oceans

my frustrations are mire, swallowing my feet

i kick and claw 

trying to swim

to break surface

but water swells 

gurgling at my feeble efforts

i am drowning

 fighting demons too powerful for me to have created

my arms flay in water with no rhythm

no hope of being useful

i beat and strike

trying to climb

to move from where i am

but stream becomes angry ocean

relishing my loss

its victory

i am drowning

too tired to remember how i fell out of the boat

i see people around me

screaming out, hoping they will hear

i see blank stares, looking right through me

i do not exist

they have their own problems

trapped in their own oceans

sinking now

no longer have want to fight

i no longer care

so easy to simply stop

wouldn't have to fight anymore

wouldn't have to be strong anymore

trying to find help for so long

trying to breathe for so long

trying to rest for so long

nothing darker than a church on saturday night

nothing lonelier than a classroom with only chairs and time

nothing harder than fighting for a forgotten cause

ramblings

There's an idea in philosophy that all ideas themselves float around humans like invisible, ethereal dust motes, looking for that one person ready to accept them. There are those that take this theory and run to a dark, jaded place with it, saying that all the ideas in the world have been thought already; that there is no creativity left for the rest of us, let alone anyone that comes after us.

It's a depressing perspective, but one that seems somehow truer on rainy days when the veil between the impossible forever and this present wonder flutters thinner than thought. Rain has been falling constantly for about a week over my usually sunny home state. Although rain in September is not even remotely Tweet-worthy, there is a subtle, powerful change that happens when it rains for days on end. 


People slow; their energy, their need to be here and do that so they can get a check off their list fades. They start to miss the sun, and then start to question if the sun will return. Random peoplecomment on how they wonder if the sun remembers where Texas is, or if it needed to stop and ask for directions.


The idea that rain is forever because it is here sprinkles, then marinates, and finally, sprouts roots in their brains, pushing at memories of near-record heat and smothering the idea that Texas usually steams in the summer. All those thoughts are gone, erased by the chalkboard grey clouds hanging over their heads.


If the memories of over 100 degree Fahrenheit weather can fade from the consciousness of a group of people who live with it every year, it doesn't seem quite the stretch to think that ideas circle around us without ever being accepted, and because they're not, there is still more to explore and learn - even if it just for us to get to a place where we can accept that everything is waiting for us to be ready to accept.


I hate being merely mortal. I hate that I am flawed and imperfect. I hate that I get scared of stupid things, and don't realize when I'm doing it. I hate that I hurt other people with my imperfection. I hate it, and wish I'd learn faster, not forgetting so quickly. The only feeling worse is when I know I'm messing up, and I can't stop myself.


There is so much in my head that I just can't explain, and have gotten so tired of talking about; it feels repetitive. 


The paranoia, the voice that tells me brown haired girls just aren't as good as blondes, the nagging sense that everything I do could be better, cleaner, less dramatic... just better. 


The voices, the lingering, clinging habits and ideas from a life that died when I was so much younger and my soul was so much cleaner flare in sopping, seeping rain, drenching everything I see and touch, making me feel muddier and dirtier as I leave a trail of dirty, defiled memories and creations in my wake. It'd be so easy to see only the dark and stormy, setting the memories of any sunshine or warmth away as if they were pretty pictures from another life not belonging to me at all.


And so I hide. 


I find another lover to fill the void in my bed, in my head, to be another voice to haunt me after my heart breaks or grows callous. Some flash of beauty thunders through the darkness of my life, and like some unevolved cave creature, I run away, screaming and afraid of what the light may show.


Others I know work, dreading the time they have to go home and be surrounded by empty things; by  people who don't understand and won't care enough to try. They pretend to not hear the whispers, driving themselves and those that surround them harder, faster, wanting better results sooner.


More blame whatever light had the nerve to show itself in their night sky in the first place - be it the idea of a God or Being that loves them, some idea they disagree with that might actually be right or true, or even something as simply staggering as clichés really are true and there is more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy.


It strikes me ironic the harder we try to prove we have grown beyond hurt; that we've evolved into sensitive souls who accept pain graciously, who allow ourselves space to heal and adjust, the more blatant and obvious it becomes that we are still frightened children at the core, running from lightning and shadows, ever fearful our scars will be shown, and that we will be found weak and needful.


