People Say the Damnedest Things

Being a parent has really forced me to get back in touch with myself and what I believe to be truth. Kids do ask the damnedest questions:

     "Why do people kill people?"

     "Where do people go when they die?"

     "Why did (my friend)'s younger cousin die of cancer?"

     "Why is (a boy) in my class hungry every day?"

     "Why did (a boy in my class)'s father die in a war?"

     "What is war?"

And I believe that people need to talk about and debate things, hard things, controversial things, to have any hope of living through them, understanding them, or correcting them—for ourselves and especially for the next generation.

But I also believe wholeheartedly that we need to learn to doubt ourselves more, too. (And I learned that in a morality class in my eleventh year of religious school. Thank you, Father McSweeney.) This does not necessarily have to be a turning away from what you believe in either. It just means doubt. And I believe that doubt can lead to understanding.

"Do you think it was fair to tell your brother he couldn't play with you and your friend? How would you feel if they left you out?"

Occasional doubt in what you say and do is valuable.

I also believe that these arguments can be done without going out of one's way to put others down, but I think that people need to stop being afraid of passionate or comedic words, too. Sticks and stones may break bones, but an f-bomb or a joke—even a bad, poorly written one—ideally shouldn't hurt anyone, (Mr. Stinkypants).

And why are people's souls, spirits—whatever you like to call it—not built stronger? I lean toward the belief that most often people are not taught—or do not have the opportunity—to handle debate, both internal and external debate, in a safe, open, supportive home with their family first.

Now I'm usually not too afraid of an argument or my own hurt feelings because I have some confidence (which is not the same thing as intractability), and I recognize that thinking usually comes out of these conversations. I also understand that my sum intellect is not in question if I am sometimes wrong. And I don't want my children to be afraid to think because they are afraid of being wrong. Great discoveries were made by people with great minds who were once greatly confused. And I am often greatly confused. (Therefore, I must be great?!) At any rate I am very comfortable with confusion now. (Thank you, kids.) Confusion makes me feel closer to truth.

After a debate, I then try, painfully at times, to remain open to others with whom I don't agree. That often means forgiving my former self, too. Sometimes I need time first, but I feel as though I must continue to acknowledge that these opinions exist. This part is really hard. It's hard to keep my ears open.

     "Ma, Ma, Mommy, Ma, Mom, Mum, Mom."

     "I hate you."

     "You're stupid."

Or the facebook-experiment versions:

     "They're so stupid."

     "Fuck them all."
   
     "Let them and their children die fiery deaths."

     "Get rid of them (and anyone who agrees with them or who doesn't think like I do) and start over."

Sure, kill everyone you don't agree with and start over. That's always worked well in the past.

People, myself included, say the damnedest things.

And we so often say too much and do too little. It's so easy to be tyrannical in our beliefs when we push buttons from behind screens. But yes, I did just say that words should not break us. I do believe that. But I also believe that we need to sit in greater judgment of ourselves before we spew fear and hate mongering in the sickly blue, antisocial light of our laptops, too. Being brave on the Internet isn't the same thing as being brave in real life. Not at all. Fortunately being hateful and murderous on the Internet isn't the same as being hateful and murderous in real life either. Phew.

By the way, I also think that a fear of argument or just poor debating skills is why some marriages don't work. You can't live with other people if you're always on different teams. You can, however, live with people who don't share your opinions.

I think I married a pretty open, loving, forgiving man. And I thank him for always accepting me as myself and for caring enough to argue back. And he aaaallllwaaaays argues back.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

A Place in the Universe

Recently while taking a physics class, I was surprised to learn that we've only known that the Milky Way galaxy is not the entire universe for less than a century.

But I think I've always been fine with a universe that only made sense in the space just beyond my mind. I was raised by a star gazer. And I still feel that that space outside of myself is as legitimate as I am, if not more so.

We don't even really know the exact shape of the universe, but we do know, best estimate, that there are at least one hundred billion galaxies. One hundred billion galaxies with our own galaxy containing at least one hundred billion stars. And there may or may not be a multiverse.

