Under a Waxing Crescent

Crickets.

It’s what you might have heard from me if you check this blog regularly. I have been so tired and fraught with matters that have left my inspiration to cook zippered shut in a bag shoved in the corner of my room. Proverbially speaking of course.

See, my dad died a little over two months ago.

And with that came eating, not eating. Crying, not crying. All spanning moments tracing into hours that have now brought me into month two. So perhaps this might explain the absence. I have been funneling any sort of energetic spurt to write into composing threnodies or letters. And then finding myself sleeping, sleep-walking, trying to eke out the semblance of what I remember myself to be like before the sky was rent in two. I can be pretty good at pretending (even fooling myself) into being what I need to be in the moment. I have put myself (mostly) in the hands of other people to make me food, to try and nourish my belly, while I hunger and thirst for the solid ground to anchor me. Some nights involve chocolate and others swimming. It’s amazing how grief has its own appetite and it’s the one I feed out of priority.

For a week, I just wanted to lie still. For a month, I did not want to leave my house. But the living go on living.

So the focus these days is simple survival. Move, don’t move. Cry, don’t cry. And the flurry of discordant emotions will continue playing roulette. Photos and recipes to come later as they are wont to do.

Artist to Artist

I appreciate how struggle and suffering are the chisel to the marble so to speak- or they can be hammer to chisel. The story of Grant Achatz is well known in culinary circles. Chef creates new restaurant experience, Alinea in Chicago, for Americans, wins accolades and recognition from peers only to find out he has cancer of the mouth. His tongue, an instrument to his knife and pen cannot for a time taste anything. It has been said before and is a good comparison of Beethoven hearing music in his head much like Achatz tasted in his head. His story is one that like many others made me root for him, pray for him, desire to see him pull through stronger. Earlier this year, he posted a book proposal he’s written for a book he was shopping around on “The Atlantic Monthly”. I am invigorated by engaging art for my art and smiled when I came across his thoughts:

“Everything that I see, hear, and feel, I relate to food. When I go to a movie and watch the cinematography, I ask myself why the director chose that lighting, those colors, that setting and then I imagine scenarios where we light Alinea in a similar fashion or dress a waiter in an unusual outfit to mirror the food, or create a mood with similar dialogue.”

He goes on to say that most of the ideas are not used, but I love how he evaluates the art around him with an appraiser’s eye of how it can teach him, illuminate opportunities for further fusion of experience. So how have you been engaging the art around you into your art?

Seeing the Light

I have a bit of a tendency toward thinking about the morbid. As I type this, my black lacquered nails tap the keys furiously.

This morning I found out that a friend is in very critical condition. I’m thinking about death and about losing two legs and how the unconscious self recognizes the shearing off of self.

This all started with reading Stephen Mitchell’s translation of Rilke’s “Requiem for a Friend”. Upon reading this poem for the first time, I felt such a deep resonance with its direct addresses, its wanting to speak of the usually unspeakable. There is an intimacy and childlike pleading that occurs within its confines that plucks me like a string. Its beauty is tragic in a loss that feels without bottom. I am taking my time re-reading it and want to invest the time to get into the poet’s perspective of life after several months of not having that person in it. What does the five month mark look like? The 12 year mark?

As my father put it so eloquently, you get to a point where death is seen as a positive option. When you’re young, there is an interesting dichotomy of reckless immortality mingled with the delicacy of not being fully formed yet. You think or know you will get a chance to experience everything that is ours to enjoy before the final closing of the eyes. You think.

Poetry speaks to those unknowns; it blankets the chill of the uncertain by giving voice to the scary truths and possibilities that for some echo in the deepest chambers and for others are on the cusp of the line of vision, dictating how their steps play out.

This translates to how faith works itself out, for me personally. I have a quote by Lesslie Newbigin on my desk that drives it home for me:

“I do not want to suggest that faith is easy. There are black hours when faith seems to die, when illusions seem true and the truth seems an illusion. But I know that they will pass, not because I have a firm grasp of Him, but because He has His grip on me and I know that I cannot evade Him. He is the living Lord, who was dead and is alive forevermore and has the keys of death and hell. I believe in Him: I can do no other.”

And so the best that I can come up with is to live in the potential of the day. To drill down in the poetry we need to fully realize this life. Rilke included.

