Death/1
How do you invest in a world that breaks your heart…? He asks, hiding behind his eyes wisdom that only age and repeated ruptured experience brings. A dulled pain behind his eyes, perhaps, mixed with a glint inspired by twenty students in an air-conditioned UCA classroom, the only one filled with circled gringas and gringos.
But I don’t know that you get it Fr. Mark. If day two is guaranteed, how is it and why would it be that I would willingly invest in those two water-colored blue eyes, set just so in a face constantly adorned by the grime won after days and weeks of using his gift of brute strength and nailed construction know-how. To receive a text that speaks, ‘hey, I don’t know if you’ve heard but joe was hit and killed on his motorcycle this morning’.
This morning? No. Just last night, he was beginning to come out of the romanticized guise my eyes of just having met him three weeks ago allowed. Just beginning to become more himself, imperfect. Those blue eyes. And his ears, almost silenced, so that to communicate anything he would cup his hand to his left ear and you would yell something like, “I just need two cups of milk" for the casserole. And the stutter that would prolong conversations, “well I said, heh, that all you need to, hehh, do, hehh, is just pull them and pick up all the, heh, pieces together at one time see…” those hands that proudly wore the dirt in, under and around the fingernails that even the best hand soak could not clean, that brought in the two blocks of cheese from sam’s club, the ones he donated to the house for community dinners.
I had only known him for a few weeks and thus my grief will be the least connected to this very human person, veined into existence. Last night telling me I didn’t have to worry because he wouldn’t ‘shanghais’ me. He had given up on all that stuff a while back. And deduced he would probably never get married anyway. Yesterday. Yesterday he said this. And would that words would reach beyond trite 'verb-age' wishing to newly express the reality of loss in a world of day ones and day twos.
Are we caught in this cycle? Day three would require faith. Belief that a dusty, grimy, buff Jewish man rose on a third day. But all we really know is that this morning, Joe was killed. Lives surrounding, forever altered. And this reality we know, live, touch, smell, grieve. Do we then, having pulled ourselves tirelessly and listlessly through the muck, simply invest again in day one which necessarily guarantees day two? Is there even a third day to this sick circle? When you invest, Loss is guaranteed.
I guess this cycle cannot be escaped. And then Fr. Mark’s words transform into, ‘in order to fully live, you must fully suffer’. And where would a day three be with Joe, for J, M, D, D, M, me? We are never to be gifted a weeping savior and a stone rolled away. We are never to be gifted a walk to Emmaus in which the breaking of the cheddar cheese reveals a friend thought lost. We are never to caress our hands over the skinned forearm, cleaned from the blood and splintered bone, our doubt only then, well erased. All we have now is doubt, and the faith of sister anna.
Has anyone ever walked in day three? I would love to know her, take her out for a latte, pick her brain and her intimate knowledge of tactile mystery. Four men do testify to resurrection of the ‘corporal’, but rose colored glasses and thoughts and words redacted make me wonder as to the truth, or non-truth, or wishfully thought-truth compacted into red lettered words. The seed gives her life so that a flower might grow. The moth gives her life so as to illuminate our quaint darkened lives. But they give, and never return but are scraped, and eventually erased from this ever changing, newly molded mother earth. The seed falls, the moth sacrifices (though I’ll be it unknowingly) and Joe is dead.
Does hope and joy spring from death? Or is it something we can only willfully drag, kicking and screaming, from loss. Does hope eternally spring for us in the newness of creation? Or are we so desperately in need of understanding, that we force a ‘nickels worth of sense’ into our days, whose true refrain is ‘accept loss forever’.
Where do we place our attention? And how do we live justly knowing that our world will be shattered, guaranteed, when we invest. That the world will stop as we click open a text message…and all else will fall away. Those miracle-d moments when we are just far enough from loss that our fourth though goes to the persons in our own lives with whom we are unsettled. With fear that just as Joe dies, so too none of us have any control.
Am I willing to take the gamble?
Thich naht hanh…breathing in I do calm my body. Breathing out I smile with saddened eyes. Present moment, yes. Bitter, awful, cringed, torched, grizzly moment. Not so beautiful this time.
Our world is too well acquainted with suffering. And not that of text-booked statistics underlined. But joy, underlined by forthcoming, concrete, grieved grimy chucks of mud tossed in search of closure as our still mother opens her lips and swallows fifty-something-year-old joy, never again to see another birthday. Never to get married.
