It isn't as though no time has passed
Since the last moment that I heard
Your voice.
Time has come the way it usually does,
With rushing waves of seasons
And endless crawls through spaces
Dark and heavy with uncertainty.
I have made it
Have survived without you for all this
Time,
Just as I knew I would.
Time has taken my naive child self
And molded her into something
That I am not always quite certain of,
Yet am certain that she
Is
Real.
But time always returns me
To this place,
This space where I can do nothing but
Remember
Where I was,
What I was
Thinking,
Why I knew
How I knew
That you
Were the who I had to let go of
Too soon.
Time has healed me
But has also sealed me in this
Locked cage of wanting
What could have never been.
Each year
Each month
Each day
Each moment that passes
Amasses to more distance from that moment;
Forever cystalized amber.
The pain of your absence not forever etched
Into my skin
But cemented into my existence
Because now there is always a before
And an after.
Thought continues to dwell on you
Even when I know
It could be better spent
And makes more sense
When it can find something else
To occupy its
Time.
I have exhausted time
Beyond its means
To try to find some meaning to this,
Some word
Some phrase
To shine some rays of light
To give me hope. . .
And therein lies my sin
Because even after all the
Time that has past
I still have this seed
From some stubborn weed
That breeds within me.
Hope for things that will not come,
Hope to revive what has already gone.
I hoped for you.
I did not love,
But hoped only to love
One day
Some Time
Always.
But never came instead,
So time has left me
Grieving for the dead
Which has not fully died,
And has somehow kept me living.
I live with this,
Will always
Live
Because time does not die with our wounds,
Though it at times stands still.
I have not stood still,
But still have felt,
What was left since that
Time
When we left with our goodbyes.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Monday, February 1, 2016
Reception or Nothing Closed Can Open
This poem was inspired by several things over the last few days. The first, a yoga class within which the theme was receiving (using the Twitter war between Kanye and Amber Rose as the inspiration and example, no less). The second, one of the teachers of said yoga class reached out to the wider social sphere, humbly asked for funds for a much needed surgery, and did it from such a place of wholeness, rootedness, and gratitude that was nothing shy of inspiring. (Btw, they reached their fundraising goal in record time, which was beyond amazing.) And the third, recognizing my own hesitancy to open to things new and as yet unknown. Receiving, as I point out in this poem, is a complicated and messy business. But it can be beautiful and life giving when it comes from the right place.
Nothing closed can open, and opening is not
invitation to wounds, or abuse, or pain.
Instead, opening to receiving is the act of active asking,
not as a hungry mouth
gaped wide as vacuumous void,
waiting to consume any and all,
But as hands cupped to rain to drink the sky.
I am thinking of the nature of trees,
those receivers of above and below,
with vast arms open,
for their roots have dug deep enough
to drink in the earth.
Temptation lies not in the wanting, but in the waiting to give.
Muscles contract in spasms waiting to birth
what is not yet time to be born.
How complicated this all is,
this holding of tension with intention--
holding and being held.
A hand opens, one to another, without fear of being
asked to give--for asking is its own giving.
Reception comes only by owning one's own deserving
as a natural consequence
of being human fully.
So open as the fertile soil comes to be planted
with good things,
and bear the fruit of gratitude.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Every Day
Every day I remember
How easy it is to just type
Those letters that form your name
And find pages of you in an instant's fraction
Every day I remember
That when my fingers itch
To trace the familiar pattern on
Those keys
It is not you who will be present
Every day I am reminded
That absence was always there
And that the faux replacement
Never really took me from the shadows
Of longing
Every day I wonder
If I will finally give in
And dissolve my resolve
To not try to find you again
Every day your two syllables
Fall from my lips in whispers
Light as snow floating from the sky
Though my tongue bears the weight of
An avalanche of words unsaid
Every day
Another heart fills an empty space
That proves I have lasted
One more day without you
And
Every day
I wish that I didn't have to
How easy it is to just type
Those letters that form your name
And find pages of you in an instant's fraction
Every day I remember
That when my fingers itch
To trace the familiar pattern on
Those keys
It is not you who will be present
Every day I am reminded
That absence was always there
And that the faux replacement
Never really took me from the shadows
Of longing
Every day I wonder
If I will finally give in
And dissolve my resolve
To not try to find you again
Every day your two syllables
Fall from my lips in whispers
Light as snow floating from the sky
Though my tongue bears the weight of
An avalanche of words unsaid
Every day
Another heart fills an empty space
That proves I have lasted
One more day without you
And
Every day
I wish that I didn't have to
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Selective Solidarity: The Problem with Praying (Just) for Paris
Some may think that this entry is "too soon" as it has been less than 24 hours since most of us here in the United States have heard about the attacks in Paris. However, I feel that it is precisely in these moments when, those of us who may not be so closely related to recent horrific events, need to have these conversations.