Rules about how we are supposed to live and think and feel and fuck and behave won't change that. In fact nothing we say or do will change that.

And these galaxies, this ordinary matter of which we are made, make up only 4% of the composition of the universe. The rest is dark, unknown, and for now, unknowable.

Understanding this as a real possibility makes me okay with feeling infinitesimal and okay with noticing and cherishing the smallness of others.

And when I write, that's usually all I really want to say. This is where I'm at most of the time, and when I'm not here, I'm just raging and bumbling.

The only thing that has ever really made me feel great is to love and to be loved. That's it. It's not a new concept, and yet when I don't I remember it on a regular basis, I think I'm missing the whole point.

In fact lately I feel like I'm missing the whole point too frequently---outside of my own home. Inside of my house I feel like the whole universe fits cozily tucked in a warm bed inside of my small ranch.

But I do realize that feeling this way means I may be running the risk of turning hermit in my old age. And I also note that my universe, as a universe tends to do, will eventually grow, and I need to grow, and my faith in people needs to grow. Disliking or keeping all that I deem ugly or hard or dangerous away from my children won't help them. They, we, will just have to deal with it and cope.

But I hope that I can try to improve small situations in small ways through love. And I hope that they can, too. I hope they will never fear that space outside of themselves enough to disconnect.

Because you see, I, we, are not going to be connected in this way forever.

And when I meet people I sometimes want to say, You are loved by me, who is very flawed and very small, and I hope that my love for you makes you feel great.

Fisherman of Men

My people were always seafaring people
trained to instinctively work long hours
and sleep short.
Good sea legs,
broad shoulders,
cast iron stomachs.
Imaginative enough to be happy
playing with clouds
and tricks of sunlight
on a fickle sea
for weeks at a time.

All knew we were thought of
as a simple people,
bawdy of humor,
determined to survive,
but ready to die
should the wrong storm blow in.

Aside from the thin skin,
overly sensitive to sea salt and sun,
we were perfectly suited to
the life of fishermen.

What I liked best, of course,
better than catching
the fish that made our livelihood,
was when I could rescue the odd soul
stranded at sea.

I admit, I was proud.
Proud of my expert knots and
thick, long ropes.
The boys would say,
"Strong enough to hang yourself!"
I was proud of my solid arms
that could reel in any fish
or man.
Proud to be a fisherman.

One bright afternoon
I caught you,
jewel of the sea,
sunlight in your eyes.
You stayed aboard for years.
We figured you'd found your home,
never expecting you to stay,
but always glad to keep you.
You gave our lives meaning,
fed our hunger,
softened us with your beauty.

5 years.

One night all slept
while you walked the plank.

I threw you a rope.
But you let go.

Jewel of the sea,
I'm still pulling in that rope,
but there's no one on the other side.
I'm not well suited.
My skin is thin.
I'm not humbled by my loss.
I'm a fisherman and know not
what else to do.

Weeks later, a storm nearly took us out.
But the vessel remained afloat.
It had nothing to do with us.
We cowered.

There's nothing left at the end of this rope
but forgiveness.

I cast my line again.

Morning Glories

My father had a name that he was born with. But forget that name. He was one of sixteen children, and somewhere along the way his baptismal name and his birth date got lost. I want to talk to you about his other name, his middle name. The one that he went by.

My father's middle name is the name of a road or something, in the town where he lived, in a country that isn't this one. And it is a name that his family pronounced in an accent that isn't common in the States but isn't at all impossible to attempt. 

Anyway my father moved to the States and eventually married a New Yorker. His New York wife had an accent but thought she didn't, and his wife, my mother, thought my father’s accent was funny, so she Americanized his name.

My father went along with the name change, no contest, but I used to wonder if he never really wanted his name to change—because sometimes when distant-living family members would come to visit and would call his name in that old familiar accent, I would see a look come over his face, an indescribably warm look, like a little boy whose mother just told him that he was a good boy and she'd just baked some cookies just for him, warm out of the oven.

My father is also, I believe, a man fond of nicknames, but my mom named all of her children names that were difficult to shorten and particularly fought over having any of our names shortened to monikers ending in a "y" sound. (It is interesting to note here that my father's name is a name that ends in a "y" sound.)