Searching for words to neatly close this collage of half thoughts, none are gifted, or even forced. Simply to sit in the discomfort of my finite hands, typing these words, ever thinking of Joe…
___
Untitled/3
today i walked a slow stroll
down by the dock
by the water
and contemplated all the different
things i should do
to ease the minds
of the relenting voices
all shouting, as the poet says,
'their bad advice'
i would first be required
to find a structured space
for everything.
erect right angle boxes
cozy enough
for each pair of shoes
like the cubbies
you used when you were six
to hold the precious treasures
painted by slender fingers.
shown and told
i would then take
the messiness of a life
and have to force each piece
into its respective box
(maybe then i could even
charge admission
to see such a life contained!)
i never surmised this could happen to such a gentle spirit!
but isn't this the euphoric illusion
that we each willingly
carve ourselves into?
that the slender fingers of providence
will never require our own grief
that we would never
see our mother's eyes
staring somewhere beyond
her deathbed ceiling
that our bodies
will never lie
complacent,
to tantalizing, malignant questioning.
but life is assured to happen
no matter the brilliant struggle
our ego attempts
as she refuses
the final stage of acceptance
we all know this to be true.
we have learned it
hunched over our textbooks,
conversing with our uncle's
best friend's brother,
and watching slow unravelings
on general hospital
and we would notice
the sweating anticipation
in our own bones
if we were mute enough
to listen to their faint cry
...
their bad advice
will probably raise
an eyebrow
at such twisting words composed,
for these stanzas
would not fit
into the self-contained cubbies
and such bad advice
will probably point her finger
asserting her correctness
in what she has proposed,
smitten with her ability
to know --- without as much as asking
and as i putter around this dock
i hear my gentle spirit sigh
'so be it'
i can do nothing to recover
that which i knew
would bring me alive
because of the bigness of the voice
of bad advice
just as sister kenny
was rejected by the room filled with doctors
because her choice of words
were not found
in credited research.
words spasmed and alienated.
as are most compositions
when assumed inadequate
i could stand
at the center of the lecture hall
and attempt my piece
but because of the glorious
image they have together composed of me
behind closed doors
they would most likely nod politely
and placate my Truth with a
'yes dear'
as they continued on their
charted course
will any of you listen?
will any of you listen!!!
and my words
are choked at my throat
as they cannot fit
into the prescribed boxes
and are thus, better rejected
--
perhaps some of these musings
are unfair
but the irritations i hold
are not.
nor is the fact that i have
composed them
because i will.
i will ignore your bad advice.
and walk in the very places you
say i should not
because i know, you are mistaken
and i know
that your booming voice
can only stretch
so wide.
___
Untitled/1
what words compose themselves
to create forced meaning
into breakings in and breakings up?
and to whom do i owe the gratitude
for this scalding plane ticket
and to whom do i owe the gratitude
for uninformed recompense and snot filled sleeves?
whose suffering is most justified
does the judging scale tip towards
solitary motherhood hemmed in risk
or towards once anticipated love misplaced?
i juxtapose, mix and contrast
an endeavor assumed in vain
by these two blue veined hands
that once held his attention
what narrative would unfold
between us
and what habits
jammed into consciousness
from birth and place
would need be coaxed out, held
and gently structured by grace
yellow - adorning braids, ears and wrists
and i borrow moments
in the expansive dirt field
irreverently hoping
for him to change
white - cocooning shoulders, back pains
and his neck
and his arms cannot help but embrace,
yet his words avoiding the vulnerability of exposure
attuned to
to the necessity of grief
even if the scales do not tip in my favor
as two jagged pieces of plywood
keep begging the question
just as sparks allude to connection
and evade authentic manifestation
as the finite warrants
___
Absurdity/1
"So what is it you do in Juarez", a question commonly posed to me. "Well, I go with the Sisters of Charity who run a clinic for children with special needs", is usually my rote response. This seems to be an acceptable answer, that avoids raised eyebrows, and then allows for an approving nod or two, and a return to the previous conversation.
But what if I was to fiddle in more specifics? "Well, today, I crossed that border, you know, the one you always hear about on the news. The one that separates the 'land of milk and honey' and 'the den of drug dealing thieves'. The one that keeps us safe from 'those illegals'. The one that, just on the other side is daily sprinkled with more murders, violence, red blood sacrificed. Yes, I crossed that border today...to color."