Scrolling through my social media feed, there are an overwhelming number of posts and notifications, not only of the attacks themselves, but of statements of solidarity people are showing for Paris. And it's beautiful. People are changing their profile pictures to show the colors of the French flag. Others are sharing photos of monuments and buildings around the world lit up in blue, white, and red. On and on, the message is: "We are with you. You are not alone in this." It's a wonderful sentiment, and it should not be entirely discarded.
And yet, where were the colors of the Beirut flag only a few days ago? Why weren't people en mass changing their profile pictures to those saying "Black Lives Matter" or posting numerous statuses about the actions of the students on the university campus in Missouri? Why is saying "Free Palestine" when Israeli attacks continue to occur, and Palestinian land is STILL being stolen, so controversial, but no one blinks an eye at "Pray for Paris"?
With the era we live in, where we are saturated with information, 24 hour "news" cycles, etc. it is easy to become overwhelmed. We cannot hold the pain of the world in a day. We need breaks. This is understandable. The human psyche can take only so much without completely unraveling.
Still, more often than not, there is the collective pattern here in the West to take a break from solidarity and compassion when brown people (or those perceived to be brown) are involved. When those from predominantly white countries experience the frailty and horror that so many others have already faced, the rest of the world seems to stand still. We give moments of silence. We send our prayers. We change our profile pictures and create hashtags. We stand with them. Because they're not "those other people." This is not to say that the latter is a thought that necessarily happens on a conscious level. Through decades and centuries of Western white supremacy, it has become ingrained into our dominant culture, and is now a subconsciously understood sentiment. And those who have it are not inherently "bad people" either. This is something I struggle with, too, as a white person from a Western country who has benefited from centuries of white supremacy. I turn my eyes away from the brown people suffering because "what else is new?" White country experiences terrorist attacks, and I'm glued to my newsfeed. This is not to detract from my own argument; on the contrary, I hope what I have just said will serve to validate it. We here in the West, especially us white folk, have a lot to work on when it comes to our solidarity with others. And this includes people in our own country that we have turned our backs on, time and again.
I currently work as an outpatient therapist in a community mental health organization. Being new to the field, one thing that I am working on, among many, is to allow for silence in my sessions with clients. Silence can be useful, and powerful, especially in the therapeutic relationship. Silence sometimes can, and often does, say more than words ever could. I am still learning this. In a similar vein, the silence we offer in solidarity with Western countries who experience tragedy speaks volumes, especially when compared to our silence of indifference toward the Global South. Our collective silence in either case is powerful. Our silence in either case can be used to solidify the barriers of awareness, compassion, and solidarity.
I often tell my clients that changing certain unhelpful cognitions in our brains is very much like trying to make a new path in a forest. Leveling the undergrowth enough to walk more easily takes time and effort, and must be constant. The same is true for our consciousness, both individually and collectively. We must work on ourselves to create new pathways of thinking, and in order to do this, we have to give pause and consider why we are choosing to pay attention to and validate the experience of one group more so than another. We have to challenge the media who barrage us with stories that reinforce Western white supremacy, but are then silent (or very near silent) when it comes to stories that don't fit into that narrative. We have to question why "All Lives Matter" can feel so comfortable and right to some of us, and why saying "Black Lives Matter" or "Trans Lives Matter" can feel as though we are participating in "discrimination." And in this instance, we must ask: "Why pray just for Paris?"