Bad Habits Put to Bed

With the arrival of June is the stark realization that half the year is gone. Never to be seen again. And what do I have to show for it? Deepening love for one character of a guy and a lot of travels (minus a now defunct trip next week to NYC).

The writing has not been in hibernation, but in a state of germination. It’s as if waking from the haze of academia is just taking its sweet time. You know those kids who would cry when they left home and call their parents every single day from camp? I never was one of those kids. Instead, when I returned home, I would pine away alone in my room mourning the cacophony of sound, kids and activity that now gave way to silence. And while post-graduation has been no malaise, I have allowed the other parts of my life to begin eating away at the time that for two years was obsessively inhabited by poetry.

But no more.

I had this quirky last minute opportunity to go to France in a part-work / part-leisure excursion. Some people have places that evoke a spiritual connection for them and France has been it for me for some time. The circumstances around this trip happened so quickly and came together so well that I couldn’t help but see and wonder what His design might be or what He wanted to convey to me.

Enter waking up at 4 a.m. No jetlag roused my sleeping form into the vertical position. A poem (or two) did. And they came so quickly. Urgently, as if tiny eggs hatching to produce the small vibrant creatures of poetry. I felt a rush in being back in my right mind again. Living with “poetry mind” calls a certain mindfulness to replace the typical zooming through life that is my modus operandi. And this is where France typically is my biggest reminder to slow down. Sip the wine, so to speak, rather than the slurp.

I took some ridiculously long walks in Paris, through the light rain and felt at home in the San Francisco-like climate. While listening to an original score of electronica music with grey skies framing the beauty, I walked with camera in hand, letting the road take me forward. My self-direction for the 2 days in Paris consisted of taking my time, not rushing, getting a little lost if need be and soaking in the touristy spots (which I would often counter is so unlike me) but I’d never had THAT Paris experience, so it worked out well. And amazingly I never got lost. We fear the failure of the almost perfect experience, which I think sometimes tends to cause the inertia of not trying at all. By allowing myself freedom, I discovered haunts over the course of my jaunt that would have remained hidden. A question for you, “Do you ever feel like you’re living your life too safely? OR Do you ever feel you’re living your life for someone else?”

My reading companion during the Paris leg, “Art and Fear” is a must for any working artist (or struggling one). Written by a photographer and a painter, they talk about the issues that drive artists to create and the things that keep them from creating. It continued the unraveling epiphany for me. God and I walk. It’s what we do to connect and I felt His presence very strongly over my little forays in Paris and Cannes. It felt good to feel Him again as the winter seems to be finally closing. But this next season, who knows what it will bring? It does not appear like anything I’ve ever encountered with Him before, but does not dissipate His proximity. As grey skies roil above, the questions come and not from a place of incertitude.

Artistically, since my return from France, I have continued writing poetry and other projects. This time, working on a book review and considering a new project that will keep me busy for some time to come.

Though New York is eluding me right now, as a friend said, “You always have Paris.” And a few orangettes from Fauchon tucked away for a rainy day.

Bridge to Hope

My friend Todd committed suicide November 17, 2005. He and I met volunteering at a coffeehouse for homeless street kids what feels like an eon ago. He sparkled and could make any kid feel at ease. A few of us including Pam and Darren raised money for suicide prevention a few months after by walking 18 miles in the Out of the Darkness walk. It was a small effort on our part but somehow helped us remember him and honor him.

Thursday night was the Maundy Thursday service at church. This commemorates the Last Supper Jesus spent with his disciples. We ate soup and hunks of bread. We sang songs and read passages from the Bible. There’s this one point in the main passage preached from John that says Jesus in the fullness of His understanding of who He was, full of power wrapped a towel around his waist and proceeded to wash the feet of the disciples. It seemed a good time to me to go home and watch my current Netflix that had been waiting for the right time.

“The Bridge” chronicles the lives of several people who commit suicide by flinging themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge. It also discusses the allure that this bridge painted International Orange has for those wanting to end their lives. This documentary feels at moments like a re-enactment. But that’s the thing, the shock of it, as well as the tentative walking across the bridge multiple times plays a trick on the brain accustomed to violence in movies or television. Instead what you’re seeing is the last moments of these peoples’ lives. What you’re hearing is the perspectives of the people around them trying to trace the road leading to the Golden Gate.