What absurdity is this? I cross over this human erected border, separating first from third, and head towards this humble little clinic. And Tylee greets me with a box of crayons, half of which have been chewed, tasted or thrown at a sibling's head. 'Quieres colorear conmigo?' Sure, I'd love to color with you!
'Ey, ey, oye! Que color es este?' It's a color by numbers. Classic. Red, Green, Brown, Yellow, Blue and Tan. Neither Tracy nor I have the slightest idea how to translate, 'tan' into Spanish. 'Es como cafe, pero mas clara', seems to suffice for the moment at hand. 'ORACION'! someone yells. Time to gather to pray in thanks giving for our daily bread and Virgin Mother's protection. But the color by numbers has not yet been finished. Bien apurada he hurries to finish this task of the upmost importance.
'Aqui viene Monce!' She has made her way over in the rolling seat that allows her to move freely around the room. Her walk is more of a bounce than anything. "Quieres colorear con nosotros y nosotras'? I ask. She has no verbal cues to offer, nor many non verbal ones at that. But her little red-gloved hand seems to want to partake in this time honored child ritual. 'Agarrelo bien Monce'. Grab onto it Monce. And she does. I hold out a coloring book for her and she draws a few lines as I move the book up and down, below her tan crayon. And her smile beams.
Her smile beams, as does Brian's. Though Brian's is less of a beam and more of a shocking flood of stadium lights used to light a football field. His face is nothing but pure joy and laughter. Brian too joins us to color, ready to wow us with his knowledge of colors in English. 'Rojo significa red'. Ay pos si, es cierto. Que listo eres! I affirm him.
And then I stop. And I look around. And I am surrounded by seven children, all coloring. Some content with their purple penguins. Some looking for verbal affirmation of their ability to color outside the lines.
'Pati, what color should this cat be'?, I inquire. 'Em...' Her little finger taps her bottom lip three times as she contemplates such a pivotal question. 'Verde'. Green. Color the cat green. Green? What absurdity is this? This little girl, who can barely color inside the lines herself, requests a green cat. And yet I know that if I attempt any other conventional color, the world will quickly come to a crashing halt, per three year old 'no...NOOOO'!
As I begin to color the cat green, Pati is eager to help me. And the cat begins to take on her new shade of life. She becomes green, as does her ball, and the basket, and the night sky. The lines tell Pati that there is a cat, and a ball and a basket. There are in fact separate identifyable objects. And when I point out the lines, and remind her that only the cat was supposed to be green, her big eyes smile at me with mischief flooding them, and she speedily scribbles over the entirety of the picture, even beyond the borders that encapsulate the cat.
What absurdity is this, to cross this border to color? To affirm coloring outside the lines? To color the cat green? Perhaps an absurdity of the upmost importance. As adults, we seem to color by number. We want to know exactly what 'rojo', 'amarillo' and 'azul' mean. Then we know which crayon to grab, and can carefully trace each section so as to produce a picture pleasing in the eyes of superior beholders. This is safe. Comfortable. Secure. And who would not want to strive for this? I do my piece, color my section, and respect the lines placed by those who have come before me. After all, they must understand something I don't.
But Pati understands something they don't. She has not yet learned the convention of coloring inside the lines. She is a ball of sass and prophetic pigtails. Just as her teasing eyes eradicate the cat, so too do my eyes split this line between Juarez and the "land of promise". We walk, so concerned with protecting our borders. Keeping languages, cultural norms, traditions and colors within their respective lines. God forbid these lines, these borders, be challenged.
Pati's green cat reminds me of the absurdity of convention. What if we considered making the penguins purple? What if we considered the scandal of particularity. Christ becoming human, changing water into wine, and social boundaries to dust. What does this boundary, engulfed in desert dust harm/hinder/help/hold? What are we so afraid of? How can we forget the innocence in and of Juarez in Tylee, Pati and Brian? How can we ignore our call towards solidarity and the common good?
I go to Juarez, and color outside the lines. And by this very act beg those around me to at the very least consider the absurdity of this fence separating beaming smiles. The absurdity of not putting my personal safety before and above accompanying my sisters and tias. The absurdity of a green cat.
What absurdity it is to risk my life for crayons.