There’s a lyric by Chris Tomlin, a decidedly shiny Christian singer, that says:

"You have my heart
and I am Yours forever.
You are my strength, God of grace and power
And everything, You hold in Your hand
Still You make time for me. I can’t understand.”

I’d like to be that kind of sweet, trusting, faith-filled soul. 


I can see the faith of others, appreciate it as something otherworldly and beautiful, but it’s something I can honestly claim as much a part of me as my recently dyed red hair. 


I know I love Jesus, and I know He loves me. I also know I am not faithful, and that I will get scared again in the future, and run like a small child. I’m far more like the lyrics written by Jars of Clay, “I use one hand to pull You closer, and another to push You away” than I am the consistently trusting soul conveyed by Tomlin.


I envy those who never question, never doubted: the prophet Samuel, Jesus’ mom, Mary, P!nk. They were born with a direction, a soul-drenching knowing where their rest and passion resided. It was always there, easily accessed, like some lifetime lithium battery.


I’ve always known I could write, but I’ve not always been sure I had anything worth saying. The fear that I'd be one of those vapid people who speaks before they think terrified and paralyzed me, driving me to alternate between clutziness and self-digust. It tastes like a hollow lie I fed myself for too long, but the truth is it’s always seemed better to be an honest coward than an arrogant, empty artist.


Madonna once made the statement, “Now that I have everyone’s attention, what do I have to say?” My thought was the reverse: what if what I have to say, no one wants to hear or cares about? What if all the thoughts in my head really are basically me playing with my mental naval lint, and all the pain, all the mistakes just prove I am a stupid, selfish princess?


And, of course, when I feel most exposed and scraped, most bare and vulnerable, this is when my iTunes chooses to play Chris Tomlin again. “How beautiful is Your unfailing love. / You never change, God, and You remain the Holy One…. You are my rock, the One I hold on to.”


It burns my ego to think that it really is as simple as letting God love me, letting Him be the One that makes me feel safe and complete. It’s so much easier and more human to be clingy and call that lover I made out with over the weekend. Even if I can't even remember his name now.


Society would understand a silly girl having her own version of the U-Haul second date, even if it was just in her head. Wrestling with the idea that her life is neither her own to control, nor her own to maneuver takes far more explaining. It’s far more acceptable to be sought for pleasure and comfort than it is for some invisible presence to be thought of as consistent or actually present.


But here I sit, still, accepting that I am not a shiny, happy Christ-follower, wrestling with the idea that I don’t have to be shiny or completely happy to be safe. 


Jesus loves me – as I am, being more JoC and Pink than I ever will be Chris Tomlin and Britney Spears. 


I love Him – as He is, being more calloused hands and rough manners than He ever will be stained glass and peaches 'n' cream complexion. Together, though, He is wild and untamed… and I find safety in that because He loves me furiously.

Jesus loves me; that makes me Ok.... doesn't it?

In the constantly penetrating clarity that comes after relinquishing an addiction, I found myself bombarded with things I do not like about myself. It sucked. Still does. Every day shows me some new thing I thought about my world or myself because it was convenient or fed my ego, which led to a habit or a perspective that I hold now and have to deal with.

The hardest and most discombobulating thought I had and didn’t realize for the subtly woven lie it was struck me as I was doing dishes. This annoying still small voice pointed out that I kept thinking: Jesus loves me, so He understands. If _______ knew me like He does, ________ would understand and love me, too. Yeah, Jesus loves me (He’d have to to have not un-made me by now), but His death was justification for my sin, not for my arrogance. By that I mean, Christ died so that He could hang out with me, not so He would have to go around constantly explaining my behavior to other people.

I always thought it was so cool to be dark and Gothic, but allowing myself to wallow in the idea of apathy and overly dark views of life only left me with a bloated vision of the world, completely blinded to the way my behavior or ideas affected others. I was the spiritual/emotional equivalent to that one constantly drunk friend everyone else had to explain and apologize for, but it was OK in my head – because Jesus loved me, and that made it all OK. I told myself that so often it became a mantra, especially when that still small voice would whisper to me that I was being a complete, bumbling idiot.