What happened in Paris last night was horrific and deplorable. No one should have to go through that. And the same can be said for a multitude of instances throughout the world, including some more recent events in Syria, Iraq, Palestine, and Beirut. No one should have to be a refugee and experience the constant terror of uncertainty.
By all means, pray for Paris. Give a moment of silence in solidarity. But let us remember, too, that there are many others who deserve our prayers, and who deserve more than our silent indifference.
Scrolling through my social media feed, there are an overwhelming number of posts and notifications, not only of the attacks themselves, but of statements of solidarity people are showing for Paris. And it's beautiful. People are changing their profile pictures to show the colors of the French flag. Others are sharing photos of monuments and buildings around the world lit up in blue, white, and red. On and on, the message is: "We are with you. You are not alone in this." It's a wonderful sentiment, and it should not be entirely discarded.
And yet, where were the colors of the Beirut flag only a few days ago? Why weren't people en mass changing their profile pictures to those saying "Black Lives Matter" or posting numerous statuses about the actions of the students on the university campus in Missouri? Why is saying "Free Palestine" when Israeli attacks continue to occur, and Palestinian land is STILL being stolen, so controversial, but no one blinks an eye at "Pray for Paris"?
With the era we live in, where we are saturated with information, 24 hour "news" cycles, etc. it is easy to become overwhelmed. We cannot hold the pain of the world in a day. We need breaks. This is understandable. The human psyche can take only so much without completely unraveling.
Still, more often than not, there is the collective pattern here in the West to take a break from solidarity and compassion when brown people (or those perceived to be brown) are involved. When those from predominantly white countries experience the frailty and horror that so many others have already faced, the rest of the world seems to stand still. We give moments of silence. We send our prayers. We change our profile pictures and create hashtags. We stand with them. Because they're not "those other people." This is not to say that the latter is a thought that necessarily happens on a conscious level. Through decades and centuries of Western white supremacy, it has become ingrained into our dominant culture, and is now a subconsciously understood sentiment. And those who have it are not inherently "bad people" either. This is something I struggle with, too, as a white person from a Western country who has benefited from centuries of white supremacy. I turn my eyes away from the brown people suffering because "what else is new?" White country experiences terrorist attacks, and I'm glued to my newsfeed. This is not to detract from my own argument; on the contrary, I hope what I have just said will serve to validate it. We here in the West, especially us white folk, have a lot to work on when it comes to our solidarity with others. And this includes people in our own country that we have turned our backs on, time and again.
I currently work as an outpatient therapist in a community mental health organization. Being new to the field, one thing that I am working on, among many, is to allow for silence in my sessions with clients. Silence can be useful, and powerful, especially in the therapeutic relationship. Silence sometimes can, and often does, say more than words ever could. I am still learning this. In a similar vein, the silence we offer in solidarity with Western countries who experience tragedy speaks volumes, especially when compared to our silence of indifference toward the Global South. Our collective silence in either case is powerful. Our silence in either case can be used to solidify the barriers of awareness, compassion, and solidarity.
I often tell my clients that changing certain unhelpful cognitions in our brains is very much like trying to make a new path in a forest. Leveling the undergrowth enough to walk more easily takes time and effort, and must be constant. The same is true for our consciousness, both individually and collectively. We must work on ourselves to create new pathways of thinking, and in order to do this, we have to give pause and consider why we are choosing to pay attention to and validate the experience of one group more so than another. We have to challenge the media who barrage us with stories that reinforce Western white supremacy, but are then silent (or very near silent) when it comes to stories that don't fit into that narrative. We have to question why "All Lives Matter" can feel so comfortable and right to some of us, and why saying "Black Lives Matter" or "Trans Lives Matter" can feel as though we are participating in "discrimination." And in this instance, we must ask: "Why pray just for Paris?"
What happened in Paris last night was horrific and deplorable. No one should have to go through that. And the same can be said for a multitude of instances throughout the world, including some more recent events in Syria, Iraq, Palestine, and Beirut. No one should have to be a refugee and experience the constant terror of uncertainty.