Yet, what a scandal it would be if I did not.
___
Divided/1
November 2, 2010-a response to the mass on the border. those from the u.s. and those from mexico gathered at the border fence to celebrate the eucharist.
...and how do i manage to stumble upon a manifestation of Catholicism that i could actually, potentially, maybe, tal vez, quizas believe in? dirt, everywhere, desert, clearly by the arid statues of shriveled plants. and my eyes take me to myself, today, standing near a chain link fence, dust all-around. and see this desert so violently divided with over-patterned repetitious steel separating literally, literally separating the body of christ, able to only peek fore-fingers through to greet and offer the peace of an inclusive Teacher.
but what have we learned? what have i learned? am i not divided just so? straight down the center. anger and vengeance on one side, desired freedom on the other? would that i could bolt over the fence to freedom. and yet i know my own border patrol staffed by resentment and stubbornness, would quickly detain the spirit towards freedom...but what other means do i have? in what other way do i go about this? am i not a hypocrite offering peace to...anyone? at least i am aware of the plank in my eye. perhaps that's at least a step in the right direction.
how can i do this but by grace and with something so much bigger than myself.
you shall cross the barren desert and you shall not die of thirst. and these are the first words i hear, and it is the first time i hear them. then coupled with the words of an unnamed priest speaking of broken laws. broken laws leading to broken bodies and living rooms. and the little boys ask for money through the fence. its a fence. how absurd! and i see myself in them, no better. i would be asking for money too if i had seen mild success at this attempt since i could talk. my gut reaction is to smile and mess up his hair, giving him a hard ass time, and raggin on him just to get the playful reaction...but i'm privileged and he is not. a wall reminds us, well me, of that.
ow am i to work towards reconciliation when in myself the only thing reconciled that the fact that i havent looked into those eyes that betrayed me since six months ago, almost to the day. i say clearly fancying i control some aspect of time...on the night he was betrayed. he was betrayed with a kiss. i kissed him who then later betrayed me and what is this fence but a symbol of betrayal of one's humanity and freedom. i am betrayed and i build my wall so thick, guarded, de-f'ing-termined to never let anyone hurt me again...
...can you see the terror in my eyes?
is this not the same terror of those who built this very wall i peel my fingers through, to protect families? social systems? beliefs? belief make things true John reminds me and Christ asks, who do you say that i am? and i reply, 'he who has some kick-ass ability to forgive in the face of betrayal'. not to imagine that the deep pain is forgotten...and how could it be with this wall and the broken record that i have used to create him in my own image. from whence would come a day 3? is that not why we sing our broken hallelujah, on both sides of the fence that is unable to obstruct sound? is that not why we eat a broken body of a bloodied middle-eastern jewish man? we are out of our mind, or crazy clever.
how can we be so concretely divided by two centimeters, and yet carry the exact same spirit and belief? and sister janet so easily moves from person to person on the other side, exchanging joy and all else she has to share in these intimate soul encounters. why else would we sing? but for sparks. sparks of forgiveness, hope, all the quintessential biblical virtues, lo que sea. for and in this, perhaps there is hope. as perhaps it exists in tracy k's tears of utter helplessness entering the depths of darkness and despair of persons with no resources or documents. that our world would be so broken and someone would cry for her. tears of solidarity? perhaps...
and i catch the tail-ed of the conversation as it is clear the woman in Mexico has been staring off at nothing for a seemingly prolonged moment, longer than is culturally acceptable on either side, pointing to/because of our fear of such empty space. and julia asks the woman what she is thinking and the woman responds, just beholding you all who live the good life. julia squirms uncomfortably shifting her entire weight away from and then back to the fence. i just completed a similar exercise a few minutes before in response to a similar encounter. and they say the grass is always greener. always greener they say...