Still I was pretty sure that my father wanted to, at least occasionally, call me by a nickname for my first name, a warm, sweet, little name that my mom didn't want to hear. And some mornings when the morning was still night and the house was creaking cold and I had to wake early to study for an exam, my father would come into my bedroom, rub my feet gently, and say, "Good morning, Laurie Dorie. Good morning, Morning Glory," And those were good mornings.

Anyway, I had no idea what a Morning Glory was, but this summer I bought a two dollar and fifty cent packet of seeds labeled with the name, and I planted those seeds around my mailbox and around one tree out front. Having no experience planting anything, I was really surprised when they actually took.

Anyway, I'm writing this to tell you now that the results of that planting sometimes make me feel a little close to tears when I see them. Perhaps a little something like a girl whose father said she was a good girl and he baked some cookies just for her, warm out of the oven.

Or maybe, it is more like a little girl who feels that a bunch of lovely blue flowers amplifying her name in the bittersweet, horn-trumpeted, tinny, crackling, skipping sound of phonographs grew right over her heart.

More likely, though, I probably want to cry because I wish it was as easy to send something back, right in that very black mailbox in front of me, back to my father's home.

Grief

When you died
my breast milk turned blue,

and I spent the better part of nine months

in denial.

On the first night
I shook my head until it paralyzed
into a confused cocked position.

Then I threw what was left of my faith 

up to the ceiling to see what would stick.

I’ve been cleaning it off the walls

and wondering, beyond reason, if you'll call
since.

And now that I have children of my own

I realize the truth is
that I loved you like my child.

I suppose I had no right.

Cleansing my kitchen with lemons,

I try to start a new day.
I will myself to tell grief

it is no longer welcome here.

The citrus stings my cuts.

This morning, too simply, I imagine waking you

in the room upstairs with a silly song 

and sunlight steaming in through the window.

It’s a season and a day I don’t want you to miss.

I imagine you smile, 

if only for my sake.

Then I make you a breakfast to start your day
and pour you a juice

as though you might sit right there at my table,
sweet baby,

and tell me just what was wrong.

Acceptance, Not Defeat

The dark madness of permanent resignation

in one act,

often the closing,

was once such a satisfying, calming,

and necessary thought in prepping me

for another day of work

while in the shower,

a lover’s rejection

as I lit up my smoke,

a trip to disappointment
over and off of 

a tall bridge.

Despite all my gesturing and introversion,

the truth is I wasn’t meant to be alone
for long.

And then came you and you and you.

And death itself became

no longer a gloriously ancient building,

its dilapidation now swallowed in chemical flames,

no longer a terrorist-martyr’s proud, well-planned defeat

where skyscrapers turn to fire,

but rather something to accept.

One short blue home.

I move outside

with some resistance

when it’s cloudy.

Rain is common here.

And death itself

becomes a thing to accept

with some resistance,

one which requires, as expected,
constant upkeep

and management

like a tiny flower garden.

Spring Cleaning, Raking, and a Search for My Religion

Raking leaves is soul cleansing for me. Yard work always has been one of those household chores I actually liked best, particularly because I get to be outside. That's where my spirit, in particular, seems to find the most peace - a fact that always contradicted my church-going upbringing.

But when it comes to this raking of leaves, I always think I'm done by the end of fall. And I'm usually glad of it by then because - even when you like something - a chore is still a chore.

Nevertheless, there is always some old dead stuff still lying around in the spring requiring attention. And I always seem to forget about that. I forget how things linger. I forget that - no matter how hard you try - nothing is ever going to be perfect. I forget that seasons repeat.

And each time I see those dead leaves tucked away in the bushes in the spring, it always feels like a little bit of a failure on my part. Like, how did I miss them during the fall? And then the giant leap of thought, how could I be so stupid? So lazy? 

And, you can bet, when I get that defeatist feeling about it, it is sure to be something I will continue to avoid doing - which merely adds to the guilt each time I see it.