By all means, pray for Paris. Give a moment of silence in solidarity. But let us remember, too, that there are many others who deserve our prayers, and who deserve more than our silent indifference.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
I Shouldn't Be Here: Parallels of "Your House" and the Age of Stexing
*A brief note before reading: I recognize that the occurrence of actual online stalking or cyberstalking--that of unwanted attention and harassment online by a former lover, acquaintance, or stranger--is very real, and can be very traumatizing. If this is happening to you or someone you know, please seek help and support. You can find more information here and here*
I first heard "Your House" off of Alanis Morrisette's "Jagged Little Pill" well over 15 years ago as a teenager in my friend's bedroom. After having listened to the major tracks of the album, the hidden track didn't hit me with any intensity at the time, possibly due to my own naivete about the tumultuous and dangerous compulsions of love and attraction. However, yesterday morning, as I scrolled through my social media newsfeed, I happened upon an article mentioning the album's 20th anniversary. I allowed myself to enter the raw and intense song once again, not realizing at the time that I might as well have expected to walk through fire unscathed.
I wasn't prepared, even with the explicit warning of the article itself, since I merely thought it was more internet hype to be ignored. The song is already uncomfortable in the explicitness of the lyrics--or more accurately, the explicitness of the act being carried out--yet it is also uncomfortable because of the familiarity of strong, unrequited desire. It is quite possible that this is all a scenario being played out in the singer's mind, and that she hasn't actually chosen to violate the physical boundaries of her desired lover.
All the same, I felt ripped open by the song's conclusion, and cried tears of recognition. On some level, I identified with the lyrics, but not because I had ever done those things--not in any physical way. However, upon further reflection, I could not help but think about the parallel that could be drawn between the act of entering someone's physical house with that of entering someone's virtual house (i.e. their online existence).
Much has been written about--somewhat seriously, somewhat satirically--the online "stalking" of one's ex, or as I like to call it, "stexing." It has become a norm that no one really likes to admit to doing, and yet most people seem to engage in, especially in the first stages of a breakup. We know it's not good for us, and there's even proof that it can inhibit our ability to move on with our lives (see linked articles above). And yet, we still do it, albeit in varying degrees of intensity.
I went to your house
Walked up the stairs
I opened your door without ringing the bell
I walked down the hall
Into your room
Where I could smell you
And I shouldn't be here, without permissionI shouldn't be here
Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, etc. have become both the unlocked door and the house(s) in which we live. (Also, I did wonder why the door in the song was unlocked in the first place. Then I realized that it could be because Morrisette is from Canada.) We go into our exes' "rooms", smelling out their presence, smelling out the clues of their lives. And we know we shouldn't. Not because we don't have permission--we DO have tacit permission due to the permissiveness of the web (save private or even blocked profiles). We know we shouldn't engage in stexing because it drives us further into our own personal hell, and it takes more than it gives. Still, we live for those bits (or bytes?) of cyber crumbs because we get that jolt, that bit of fuel we need to keep the flame of hope burning, no matter how false that hope may be.
I took off my clothes
Put on your robe
I went through your drawers
And found your cologne
Went down to the den
Found your CD's
And I played your Joni
And I shouldn't stay long, you might be home soon
I shouldn't stay long
We already spend countless hours on our computers--at work, on our way to work and home, and at home. The internet is our world, the facets of our profiles--status updates, tweets, pins--are our drawers and cd's (or vinyl, if you so choose). Stexing is yet another time suck--and we shouldn't stay long. But maybe it's because of the anonymity, or the appearance of anonymity, that allows us to relax into the rut of emotional stagnation for countless, indeterminate periods of time. There's no one to watch for to come in through the door and discover us in the midst of our online rummaging.
But then the flame of hope turns to an inferno, and we get burned.
