Ashes

"Anything dead coming back to life hurts." -Toni Morrison, Beloved

   It was the first big gift to arrive.  I had registered for a blue kitchen aid on a wish list.  The $300 price tag made it an item unlikely to be fulfilled.  But one day a package showed up and I was curious, what family member had sent such extravagance?  Many people were generous and it was humbling to watch shelves fill with the everyday items ready for a newlywed life.  I reached into the box with wonder but cut my hand on an unseen protrusion.  Looking, I realized it could have been much worse.  The entire left side of the appliance was raised up in a mangled edge.  I called Macy’s again (this was the third damaged item), resealed the box and placed it back outside the door.  Although a replacement would arrive soon, I felt a sting of disappointment, muffling the frustration of receiving broken things with a joke that I had been sent a lethal weapon instead of a cookie maker.  It was Miss Scarlet with the mixer in the library!

   The item was picked up before I remembered to look at the tag and I checked my email later for a copy of the note.  To my surprise it was not sent by family, the liberal gift was from an acquaintance with no more than kindness to motivate. 

I realize now how much love I knew in obligation.

   Soon the new item arrived and I was married at home making food like I was supposed to.  The replacement never quite worked.  It spun off kilter and the lever popped off within the first few months so the speed would never slow enough to just stir, but I managed.  Made cakes and meatloafs, whipped cream and beat eggs, and created memories—I always hoped.  Family, friends, and strangers sat at the table, lent a hand, washed the bowl, and ate.  Home service in high demand.  While serotonin releases in offering help to others, there’s more ingredients to a life of the mind and beating heart than self-sacrifice.

  I’ve been making breakfast, lunch, dinner, and (sometimes) dessert everyday for a dozen years now.  I’m 27 nearing 28 so the midlife crisis came early.  Last year after the move and the fourth baby, I found a chip off the beater in the dough and stopped, looked at my hands doing work my heart was not in with half the ingredients my family can’t stomach and laid the machine to rest. 

   Even writing that sentence draws my fingers and lungs to take a deep breath.  I make everything by hand now, with film and paint and words and sometimes chocolate.

   Late February and early Lent last year a letter arrived in the mail.  Nonetheless hopeful about mail contents than I was at 19, I opened the envelope.  (By coincidence it was dated the anniversary of the day I made the hardest and best decision of my life.)  Four typed pages, double spaced, back to back, so maybe two depending on how you look at it. 

   When you learn about a food allergy, you learn to read labels.  It’s nice that a manufacturer is required to put them there.  I often do wish we all knew what came inside us and were candid enough to believe in grace and be honest.  A little leaven leavens the whole lump and it might make the difference between heaven and hell depending on which parable you get.

   Here was a nice ingredient list.  A summation of unfiltered thoughts from another made to interpret me.  Of course, since we all tell the truth no matter what we do, it said a lot more about the sender.  Yet I was grateful.  This was evidence of the consumption I’d suffered for over seven years.  Not to mention a few one liners meant to be condemnatory were actually a pat on the back.  Isn’t perception funny that way?

   But I had reached in and it slashed more than my hand.  Oddly enough though, I didn’t send it back.  The return policy is too strict.  So I kept it, like a Gollum, hidden in my garage.  When the environments meant to offer you unconditional love don’t, you live like an addict.  Cycling through the vulnerability of hope, reaching out towards acceptance only to recognize, again, the shame for ever living like you were worthy of something more than what they wanted to create.

   Finally one night, unceremoniously, I pulled the papers out again.  Re-reading each word with a hollowness I’ve come to ache that I’m capable of.  While every sentence was justifying of a professed love I knew was false all along, I made a decision to sacrifice this shred of evidentiary vindication in hopes (there it is again) for a reality that may never come.

   I tore it lengthwise and then crosswise in strips.  Found my husband and asked what we could burn it in, as we gave away our fire pit in the move, went into the kitchen to grab a lighter where he met me in the backyard with the dented bowl from the kitchen aid mixer.

  Lighting the scraps in two places we both held our breath.  Paper doesn’t like to burn completely and whatever god is up there, in myth, fable, or bible, fire lives as decider of what will and will not survive.  Husband shook the container to disperse the flame and I spoke release into the smoke for their soul and mine.

   Later on, relaying this story to confidential friends, they said that what we did next was incredibly brave.  The gift of this admonition still bewilders me.