A smart-mouthed friend of mine repeats this snarky comment he heard somewhere: “Jesus loves you... but the rest of us think you’re a serious pain,” and there’s a lot of truth to that. I was a Christian; I knew Jesus loved me. He was legally and intrinsically obligated to, and it never crossed my mind that He might want me to behave so that He could like me, too. He’s God, after all; why should He care? Short answer: Because the crazy drunk friend is the only one having fun at the party. Ever. And that sucks. For everyone.

I really didn’t mean to be the fun-sucker, but then, no one ever says, yeah, I want to be an addict when I grow up. There were rules to follow, I knew them. Seeing what problems other people had, I realized (with my uniquely twisted logic) that crazy isn’t crazy as long as it’s functional. In the South, that’s just quirky. As long as I kept getting up in the morning, going to work, going to church, no one found drugs or porn on my computer during company time, I could slide inspection. I was fine. If there were raised eyebrows or worried looks, well, screw 'em. Jesus loved me. If they knew me like He did, they’d love me, too.

So… what changed? A lot of little things, then some really big ones.

Church hadn’t been on my list of important things to do for quite some time, partly due to some of the things that happened to me as a kid, and partly because I don’t buy that God lives in a single building on a single day anymore than I buy He digs one denomination over another. Keeping Christian friends mattered more, because there were verses about not forsaking or abandoning the gathering together, but that could happen at Starbuck’s or a book club meeting. I kept them around like I kept certain books on my shelf: if anyone asked, they were there and I could reference them as evidence of my acceptability. I was covered. I was good.

Weirdly enough, a book club friend of mine morphed into one of the little things that changed. She, being the darn Christian hippie she was, kept talking about claiming and naming the things we are, and loosing and shedding the things that we are not. She knew I wrote poetry, loved books and had a mad, passionate love affair with words, so, in the middle of one meeting, she just out and blurted that I was a writer. It... was like being called a slur! I was shocked. I was no writer! Writers, well, write. They’re published and talk about books all the time, attend readings or workshops, and change the world. Everyone wants to see the world the way they do, and they’re the cool, intellectually mysterious people that get invited to everything because they’ll always have something profound or pithy to say. I was no writer… I said to a table of blank stares and bemused glances.

So, said my friend, if you went to a workshop or convention, you’d be a writer? Still thinking they were sweet little Christian friends of mine who really didn’t have contact with the real world, I thought about it for a split second and said, basically, yeah. She nodded, and e-mailed me information about a convention the next week.

I thought, well, OK, whatev. Jesus still knows me, still loves me. I’m still weird and cool and… that’s what matters. I’m still OK. I’m not terrified of not having anything to say, or having to deal with all the… well, stuff I’m not dealing with right now because it doesn’t exist. I’m still good.

Reading about the convention, my cynicism positively abounded like a sugar-fed puppy in an open park with no leash. It was a Christian convention. There was no way anyone would be interested in what I had to say, or what I had written. They’re all into light, fluffy stuff, full of hope and romance and cute, pink flowers attached for no apparent reason. I would not belong (yet again), and I could go back to my collection of Christian token friends and a God I mostly talked to during bi-annual ladies’ retreats or yelled at in my car.

Except that little writer label comment from my friend, and the little e-mail she’d sent me, and the little, constant feeling I was supposed to be doing something other than what I was gelled into this really big thing in my head. The convention was a few months away, which gave me time to think about it, and that thought kept getting stealthily bigger.

I knew I was absolutely and positively screwed when I walked into a generic big box bookstore and found a Christian magazine talking about social justice, irony in modern society, and what a dark, complex piece the latest Mickey Rouke movie was. My brain stuttered, double-clutched, then froze.

Wait, this isn’t right. Christians are supposed to be all pious and three-piece suits on Sundays. They’re not supposed to talk to their priest over red wine, admitting when they screw up and aren’t decent human beings. Why do they have to be decent human beings, anyway? Jesus loves Christians, and if everyone else saw them like Jesus did… oh, wait… Christians aren’t supposed to expect everyone else to understand them, and then love them. They’re supposed to do good things that help other people, so that there’s a reason for others to want to understand them. Um. Merde. I hate when everything I thought I knew isn’t true at all anymore; I’m left wondering when the Earth went from being flat to spherical, and how everyone else but me seemed to know it all along.