I burned your incense
I ran a bath
I noticed a letter that sat on your desk
It said "Hello love, I love you so love, meet me at midnight"
And no, it wasn't my writing
I'd better go soon
It wasn't my writing
So forgive me love
If I cry in your shower
So forgive me love
For the salt in your bed
So forgive me love
If I cry all afternoon
That moment when you see your ex's relationship status change. When your mouth goes dry, the lump forms in your throat, the heart drops to stomach and stomach falls to your feet, as you see their profile picture change from just them to them with someone else...who isn't you. Or when you see a status update that tags your replacement, paired with words of love and affection. Or you see them pin a quote about love that is exactly how you felt (or maybe even still feel) about them, and realize it's about their love for their partner.
Time to go. You haven't been found out, but you have just found out more than you bargained for, and it's hard not to feel exposed. All of your flights of fancy wither in the light of reality, and you are left feeling empty, dried up, used. Nothing a good cry in the shower won't alleviate. Until the next time.
I first heard "Your House" off of Alanis Morrisette's "Jagged Little Pill" well over 15 years ago as a teenager in my friend's bedroom. After having listened to the major tracks of the album, the hidden track didn't hit me with any intensity at the time, possibly due to my own naivete about the tumultuous and dangerous compulsions of love and attraction. However, yesterday morning, as I scrolled through my social media newsfeed, I happened upon an article mentioning the album's 20th anniversary. I allowed myself to enter the raw and intense song once again, not realizing at the time that I might as well have expected to walk through fire unscathed.
I wasn't prepared, even with the explicit warning of the article itself, since I merely thought it was more internet hype to be ignored. The song is already uncomfortable in the explicitness of the lyrics--or more accurately, the explicitness of the act being carried out--yet it is also uncomfortable because of the familiarity of strong, unrequited desire. It is quite possible that this is all a scenario being played out in the singer's mind, and that she hasn't actually chosen to violate the physical boundaries of her desired lover.
All the same, I felt ripped open by the song's conclusion, and cried tears of recognition. On some level, I identified with the lyrics, but not because I had ever done those things--not in any physical way. However, upon further reflection, I could not help but think about the parallel that could be drawn between the act of entering someone's physical house with that of entering someone's virtual house (i.e. their online existence).
Much has been written about--somewhat seriously, somewhat satirically--the online "stalking" of one's ex, or as I like to call it, "stexing." It has become a norm that no one really likes to admit to doing, and yet most people seem to engage in, especially in the first stages of a breakup. We know it's not good for us, and there's even proof that it can inhibit our ability to move on with our lives (see linked articles above). And yet, we still do it, albeit in varying degrees of intensity.
I went to your house
Walked up the stairs
I opened your door without ringing the bell
I walked down the hall
Into your room
Where I could smell you
And I shouldn't be here, without permissionI shouldn't be here
Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, etc. have become both the unlocked door and the house(s) in which we live. (Also, I did wonder why the door in the song was unlocked in the first place. Then I realized that it could be because Morrisette is from Canada.) We go into our exes' "rooms", smelling out their presence, smelling out the clues of their lives. And we know we shouldn't. Not because we don't have permission--we DO have tacit permission due to the permissiveness of the web (save private or even blocked profiles). We know we shouldn't engage in stexing because it drives us further into our own personal hell, and it takes more than it gives. Still, we live for those bits (or bytes?) of cyber crumbs because we get that jolt, that bit of fuel we need to keep the flame of hope burning, no matter how false that hope may be.
I took off my clothes
Put on your robe
I went through your drawers
And found your cologne
Went down to the den
Found your CD's
And I played your Joni
And I shouldn't stay long, you might be home soon
I shouldn't stay long
We already spend countless hours on our computers--at work, on our way to work and home, and at home. The internet is our world, the facets of our profiles--status updates, tweets, pins--are our drawers and cd's (or vinyl, if you so choose). Stexing is yet another time suck--and we shouldn't stay long. But maybe it's because of the anonymity, or the appearance of anonymity, that allows us to relax into the rut of emotional stagnation for countless, indeterminate periods of time. There's no one to watch for to come in through the door and discover us in the midst of our online rummaging.
But then the flame of hope turns to an inferno, and we get burned.