___
Fear/1 (Solidarity/1)
..and we pass the '2 1/2 miles away from the border' sign, seeming to ask, what the hell are you doing? and sibba begins with her well of information, sharing of a new maquila in mexico. the owners of the maquila were confronted last monday and told that they were to pay $100 for each employee by the end of the week. and if not, factory workers would be killed leaving work that friday. sibba recounts that one of her friends, a worker in the maquila described the 14 hour shift, 'the shortest work day and the longest ride home'. the maquila refused repeated requests by workers for a joint meeting to either affirm or deny this rumor. monday passes, and tuesday, and each weekday as if time is unaware of her tightening grasp on the throats of these workers. and friday eventually makes her way to center stage, as the work day lasts until around midnight. and i am told that the air of the place is unforgettable, every single person holding the same thought, that of their own death by hidden sniper. and some might ask why sibba's factory working friend didn't just skip work that day. (a question she poses as she relates the story). because they were already behind on their rent. in need of $60. and not going to work was not an option. financial limitations. and i am told that this is the longest bus ride home any have ever experienced with terror, so palpable, that hope may or may not have even dared to tread between the once school-bus seats.
and to where does this school-bus take me? alla. there. across the border. to the place in which i want to learn and to stand. and it is 8:30am. i feel like i am again in central america. the topography a bit different, of course, but the corner stores, dusty roads and smattering of strays allude back to el salvador and nicaragua. the small town of anapra not bustling with morning-ness. and we make the couple of necessary turns through the town i am told subsists on, or in spite of, extortions (depending), to a humble looking corner house. the clinic.
walls covered in bright paint, toy shelves and two spacious rooms. each tuesday morning i am present here, i watch as the women with their children unload from the white van that has done its round around town. and woman after woman greets tracy and sibba and i, and whoever else happens to be around, with the cultural cheek besito and hug (unless she holds a child in her hand, in which case a besito suffices). it is a communion of mothers who have brought their kids who have special needs, for therapy, community and lunch.
the prized corner in the clinic is the 'jacuzzi' (said in Spanish, 'jacuzzi'...some legit spanglish). each child given his or her own turn of a few moments in this watered ecstasy. supported by the arms of a mother and friend or acquaintance the child is free to fluidly move.
and this is bookended between mom-initiated physical therapy, stacking blocks, unintelligible grunts and screams, braiding hair, listening to stories, discussing relationships, wiping snot, stroking backs, humming gentle hymns and ridiculously spiced lunches. yes. all in a morning.
and i ask myself why i choose to go. i am continually exposed to second-hand accounts of the reality of Juarez. and i am naive to not acknowledge the risk of crossing this border. and this seems to be the key question. if i am really risking safety, security and making myself vulnerable as i travel to anapra, i need something to hold onto that is born of my center. or else it is all folly. truly.
"Voluntary displacement leads us to the existential recognition of our inner brokenness and this brings us to a deeper solidarity with the brokenness of our fellow human beings".1 the words sound nice. (and flirt with arrogance). but i can't help but think there is something to this idea of displacement. what an image of a God that would give up the ordered, heavenly place, to become displaced so that God would know our brokenness.2 is this not a beginning of solidarity? is there not something to this idea of the vulnerability we don in giving up securities endowed by skin-tone and nationality? Nouwen continues, "As long as our houses, parishes, convents and monasteries are only ordinary and proper places, they will only awaken ordinary and proper responses and nothing will happen as long as religious people are well dressed, well fed and well cared for, words about being in solidarity with the poor will remain pious words, more likely to evoke good feelings than creative actions".3 it is in giving up this 'proper' or some might say 'expected' place in order to move more towards solidarity with persons who are marginalized. perhaps this is 'making an option for the poor' as our Catholic faith calls us to. or perhaps this is the 'downward mobility' mev puleo was so intrigued by...
the other catching piece is that of the recognition of our inner brokenness. how much of solidarity goes beyond simply standing with? standing with requires much. it can require sacrifice. it asks us to be open to relationships and to enter into a marginalized reality. it can ask us to invest in persons who are oppressed, and then ask us to continue to stand there when times get shitty. it asks us to don the vulnerability of traveling on local busses and walking the same streets. but where does this theme of 'inner brokenness' push us? into our selves. a place many would rather not go. standing with another could be bearable, even respectable. but to acknowledge the limitations of my body, my inability to walk in forgiveness, my impatience, my cup half empty outlook? to go deep into myself and see my own brokenness? now that is a tall order.
and yet as i write these words i find i squirm in my seat. completely uncomfortable with the idea that i have a choice. is there not some sort of arrogance involved in my choosing to valiantly give up comfort, security, safety? do i not risk becoming the martyr and hailing attention from social justice minded friends, acquaintances, professors and neighbors? and yet, this very thing is what nouwen desires to avoid. he argues that we must, "...disappear from the world as an object of interest in order to be everywhere in it by hiddenness and compassion...".4 and so maybe it then comes down to motivation.
