Monday, November 29, 2010

I Never Told You


I never told you. I never told you that that book you read me? I have no idea what happened. Instead the cadences of your voice roll up and down in my eardrums. I laid my head in the corner of your arm and you softly spoke the written words. Like a fairytale, we create memories that jump from the mouth to the mind and far beyond in the soft land of realities past.

In the tiny space between my ears and my thoughts lies a little niche. A cranny filled with stories your voice tells. Stories of mornings warm and milky. Those are ones with the gruff leather cover. And stories of afternoons, languishing in the sheets, pretending to cower from the cold. Excuses to be held. These are the ones covered in flannel beneath beige wrapping. And the nights. Hot metal all at once burning and freezing. Your voice. In its leather, in its flannel, in its candlelight softness. Your voice is the story.

I know what note bliss sings. I know the minor key of telephone whispers filled with aching. I know the major shift to delight and tease. I know the Aminor that says, Can I ask you something? And the Bflat that giggles with embarrassment. Our love and memories sing a symphony of Beethoven, a never ending philharmonic concert that maybe even Mozart would of bowed his head in agreement.

And you are not a musician. and maybe you wont understand.
But you know how to love. And in this lies the key.

( This photo isn't mine, but I really like it)

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Fireworks on our breath


And I fell in love. Over and over again. I fell in love reading Rumi, and the way that his sparkling, dancing words twirl off the page. The way they curve off my tongue and laugh their way into the air. 

I fell in love reading Rumi to you, whispering until my lips felt too big. You listened and smiled in all the right parts. Like laying there and reading Rumi was just a narration of the moment. Everything in the right place, sparks on the air, firecrackers on my breath. 

I fell in love feeling salt in my hair and watching the curve of the ocean, seamless and soundful. I fell in love with the giggles and the absolute total control they take on my belly. I fell in love again and again.

I fell in love with tiny feet and baby eyelashes that bat the air away. I fell in love with the softness of children and their never-ending energy. Like nothing exists yet but the purity of their souls. I fell in love with seeing it. 

I fell in love with the realization that someone else's body seemed just as familiar as mine. That I will never know all the nooks and crannies, but the parts I do know feel like an extension of my own. Your hand in mine feels a hundred years old and brand new.  

I fell in love with the pure, ecstasy that Gypsy displayed when I came home. If only humans knew how to express their joy so wholly and purely. Running in circles for 5 minutes, pouncing on my head, licking my toes, making sure I was real. If only I had the purity to show that to you when I see you. 

Let this dance find its way into every corner. Let this love pile up into mounds of gold. I have nothing figured out. But I have this. 


Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Let your god radiate out from within you


A whistle. That's all it was. A cheap, plastic, orange and white whistle.

Some people worship Jesus, some Buddha, some people wait their whole lives for a god to bless them as they fall to their knees, awed and diminished by the glory. And so god bless, the whistle that can bring me to my knees, overcome by the simple glory of humanity.

I have a cigar box that accompanies me while I travel. In it are a few simple things: two letters, a homemade good-luck shooting star, a bird my dad carved, shells and other things. It does not have much retail value, but to me, it carries reminders of what I hold dear. It is like those cheesy tv commercials: gas $30, ice cream $5, spending time with my children: priceless. 


Nine-year-old Fernando wandered into my room last night. His sticky curious fingers asked about everything in sight. Eventually his nimble hands made their way to the cigar box. I patiently shared and explained each thing in there. He sort of laughed at me. I didn't think he understood at all. I was expecting some compassionate, "awh, thats so sweet," but instead all I got was a mocking laugh from the nine-year-old. 



So this morning, when I came back to my room after a full day, and feeling quite homesick, I was overcome by finding a cheap, plastic, orange and white whistle on top of the pile of letters, on top of the shell, encased in the US Bond cigar box.


And there you have it. Fernando and his whistle represent the only religion I worship. For what else do we have but what is inside of us. That drop of sugary sweet nectar we carry. The ancient blood of something wise and instinctive. Some far distant god, who only speaks through an ancient book, will never tell me as much as that whistle.

Let your god radiate out from within you.



For I may bow to the Buddha statue, I may kneel and pray during Christian mass, and I may cross my hands and lower my head at dinner. But what I am really bowing to is the god inside of us. 