Again, I was burdened with the weight of inexistence toppling that of existence. Thinking about Jesus knowing He was going to die and praying into his moments before arrest. Grateful that He chose to go through with a death that was nothing if not painful. If not solitary. Because only through this could death lose its sting. Life beyond life.

Recently, the same friends, Pam and Darren gave birth to a baby boy named Samuel Todd…

some call it an elephant

Tonight, I felt this strong compulsion to meditate and pray. It’s great when the word is that clear and the word tonight was “consecrate” or “set yourself apart.” In the midst of my praying my thoughts drifted to little Iz. and his terribly confusing situation of being back with his grandmother, missing his adoptive parents who have had to give him back. I was praying for him and broke out in goosebumps, thinking about the anger, the confusion, the loneliness he must be feeling of going from a family of four to a family of one. I believe naming is one of the most powerful gifts we have been given and thus at the end of my prayer looked up the name given to him at birth and discovered it means, “God is my salvation,” which was what I had been praying that his five year old self would know he’s not alone and that he is incredibly loved. I wrote a poem for him a month back, posted below. Say a prayer for Iz. if you are the praying sort and one for the mom and dad whose hearts are rent at this time. Thanks.

some call it an elephant

some call it an elephant
but i call it a boy five years
old with sea glass eyes,
hair the wind riffs golden
stalks of wheat dancing,
pale slip of a boy who falls
through cracks without trying.

(name like shattered glass, caught dagger name)

how you slept, steady rise and fall
buckled into backseat, peaceful
against my tear blocked eyes, throat
full of words i’ll never get to say-
how you wake up i can’t see this-
you, child with a heart as big as an
elephant crowd my fragile thoughts,
continue to fill this brittle room of emptiness.

gift from the wilderness

This year has been such a topsy turvy ride. But life is like that, sometimes you get signed up for classes you never thought you needed to take. I for one was thinking about all these good things happening right now in my life. And how sometimes when you’re great but the people around you are crumbling, you feel that being quiet about goodness is the right way to be. But sometimes you just really want to shout. And today is one of those days. I think all of us have a bit of chicken hemmed to our heart. A bit of wariness that is learned along the way as a survival tactic.

In yoga class, we always end our practice with a time of silence to say internally what we are thankful for. Tonight I found gratitude welling up inside me for the assault that I never would have wanted, asked for or wished on my worst enemy. But because of it, I am living in a space of deeper self-awareness and other-awareness. It’s as if the very worst thing that I could imagine has happened and now am living in the freedom of it already having happened.

One of my favorite all-time quotes is from Vincent van Gogh. “The fishermen know the sea is dangerous and the storms are terrible, but they never found this sufficient reason to remain on shore.” I rode MUNI for the first time this Saturday with my friend Kenny-O since the 38 incident. He didn’t know this until we were almost to his house, but I woke up and decided it was the day. I also decided that if I had a panic attack when on the bus I could get off and not feel any shame in it.

Life requires a certain amount of feckless risk. I’m glad that my life is not ruled and ordered by my whims but instead by a God who sees me and knows me intimately. Makes the risks less dubious. I was thinking about the idea of living in a reality where every good thing is received as gift. The opposite response to me would be living a life of entitlement. Crushing disappointment comes from unmet expectation. Instead I want to see every person I encounter and my time with them as gift, plain and simple. On the flip side would be seeing bad things that happen as gift. This is a harder one to receive. But how we respond when the shit hits the fan really says a lot about the core of our inner being. I want to have an inner being that is crafted of iron so I can be iron to the people around me- with tremendously long outstretched arms.

Many of my poems have been inspired by the duress of plain people mired in their lives’ darkness, but reveal that even darkness has a thread of shadow and light to it. We need light especially in darkness if we are ever to find our way out of it.

If you’re reading this- thanks. It’s kind of a rambly post, but my thoughts are swirling about less linear than usual. I guess the point of it is to just encourage you to think about life as gift or life as entitlement and which would be the cloak you might choose to wear. Cheers.

balm on monday eve

I have a friend whose father is dying. As our moms met in lamaze class, she constitutes as my oldest friend. I was always scared of water when I was a child. In my childhood photo album is a photo I have always appreciated. Terrified me with a face scrunched into a single cry am held high in the air above the water by her dad’s strong arms. Arms made strong by exercise and conditioning for his cyclist’s regimen. My little kid arms tenaciously wrap around his neck like piranha swim in the water below, water into which he will not let me sink, broad smile stretching out over his face.