what i see is that i have the option to 'displace' myself, while the world has, for many of these women, chosen for them, displacement. voluntary displacement versus involuntary displacement. and that i would be here, toying with ideas and concepts...and then these words devolve and fall short in the face of the smiles and gentleness and determination of the women at the clinic. and i begin to remember the admitted futility of academic theory in the face of skin and love.
but what i do know is that i have been crazy blessed with love and support all my life. to be a product of a mother's love who knew a vocation to motherhood first and foremost. that i would be so lucky as to get her! and this love has so filled and made me whole!...and this somehow gives me a piece to be able to stand with suffering and not completely break. it gives me gumption and steadiness in the heart of heartbreak. God, She is closer to us than the heart is to heartbreak. and is this not exactly where She sits? in the middle. staunch and hard-assed? and there in the middle is such gentleness and stillness and calm.
and i hear, will you come and follow me if i but call your name? to do what? i ask. and where? and with whom? Gregory Boyle writes about his experience working with both gang and former gang members in L.A. ... and he writes, "Certainly a place like Homeboy Industries..."And these words resonate, and perhaps instead, I can substitute... 'Certainly going to Anapra', "...is all folly and bad business unless the core of the endeavor seeks to imitate the kind of God one ought to believe in. I am helpless to explain why anyone would accompany these on the margins were it not for some anchored belief that the Ground of All Being thought it was a good idea".5
and i find comfort and strength in the words of Elizabeth Johnson, a well known theologian, as well as in my words once wrote in anticipation of my time here on the border. Johnson writes,
“To be a prophet is to raise your voice in criticism against injustice because, being God’s friend, your heart loves the world the way God loves it; your imagination sees how it should flourish; when this collides with the social arrangements people make at one another’s expense or at the expense of the earth, you are moved to speak out and act in service of the reign of God, thus creating possibilities for resistance and resurrection. In the worst moments, being a prophet also means to comfort others with words of hope, because, in view of God’s life-giving power, this pain is not forever. Either way, acting critically or consolingly, being a prophet often entails, as Jesus said, being without honor in your own country and among your own people”. 6
1.Nouwen, Henri J.M., NcNeill, Donald P., Morrison, Douglas A., Compassion: A Reflection on the Christian Life. (United States of America: Doubleday), 62.
2. Ibid., 63.
3. Ibid., 68.
4. Ibid., 64-65.
5. Boyle, Gregory.Tattoos on the Heart. (New York: Free Press), 21.
6. Johnson, Elizabeth. Truly Our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion of Saints. (New York: Continuum), 307
___
Let's Try.../1
...and I struggle to place meaning with words in that they are so tainted with reflexive meaning. 'To follow god's call' or 'to listen to God's plan for my life'. What do these words attempt to convey? Let's instead try, 'to be so open and willing as to make space amidst crowded thought for the softness and stillness to speak, reflective of her own inner calm in these moments (an inner calm which constantly nags for a fuller integration into her everyday life); yes, to open to this in centeredness and stillness and gentleness so as to come again in contact with that Truth so base, so intricate, that its unique nature is hardly even fathomable, and then here, from this, in this 'presence to', to move in response in such a way that she becomes more herself, and her true names are slowly yet assuredly revealed to her as she lives into awkward answers and perfect questions.' Yes, perhaps that is one way to rephrase worn out or mildly placated words...
___
Breathing Life/2
I came out looking forward to a calming evening of half-hearted journaling, though thoughts on M would have added some color to faded lines. instead, presence and house keys end up inviting attached entanglement, as life (or adolescence), refuses to yield. M playing the guitar (no need to use her left finger tips to do so), strums songs of spontaneous lyrics, whatever comes to mind, well gifted in her lung capacity, and I find myself glad we have a spare, dilapidated guitar, ready to be sacrificed.
world imperfect, evening interrupted, as labeled ‘crazy teenage neighbors’ sin penaintroduce their worlds, easily clashing with comfort zones of some and receptivity of others. how beautiful we each have our gifts! and my own become more visible in an entering another world through head-phoned music and simple silliness of making meaningless noise.
and yes, it is life giving! perhaps in part because the monotony of un-tuned voices of bellowing teenage girls has not yet settled. newness is always rosy ! but yes, this is it. presence on a porch in the forgiving evening air, a guitar and persons wholly themselves. M and her sister in their element aware of the un-bubbled world of a landlord breaking into their house, spilling bleach on cherished clothes and taking for his own the money by the flat screen tv. and cops untrustworthy. and then there’s me. so far from solidarity. yes a constant refrain to be acknowledged. yet, pancaked in by verses of presence, recognition of the divinity of young minds and hearts (filled and defined by words of a mother), lack of the detached father, wholly themselves. inhabiting habits learned over time in contexts wholly their own. and here I am, open, willing, entering their world, and in this moment, this evening, (aware that everything changes, I say, in order to save my writers ass) alive!