Monday, November 15, 2010

Gratitude



A wise woman once told me, enlightenment is a constant state of gratitude...

It simultaneously felt like laughing, twirling, crying, slow dancing, and floating. Our eye contact sent a thrill of shivers down my spine. Blinking felt like a punishment, and my feet felt like they couldn't touch the ground. One inch above, I floated through the kitchen, the living room, and they said, "It looks like traveling has done you well." I thought that maybe if you turned off the lights, I would turn into a firefly. 

Maybe the traveling did do me well. But what really did the trick? Coming home. Opening my palms to the magic of gratitude. Letting myself just feel grateful for those people of mine. The ones who raised me, the ones who love me, the ones that listened to every worry, thought, fear, and piece of courage. Grateful that I had a roof over my head, a kitchen that smelled like heaven, a living room with a fire crackling its way into my ear. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. In my case it grew larger as well. Expanding until I felt it might just pop out of my chest, beating for the world to hear. 

Let gratitude pour down your sleeves until you have danced it's entire dance. Don't worry, your feet will never get tired. Let it drip into the small space between your heart and your chest, and trust that it will shine its own light. Breathe it until you feel full, and then breathe some more. It will send delightful chills all about your shoulders, if you let it.

And the best part is, no matter how confused you are, no matter how upset you are, I guarantee gratitude will always be there, smoke drifting, a stranger knocking, waiting for you to let it in. Let it send you into a dizzying dance where you lose track of how you got here, enveloped in something else besides the daily trivial matters. 

It is a replacement for any trouble. A magic tonic that warms your throat on the way down. Worrying about money? Replace it with gratitude. Wishing you weighed just 5 pounds less? Be grateful for this vessel that carries you around without asking for payment.  

Gratitude is a goddess that gives without asking for anything in return. Lift your hands and ask her to dance. You won't regret it. 

Friday, November 12, 2010

Campfires


The golden campfires of my childhood.
The sweet warm memories that lie somewhere in the peripheral vision of my minds eye. You can almost see them clearly.
Blurred light, mingled voices, taste of something soft and sweet on your tongue.
Never again to be seen in plain view—
The outliers, the folded eggwhites of life’s lane. 

Where does childhood lie?
It is in the corners of my eyes. The way my crow’s feet have already begun to crinkle with 18 years of laughter. It lies in the way I move my hands, the way my legs itch to run in a circular dizzying way. It lies in the craving to explore jungle gyms. It lies in the need to be held, to cry, to laugh. It is the impossibilities. It is what we have left behind and only can only remember a feeling. The feeling of life in its purest form.

And now, it lies in the growing, warming heat given off by my own fire. The burning, the light, pouring from my fingertips, pouring from my lips, my big brown eyes, down to my little toe. pouring from inside, consuming, and then giving back everything forgotten. 
And possibly, someday, I will fade to a peripheral memory. Something you are quite sure happened, but the face and words have disappeared into the air of time. 

It will be alright.

Our peripheral vision allows us to see in all directions. Our peripheral memories allow us to see in all expanses of time.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Rhubarb Pie


Rhubarb Pie for breakfast and the tones of home linger softly on my tongue. Each bite is infused with more than rhubarb and sugar, but rather the spice of memories filling in the spaces. The weight of history presses on my tongue. I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like. To someone who has never had it, I cannot even imagine what it must be like. But I am the world’s best food critic if you want to know what rhubarb laced with memories tastes like. 
I can tell you about seeing my mom chop it up into bite-size pieces and what that feels like. My eyes are barely peering over the counter top, her soft beautiful belly just at head height. The perfect height where I can lean gently in and let her take all my weight. 
I can tell you what the garden tastes like. My small feet pressing an inch down into the freshly turned earth, baked by the sun. Scooping up a handful of dirt only to let it drop between my fingertips. The feeling of a tiny weed squished between sausage fingers. 
I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like.
But rhubarb pie--I can’t tell how much sugar is added, or whether the dough was made correctly, or whether there is too much cinnamon. 
All I can taste is the sweetness of innocence, the pillow of my mothers belly, the brittle warmth of summertime, and dirt under tiny toes. All mixed together, joined together by unlikely forces, dancing together in a never-ending parade.
Home.