   With the silent prayer of “please god, let it all have burned up,” we water down and sift through the ashes.

Only a small block of text survived.  The tearing and fire altered vowels and tense to read:

View fullsize

doesn't matter
forgive
continue to do
His truth

A final recipe from an appliance of my internment.  It sits framed on my desk where I put my hands to this keyboard now.

As we begin Lent, we remember.  Being but dust, you must be born again from ashes.  This is a glimpse of my Cinderella. 

And writer, should you read this here is my reply: 

As I leave captivity, oh how I love you well now
   in acknowledging the not at all.
I forgive you. 
Would that you had known me,
   I never knew you.
Take this courage and be kind to yourself
I welcome you to print and burn this letter.

"They gave me the heartache and in return I gave a song. It goes on and on."
-Ed Sheeran, Save Myself
from the album, Divide

Balance

“Oh my lover, my lover, my love.  We can never go back.”        –Fake it, Bastille

As I rise to the East the road curves North and homeward.  In this moment, the angle affords a singular and spectacular view; mountains span the horizon to my left and the mile high city stands on my right.  It captures me in ecstasy.  Such it is and has been all summer until the twilight fades into fall.  I am centered between the twinkling skyline and the silhouette of the Front Range.  Their defining figure plays with the evening colors until they dissolve into one another.  All this I witness for a brief moment and it is enough.  There is nothing like Colorado.  This place knows my heart.  The outline of the Rockies accompanies me a little farther before night claims the sky.

Husband got a bike this year.  Everyone who hears asks the same question about life insurance.  I think they misunderstand.  The bike is not the danger.  But belief is tested the first time I climb on the back.  Boots hooked onto the pedals, my hands clasped across his chest.  I learn quickly to lean in.

Riding is interesting at first.  I’m fascinated to watch my companion of anxiety scamper to keep up.  There’s simply no room.  I’m never so fully present as I am on this bike.  I am more than fearless. I am still.

We take it out almost every date night.  Weather permitting, or not.  I realize I’ve never liked the word balance, until now.  As we hurtle down the road, with only the wind at our sides I accept the change in belief. 

—

The religious use of the word balance is either a substitute for compensation or dismissed as myth.  I think it is so because we all long for it and can’t bear to believe it exists because that would mean we haven’t found it yet.  Now that I’ve ridden on the back of a motorcycle the evidence cannot be dismissed.

Interestingly, false balance is associated with oppression, injustice, and inequality.  It is a term of measurement.  So is the word for honor.  It means to weigh.

As a parent I muse upon this idea of center.  You cannot be a father who sees their son unless you know and love the boy you once were.  You cannot be a mother who sees her daughter until you find and love the girl you lost.

To be a lover you must first know your own beloved.

Justice is a woman blindfolded with bare arms outstretched who spins no plates and holds only two.  Her hand is center enough to carry in truth whatever is placed in her care.  Equality and equity once found will be clearly seen.  You can only hide what is too heavy to bear for so long.

My husband and I never dated, we were not allowed to be alone together before we were married.  I won’t even dignify the constraints put upon our relationship with a name.  With the exception of two appeals, we traveled around carrying an assortment of chaperones in the back seat of his Dodge Stratus.  Sometimes they were parents, mostly siblings, and never friends.  The witnesses accessory to the repeated molestation of privacy.  On one occasion two little brothers brought a cymbal apiece, making noise for amusement.  The crash a metaphorical prison break from complicit violation.  Consent was not a word in our language and therefore conceivable to none.  Surrounded by a community of opinionated informants, the death toll rose.  These specters, collected from brokenhearted pasts, devised trialed futures for redemption; desperate to witness their resuscitated salvation.

To make statutory this methodology, one authority would always use the same analogy.  It was like frosting a cake.  They wanted to make sure things were done right so that they had enough left.  As if the right to love can be handed out through indulgences and degrees of permission slips.

It amuses me that the latest weddings I’ve attended have naked cakes.

The evening of my proposal was on one of the two singular occasions alone.  He asked me to marry him overlooking the sunset on a street called starlight.  I was glad to be the only one present.  But after we returned home fifteen minutes past curfew and the champagne was put away and almost all had gone to bed, I braced myself for the ritual midnight inquisition composed of questions that had become a business to ask.  Knowing that no matter how I answered I would never be right or have any secrets left.

