefer the friggin' rabbit. He's more fun than the turtle. Introverts are necessary to society. But they are not wanted. So, introverts must absorb this knowledge while still discovering a way to flourish in a circus-esque society. We must know that we are not wanted, but we must also know that, at some point, someone is going to need more than a Band-Aid to heal their wound. We know that, at some point, someone is going to be in desperate need of invasive surgery. Extroverts will rush about with antiseptic and gauze and scotch tape. They'll frantically shout over each other as they use a first-aid kit to cover a gaping hole. And yes, sometimes that first-aid kit, that quick fix, is more than practicable on an ordinary day. But when crisis hits, when the quick-on-their-feeter's are at a loss, when the first-aid is out of band-aids, people will turn to someone with a better solution. They will turn to someone who has depth of wisdom and complexity of thought. Winston Churchill, for example. Or C.S. Lewis. Or Florence Nightingale. The silent observers who torturously analyze the work from every angle before they speak. The thinkers who process every possible outcome to the point that they tie an anchor to their words in case gravity fails them. And people will listen with bated breath because they can sense the weight and depth of what is being spoken. I have to remember that I am necessary. At times, my introversion may make me feel marginalized and devalued. I may feel that my thoughts aren't doing myself or anyone a bit of good. I may get tired of doing what my brain naturally tends towards. I may delve into some wishful thinking as I envision a world where I am flamboyant and quick-witted and constantly energized just like my friends. However, I would be doing myself and, I must believe, my friends, a disservice. I need their energy and their lightness just as they need my thoughts and my grounding. I need to learn their spontaneity and social dexterity, just as they need to learn how to enjoy peace in solitude. I must learn to show grace towards myself as I embrace the unique chemistry I've been given. I must feel free to create an environment of quiet where reading and writing and pondering are all wise, healthy, ambitious tasks that can be taken seriously. In a task-driven world, I can feel free to think without fear that I'm being lazy or less than productive. Productivity is not always tangible. How long did Michelangelo sit and think before he painted the Sistine Chapel? I'm sure he understood the need to give himself time and space to allow his mind to wander, to wonder, to create. I don't know how the great introverts of the past managed to get on. But it must have looked a little like letting go, like a release of expectations or standards. It may have required the shutting of doors, the closing of curtains, or a meander down a trail in the woods. It may have looked like escape. And perhaps that is what it takes, after all. Picking the lock on one's cell and running like mad towards the horizon. Escape. I think I'll do it. With notebook in hand.

Keeping Up Appearances

She ordered something small and decent. Counting out the change carefully, she then tucked her wallet away into her purse. She had a place for everything in there. Thanking the man with a small smile, she took the dish and arranged it and a napkin carefully on the table. A small hunch in the shoulders. She wasn't hiding, but she wasn't seen. She liked the sound of pages turning. It was private and intimate. But it was a secret she would have liked to share with the world. And she would have if they had noticed her. With her eyes, she told what she was reading. A small sip of coffee, delicately wiping her lips. Placing the coffee softly on the napkin on the table. Cooped up in the corner. Surrounded by hubbub. Tables full of families, boyfriends, girlfriends, babies, screaming children, and tired, old ladies out to lunch. A man shifted loudly in his seat next to her. He scraped the chair across the floor and, to her, it sounded like thunder. Someone was rapping on the booth behind her. She hunched over like a conch shell. Hiding. But still in full view. A young man walked by. Large eyes. Casual air. He looked her full in the eyes. For a moment. Then he turned away. Did he care to see what she was reading? A sip of the coffee. Now cold. She reached up to touch her hair. Did it look alright? She looked around and smiled. But no one saw. Quietly, she smoothed her skirt. And stood. Very compact. Out of the way. She placed her book neatly into her purse. She had a place for everything in there. She coughed slightly. A sip of cold coffee. Head down. Walking upright. Hair half covering her expression, she threw away the coffee and walked out.