It’s been 3 months and 18 days since I had my last serious hit, though it feels like years longer. I’m having dinner, ironically enough, tonight with a Christian friend of mine who also wants to make a difference in the world. Neither one of us have figured out quite how to do it yet, but she is a story-conveyor the way I am a writer, so it’s just a matter of time. In the constantly blinding luminosity that defines relinquishing an addiction, I find my world and myself colored and affected by my previous actions and choices. It sucks in some ways, but cleaning up one’s messes the morning after isn’t really the definition of the party. It’s just what decent human beings do. They admit mistakes were made, and by God’s grace, try to make better mistakes in the future.

night

Night is a wondrous thing.

It does all the things that we humans cannot; it slithers and slides, crawls and creeps, seeping and welcoming without consequence or thought. It makes the unattractive mysterious, and things silly in the light find homes at night. I love the night.

I was born 5 minutes before midnight, and it seems like I’ve been pushing off morning light ever since. If I had my druthers, I would sleep all day, live my life at night, and never think twice. Night is home for me, in a way that daylight really never has been. Night calls to my darker aspects like a favored, well-recalled lover. I can find shadows to hide in, my flaws disperse, and all things are possible with the right whisper at the right moment.

Life doesn’t seem as difficult at night, either. Stoplights are brighter, which is good, as my foot is heavier. There’s a balance between my sleepiness and the jolt of espresso. I have no gods to answer to, and my life seems a bit more under my own control.

The only fly in my lusciously dark ointment lies in the fact that I can’t live my life in the dark – not and be completely healthy. It’s medical fact that human skin produces vitamin D in sunlight, much like plants produce chlorophyll. Vitamin D, in turn, makes our livers happy, regulates our calcium and phosphorous, makes our bones happy, and even enhances our autoimmune system. I could live without happy bones, but as a woman with osteoporosis looming in a few years, that might not be the best idea. In other words, I have to have light and dark to be a happy li’l organism…, which sucks, because living in the dark is so much more attractive.

It’s easier and lovelier in the dark to see things as we wish them to be, too. Idolatry is sexier when called addiction, and addictions can be glossed over as understandable the next morning. It’s not comfortable, or attractive to say such things about a stated, certified medical conditions, but then… waking up to some poor one-night stand decisions can be all too un-fun, too. And truth only stings when it’s supposed to.

Winter seems a longer, lovelier night for me. It chills and chafes my skin, making my cheeks pink and my soul want to nestle into soft, warm places full of comforting weight and soothing, familiar smells. Winter lies out in my mind, lush and dark, like a robust red wine and sirloin dinner on velvet tablecloths, or a delicate whipped cream island floating on a sea of espresso. Instinct clutches, slithering the thought that night lasts longer in winter, that needs become darker, more demanding, and that light, light even as small as a Christmas light, cuts sharp and clean and eternal in a winter sky.

It seems somewhat cliche to think of the less wise, darker periods of my life as winters, but I’ve yet to find anything else that fits as well or as appropriately. Winter is a bare, stark time, with muddied skies of light and dread, even in the brightest parts of the earth. It is that in-between time, when the golden harvests have been reaped, and the green light of spring still sleeps. It is the hallway between the recently closed door and the soon-to-be-opened window promised by the Divine, and should be seen as such – a gift of time and period where there is no reason not to take advantage of not being able to do anything.

 In her book, “Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom,” Dr. Christine Northrup  suggests that all human beings have not only monthly cycles, but annual ones, too. She presents the idea that we all want to rest and nestle in the winter, that we most strongly long for companionship and warmth in the midst of the cold, and that we, through nature or nurture, hook or crook, withdraw into our selves a bit more when the nights grow longer. We are less eager to be social, but more inclined to do all the good we can. We hunker down for the long winter nights, with our kerchiefs and caps, dreaming of sugarplums, granted, but hoping more for the yellow sunshine and green carpet of growth that comes so obviously with spring, seemingly unaware of anything changing under our personal blankets of snow. We dream, we grow, we live in dark, mysterious ways - at night.