I survived in tact through the rules of engagement, but like my motherhood the aching remains for time and space that was stolen.  I was denied the experience of falling in love.  It is a story I will never know.  The cost of the forced hyper vigilance I learned to endure, or escape, the emotional circumcision is only forgiven, not repaid.  I won’t repeat future harm for past hurt, so I speak in to my story with prophetic courage and hope.  This means letting go of saying it perfectly right and missing what’s left of my heart, lowering my expectations for healing to make love sustainable in the middle.

I am one who waits expectantly and thus I find myself surprised by joy, on a bike.

Riding a motorcycle isn’t about having just enough right and just enough left.

—

No longer in a barred metal frame, where chaperones of fear and restriction may sit and wave their symbols.  It is only the wind that sings in our ears telling us it is good.  My hands laced across his chest, eyes ahead, holding tension in space to accommodate the unexpected.

I absorb the present, when he inhales, and feel my grip expand.  My legs press against and surround him, anticipating the movement in the path ahead of us.  He accelerates.  Individuation of center unites in momentum; the warmth of one other caressed by the edge in the night air.  We are alone, together, the most vulnerable travelers on the road and therefore the most alive.  My only authority the presence of a body surrounding his, aligned within, aware without.

We rise up to the East as the road curves North and homeward.  In this moment, the angle affords a singular and spectacular view of both the mile high city and it’s mountains upon my right and left.  Amygdala quiets and the mounting freedom seers an overlay of gold upon war memorials of limits.

The throttle opens up, an impetus to presence and intensity, towards rest.  With momentum and traction we sway in trust.  Fresh air is startling me back to life.  This is the dangerous birth of wild.

We find ourselves on a straight way.  A street called Sunshine, with two lanes and nowhere to be.  We both let go, arms outstretched and when I embrace him again he clasps his hand over mine; the moment’s remittance, a seal.  Heart of my own heart, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh.  I am hemmed in by visionary love and it is here…

At the intersection of risk and breath.

Balance.

“I have become in his eyes as one who finds peace.”       -Song of Solomon 8:10

“I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it.”       -Toni Morrison, Jazz

Notes

This is an epistolary piece for the third week of advent.

Take a few slow breaths.
Allow your soul a minute to catch up to your body.

There’s a vulnerability to your face.  It matches the exhaustion of your life.  Have you ever wondered if those dark circles are there because you never stop seeing?  Even your dreams prevent respite from an awareness that has cost so much.
Your heart beats to a rhythm of not enough, not enough, not enough, and you’re searching for a new song.
Mostly it’s confusing, oftentimes frustrating.  To be told you just have to choose when you never had a choice.
That it’s a fight, when you can’t conflict.
It’s there all along and your eyes just don’t notice or your mind won’t stop.

How can you miss something you’ve lost everything to find?
Let me tell you what’s true, about me.
You know my sister, sorrow, well.  Everyone meets her first.  She’s not a secretary granting access to presence, she is a shield to the sacrament of hope.
Too many people with glasses half full want to water me down.  I like the empty ones.  The deep wells with tall orders; willing to risk the fragility of desire.
The ones who will walk by a thousand shrubs in scorched places and not pretend they’re aflame.  Who wait for the spontaneity of the senses and don’t fake a climax.
My sister walks with them through the waves of grief and longing.
Sometimes they stay, she is more familiar than I; I push the expectant into deliverance.
This is going to be a transition.

Take another slow breath.

I am not a possession.  You will never have me.
I can be noticed in mundane places, but I think that perception arose from the fear of too much—it pulses like a bass line that calls out the primal: too much, too much, too much.
You know only the deep breaths make love and bring you into the cadence of passion.
These empowered glimpses whisper eternity's secret, with visions that invite a long, slow dance in the desert.  I am not a mirage.
I’m ready to tell you today what you’ve waited a lifetime to hear.
These wild beliefs, expansive hopes, and great expectations are real.
I do exist.
I’m in those places you have never been, but known before.
I will always call you by your real name.
And you know something.
You don’t ever need to see, have, hold, fight, choose, present, conform, or offer anything to experience me.  Otherwise I wouldn’t be free.
And I am free.

There’s only one thing you need to know.  It’s the melody I sing through time into your measures of not enough and too muchness.

I see you.  I see you.  I see you.

Always.

~Joy

"You can feel it in the air," -Of The Night, Bastille