In the past few months since the prognosis came as cancer, when the doctors said inoperable, there have been a lot of lasts. Last family photo while he still looked like himself, so she can show her children what her family looked like. Preparation for a life in which he will not be a part. Tonight, she called, leaving a message that he’s getting worse, that it’s becoming more real. I know all about these small moments of real and then the switch back to unreal. She asks me to pray for him and I pray for these moments that will disappear too quickly. Pray for this long hello and this long goodbye. I wish this could all be revoked. Wish I had superhero power to heal. But who am I? And what is this? I am a candle burning in his honor tonight, man who loves fiercely, complicated father with a lifetime cut into months weeks days. I write this as balm to all who love, to love tenaciously in the time given, to not put off for tomorrow what could be said, could be balm for today.

I write for her spirit to submerge in a peace that sees the moments glimmer in spite of the waning light of day. Prayed that she would mirror back peace to his eyes fearful and not ready to close. Below is a poem I wrote for her several months ago, when time still had yet to unfold.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

how to say goodbye

fingers twist, steeple, roof

i don’t know

how to speak
or
how to make this better

instead i sit waiting for you
to die, candle-less vigil

of two. we watch our bridge
burn, eyes rimmed in red kohl.

we fight the medics, fight
for ten minutes more

as the shadow of death now lingers
smoking in the hallway. today

we see

through each other, our green eyed
mirror, gap surmounting those

spent years, polaroid snapshot of
your chariot burning, my steeple crashing.

hero or foe

I spent the greater part of the evening toggling between work emails and poetry revisions. In the midst of disemboweling weak verse from the pencil scratches on the taped into my Moleskine revisions, I watched “Heroes.”

The theme of this season centers around “Villains” and what its intent seems to be drawing out is there is a bit of villain in each of us. It just matters on who you listen to, who you hang around and what you choose.

I think one thing about the 30′s that I am finding refreshing is a sense that I don’t have to “try” to be anything other than what I am: Unapologetic to my convention friends planning to dance until they have to work the convention the next day; able to turn down an invite to dinner, in place of me, my journal of taped in revisions and a slab of haddock on a plate.

Boston, what am I supposed to learn from you? City of intellects, city of thugs?

So much remains a question mark- keeping score through its snaking like a river. River that will wash away the frozen minutes, the misspent hours, the telltale start of something on its way to excellence in place of the inert now, the reckoning of the present with the future. Hero, foe, all I ask is to speak aloud, “yes” each day and to inhale this mystery’s unfolding.

a song offered to the writer

I sing. This is no surprise to those in my inner sanctum (or those driving in the lane near to my driver’s side window.) A joy as immense as the sky is long stretched over Texas bursts from my open lips in the form of matching what is heard and shifting it slightly.

Last weekend at church, I happily stood with the band, my turn in our succession of female singers. The set of music they had given ranged from great beefy songs full of shadowy minor keys and thoughtful lyrics to peppy numbers that made me slap my thigh in succession of the beats. I was ready and eager to sing the set through. Upon remarking how fun a set K had selected for Sunday, some guys walked through the doors, heading toward the stage. K mentioned one of them had written the music for several of the songs. Somehow I felt equal parts anticipation and excitement. The pianist / composer took his place right behind me and I found myself bound up with a rush of adrenaline as this symbiosis of sound began.

There is something magical about singing with the composer leading. And I would also say, there is something to be said for having your way with a song that is different from what the CD dictates or perhaps from the usual harmonies they have come to expect. A spiritual experience is all you can really attempt to use to define the feelings and rush derived from such a coming together.

The composer and I spoke of craft, of writing and singing, of playing and tonality. Both of us love the shadowy bits and interweaving golden threads of hopefulness. Which is kind of like life. Amid the shadowy bits, strands of hope run, cords of joy stand firm, not easily dissuaded from being that anchor that can moor us, giving a center when the ship seems to run aground.

I will say it again. I am grateful for singing. I am grateful for the song. And to the healer of ears, love that it all rises like incense and smoke, joyful. Even when rising from the shadowy bits.