I burned your incense
I ran a bath
I noticed a letter that sat on your desk
It said "Hello love, I love you so love, meet me at midnight"
And no, it wasn't my writing
I'd better go soon
It wasn't my writing
So forgive me love
If I cry in your shower
So forgive me love
For the salt in your bed
So forgive me love
If I cry all afternoon
Time to go. You haven't been found out, but you have just found out more than you bargained for, and it's hard not to feel exposed. All of your flights of fancy wither in the light of reality, and you are left feeling empty, dried up, used. Nothing a good cry in the shower won't alleviate. Until the next time.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Acronyms of Old
Every once in a while I look back at some of the stuff I wrote years ago. It's funny how I might have written something at one time and thought, "Meh, it's ok." only to go back later and think, "Wow! This was actually really good!" Hence tonight's entry. I wrote these acronyms about five years ago. The context doesn't really matter, but let's just say...I was upset. So, without further ado...
Hella
Upset
Regarding
Treatment
Courage
Of
Which
Abundance
Reportedly
Diminished
Frustration
Ultimately
Concerning
Kicking
Your
Obstructive
Underlings
Label
Indicating
Embellishment
Made
Altogether
Distraught
Particularly
Irritated
Sentiment
Sustained
Especially
Demonstrably
Acrimonious
Nature
Gaining
Ebullient
Rage
Hella
Upset
Regarding
Treatment
Courage
Of
Which
Abundance
Reportedly
Diminished
Frustration
Ultimately
Concerning
Kicking
Your
Obstructive
Underlings
Label
Indicating
Embellishment
Made
Altogether
Distraught
Particularly
Irritated
Sentiment
Sustained
Especially
Demonstrably
Acrimonious
Nature
Gaining
Ebullient
Rage
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Unknown Connection
This is a poem that I wrote the other night after receiving confirmation that someone I knew a long time ago was here on the east coast. I had sensed his presence without any other evidence, save only my own intuition. (This is not the first time this has happened with him.) The confirmation, while it should have been reassuring, threw me into more internal chaos, not less. I suspect this was because while it was still only my intuition it was safe...I didn't have to do anything with it. I just let it be. But now since I know that I was right, it's difficult to know what to do with this, if anything.
Anyway, some notes before reading: there's a part in the poem where I talk about "seismic waves of elephants." This refers to the not-so-well-known fact that elephants can communicate to a certain degree using seismic vibration. There have been studies that have shown that these vibrations can be felt as much as 20 miles away. There's also a nod to The Little Prince...see if you can find it. Finally, as I was writing this post and seeking an image to accompany it, I found that there is a word in Hebrew, Mizpah, which, although it is not its literal definition, apparently refers to a connection between two people who are separated--either physically or by death. In this case, I'd say that's an accurate description. So, should I maybe change the title?...
How cruel it is to feel without seeing
To know without knowing
To hear without fully comprehending.
I felt your presence with a resounding "yes"
That vibrated like a gentle hum within my bones.
Your visage never appeared before me except in
Daylight dreams
But your vibration I felt like seismic waves of elephants.
The certainty of yes faded like ripples in a shallow pool
And questions were answered only in echo.
I accepted your absence, only to feel a shadow cross
My threshold again.
The warmth of yes now replaced by a cold fog of maybe...
And confirmation came by way of a green door and I
Became undone.
I shook and trembled with the fearful certainty that once again
Connection
Is no figment of the
Imagination.
It is a stronghold in the endless storms of
Space and time.
Its light shines invisible in the drab darkness of the
Ordinary,
And shouts into ears gone deaf from
Disbelief.
You, at some time, awakened me to myself--
Connected me
With some other that was
Known
And yet unknown--
That was you.
That I cannot un-know because it is forever tied to
Now.
That I cannot unsee because it gave me my
Vision.
But now I am bereft because I am able to
Know
But not explain...
I can see, but cannot describe--
All words fall
Mute in the attempt.
My heart sees with clarity the essential
Though reason sees fit to blind with
Denial.
But now reason can rest in what my soul knew,
Leaving me to lie awake in a new
Unknown.
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