And kitsch. An uncanny refrain as words gifted to M by an innocent third party are immediately rejected and burned by her stare so intent, looking for vengeance for ruined clothes, intoxicating. but words that provide kitsch are rejected by her…and too by a sister whose ears only attune to music that ‘speaks truth’, tells us of wars, anger, violence in a way that would make kitsch shy away in the opposite angled direction… then too comes the inevitable question of reality rooted in experience of robbery of both monetary life and a world once meant for innocence. 15 years proclaims gain from songs that are too true perhaps of impending doom in our fallen condition. and 13 years seeks payment in her threat to bb gun the thief, hunting him down. words disturbed, learned or grown from something lodged deep within from a mother? aunt? niece? abuelita? and how far can we trace roots so unhinged. and what wickedness am I to name such words so? who, how, why can I judge and what fool might I be if I don’t?
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Gratitudes/1
gratitudes. grateful for these heart poking reflections i read from mark chmiel's blog. capable of much more than facebook pokes- a world of the ever present smile as we tag ourselves into the illusion that we are all just as happy as we believe in our mind to someday be possible. gratitude for mev and her life and witness. gratitude for the thought that she was imperfect despite the words of those lovely others who unknowingly pedestal her. gratitude for the acoustic music that reminds of the presence of simple chords together with quite voices that speak of true terror, loss, regret and hope that springs from the recognition that humans can create such sustainable beauty with only six strings and a bit of gods good gift of voice. gratitude for this pale blue coffee cup that reminds me that mama t did 'small things with great love'...and made it just fine. gratitude for the blue of my room as white transforms to the color of megans painting, reminding me to love more, and that she loves me more. gratitude for the hope of, and in, love. gratitude for thoughts that even though fr. mark warns us not to 'hope that' and thus attempt to control reality, that 'hoping in' must necessarily become concrete on some tuesday afternoon, bringing life in the most unexpected way...perhaps as we walk the dog and her 7 year old arms envelope me, attempting to use my tired bicycle arms and legs as a jungle gym. gratitude for satellites, and the metaphor them and i have created for 'seeking and encountering’ that kind of mev/mark love. gratitude for this cup of coffee, my drug of choice, that counters my tired waking up eyes unprepared for the potential confrontation with my father as we attempt to change around my room. gratitude for the obnoxiously yellow bandana embracing my curls, that, along with belden lane, reminds me not to take myself too seriously. gratitude for the privilege of owning such a scandalous camera, and hope that i might not squander away a potential gift out of fear of the violence of photography...loading, aiming, shooting...gratitude for the 'pasta sagrada', and those moments of the past that randomly surface to the present to remind me to celebrate this day. gratitude for the words of james meinert in nicaragua as i can feel the life pulsing through him in his 16 sentences from three years ago. gratitude for limited expectations for the next step towards vocation named quite aptly 'el paso'. am i to stay? pass through? set up? settle down? step…somewhere? i am not yet privy to the gift-struggle this new physical location might, in time, or perhaps suddenly and violently, bring. a desire to breathe life, and to be named. and this is why i go. this, and because if i don't, this tumor of privilege, sheltered from pain, the light dulled by the synthesized images of perfection on plasma, will surely leave me lifeless on the leather hospital bed surrounded by culs de sac of hidden life. not to belittle or criticize the reality that we each suffer and each celebrate life in her own way. but simply to breath in and out and realize that in struggle there is life and light, and we are called to be here, with, in, within and for each other. and this calls me off the couch and to ‘el paso’, to which i cry, desire, hope, hop and run towards in a last ditch effort to discover the shock of a defibrillator to resuscitate the life i once found on the back of a pick up truck, in el salvador, moving forward.
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