But today I had had just about enough of my own stinking attitude. I picked up anything I could find: first a broom, then a rake, and I raked until the tender, unused skin between my thumb and pointer blistered and tore. I raked like a woman possessed. And I cleaned all the shit out from under my bushes. 

And, finally, for the first time in the last few weeks, I really started to feel better.

Not euphoric or anything. But better.

That's why, today, I decided to write about raking leaves as a metaphor for the cleansing of my soul. I always forget that both tasks are never one shot deals. They are work. And they require repetition.

This is the downside of not being a church goer, or particularly spiritual at all as of late. For those whom that sort of thing works, as far as I've grown away from the religion of my youth, I can still see the attraction. 

It's when religion is a need and an overarching reason for everything that scares me, but this is exactly when you are supposed to want religion, isn't it? When you need it - not just when it's just convenient. Or do I have this backwards? Anyway, it's always sounded like a contradiction to me.

No, I don't think that old religion route in particular will work for me anymore. Still, no matter how many callused jokes I make about the "sheeple" of the world, this may be not only because I blame religions for the harm done, but because I also envy the peace, beauty, and grace that others find there.

I see the value in talking to the universe or your idea of God and being grateful.

I also see the value in cleaning house regularly. Even when a sharp-toothed rake is necessary.

There I go again, sounding all Catholic. But severe corporal mortification aside, my soul needs to be cleansed - and apparently more often than I'd like to believe and make time to do so.

For some reason, (no jokes here recovering Catholics) I feel as though my soul puts out a lot of dirty gunk during its day to day activities. I am not "green". I'm not even a hybrid. I am a stinky, gaseous, greasy, old gasoline guzzler. I suck up natural resources, and I leave a mess behind. That being said, I sometimes can really steal a scene. I am loud and colorful, controversial and showy, and some people really love the way my old-school engine roars.

But living life as a monster truck can really take its tole on you, not to mention the poor souls who happen to live near you - or should I say beneath you - because if you are anything like me, when you're having a crisis, you are Atlas up in the air with the heavens on your shoulders. You feel like you're on the bottom of the chain, but really you're treating everyone else like they are second to - and below - your pain.

Apparently, I'm old-school Greek, too.

It is at this point that my husband, were he here, would turn to me shaking his head and say, "You think too much." Hardly. But I know what he means. Let the emotion do the work. Stop working the intellect so hard.

However, my emotional side - though loving and all that good stuff - is not very kind when it comes to myself. I have to work at it. Very, very hard.

But maybe this is just my way. 

Maybe this is my way to God or whatever that higher power, that grace, is.

Maybe that guy I knew was right. Maybe I'm a mule. An old work horse. A modern-day housewife on crack. 

Maybe I'm Jesus' Martha, the bad sister who worked too hard to cater to Jesus when he was her guest.

You see, I don't care if Jesus was real or if he performed miracles (hence, why I'm not a Christian), but I always kind of dug his story. (I tend to do that digging-of-stories bit.)

Except in that New Testament tale referenced before, I always wanted to defend Martha. Maybe she was just trying her best, man. Maybe hard work is her way to you. Maybe she is running around here cooking and cleaning and sweating and smelling like a sheep in her best effort, the only way she knows how, to get to you. To make you love her.

I know I was always missing the point.

He already loved her. She had nothing to prove.

But I am who I am.

Or am I? Could I use a little flexibility - a little (dare I say?) laziness in my life? A quality that, mind you, I once used to make an art form.

Should I just make a little more time for tea and let someone else take care of the pouring?

Should I just open up over some hot water with friends and steep in those sweet leaves?

There's that word again.

Perhaps it's not the cleansing of the leaves I should be so concerned with, after all.

Perhaps soul cleaning is nowhere near the right term.

Perhaps I need to just see the leaves and stop looking away in horror. Then, after said horror, perhaps I need to stop blindly raking at them in guilt and ripping them to shreds.

Maybe I just need to see them and accept them for what they are.

Not a frightening reminder of the life cycle.

Not a pile of failures attracting bad attention from the neighbors.

To take this metaphor out to it's only logical end, perhaps they are, very simply, me.

A work in progress.

Nothing more.

And nothing less.