elephants and sacraments

Sneaking into the back of a darkened room, I didn't belong. I was late, my phone refused to work, unfamiliar faces surrounded me. I lumbered and glowed like a white elephant.

Up at the front and from the overhead screens, someone with kind eyes spoke of how we become  so blinded by the things we have trained ourselves to ignore, we speak nothing but mischief and deceit. The habits we don’t surrender or confess grow into things which grow fat and useless, suck the air from our homes, our loves, our souls. 

And we deny this thing we feed takes anything from us.

In our arrogance, we deny our elephants.

Driving along darkened city streets with a friend later that week, elephants wandered into the conversation. “The problem with humans is we’re creatures of habit,” he said. “We do what’s familiar because it’s familiar.” 

"We choose to not choose to do something different," he continued, "until we don’t realize we could do anything different. And we wonder why so much of the world’s crazy."

It made me think back to that dark room where I felt tusked and pale. The kind-eyed person said sacraments pry pachyderms from our private spaces. Being vulnerable, confessing imperfection and lesser-ness makes us weigh less, opens our eyes.

I like that thought. It makes me think of having my feet washed by strangers.


There's a story Bob Goff tells. He's the consulate for Uganda, and was the first person to ever successfully have a witch doctor convicted. Every year or so, he invites all the witch doctors in the country to meet him, then tells them they have to stop killing and maiming kids.

He says if they don't, he'll go after them. And will not stop.

Then he kneels before them and washes their feet.

It's a powerful, powerful thing to experience, even as a white-looking chick who gets semi-regular pedicures. Sitting there, while time becomes hushed and reverent. Sounds mute, air filling with intimacy so thick it smells of incense.

And you may not feel dirty before. But somewhere between this now-friend-then-was-stranger of yours undoing and removing your shoes, resting your feet on a towel, things clung to slip, walls wisp away.

Even if it's just a slow, intentional rinse and dry, it feels like love. Free, unexpected; simply offered, given. It reads as lavish because somehow we all think there should be a price for the experience.

But.. There's just not. It's just water, and a towel. And.. an unexpected glimpse of something fuller. In that moment, glimpses of the other shimmer. It's like you see where life began. Where elephants roam free.

give thanks

for Thor and chai
and a challenged brother who's becoming a cool dude
for chocolate and healing
and the right to pursue joy
for more than I deserve
and sunsets and ice days in the South
for friends and enemies to love
and tomorrow always being a new day

for the freedom to choose
and not being free from the consequences of those choices
for a life not as hard as some
but one still worth considering
for bubble bath and girly things
and people who provide shelter and dignity for others
for art and speaking for those who have no words
and those who understand

for hope and whimsy to hold back the dark
and a mom who is slowly, gracefully fading
for twinkle lights and ceremony
and the comfort of a good conversation
for the space to scream and cry and hurt
and the knowledge that's not where I live
for today
for tomorrow
for all the times I forgot to say it

I give thanks.

'til death

When does a marriage end

When the papers are signed

When the bed’s grown cold

When apologies are offered for a brush of a hand

When not wearing the ring feels more right

When it stops being true

When you’re happier apart

When kisses tastes frustration-cold

When a little apology seems like too much work

When convenience matters more

When do you disengage

When’s it enough

When does the door close

                And you relearn how to breathe

love letter to fall

today 
can't decide if 
it is chillingly rain-laden
or if it wishes to be 
intoxicated by the sun

moody
filled with old movies 
and stars
keenly bright 
before i was born

fallen leaves in the yard
cling
to the in-between
of frozen sugar, hot sun
and small lights on trees
pushing back the dark

dear shane

Dear Shane,

You were born on June 14th, 2003. Your mom was a lady, certified and beautiful. She gave you your beautiful brown eyes, and classic frame. Your dad, unknown and a bit of a rascal, gave you your smile, blond roots, and the spots on your tongue.

You found Grams at the Main Street Arts festival in Fort Worth. We were there to find an art piece, ideally the size of the couch, but took home a 7 pd. Rottweiler mutt puppy instead. She said you curled into her hand, fitting just over her heart as you rested your head on her shoulder. A man there also wanted to take you home, to guard his space and stuff. Mom just wanted you.

You first met me, and neither one of us knew what to make of the other. You were all ears and paws, and I had been told I was only supposed to deliver you back to Grams. After I put you on your leash and led you back to the car, you curled into the front seat like a soft puddle of dark night. I remember your yawn, the flash of tiny teeth and rush of sweet puppy breath. My heart was lost then.

I thought you would sleep on the way home, but you quietly crept into my lap each time I tried to return you to your spot. Looking out the window, your nose pointed and twitched, and I saw the beautiful, strong frame you’d eventually grow into.

Scout, the cat, hunted you when we got home. One morning, I skipped into the backyard and you tumble-trotted after. Scout, grey, stripped and so curious, stalked after like a lost raincloud on the green grass. She taught you to respect those smaller than you, and how to play with things sleeker and more skilled with claws.

Your first seizure terrified me. I was at work, and Grams called. She said you grew still, then dizzy. I came in the door to see you, snarling silently, back bowing. And I rushed to try to ease you to the floor as you lost consciousness. I stroked your lush fur, singing You Are My Sunshine as we waited for you to come back to us. I’d’ve followed you, if I’d known where you went then.

Grams and I searched for information about seizures and big dogs and other things which might hurt you in the future as if we could save you just by knowing more. Dr. Pipes gave you small, white pills in copper colored plastic bottles. And they helped; you were back with us.

You grew barrel-chested, bow-legged and dignified. One of your favorite spots became the doorway to the media room, with your paws stretched out, freshly groomed and cleaned, the way Scout taught you. Your head raised and ears perked, you looked like the dogs in paintings too dignified and pretty for modern life. You were such a gentleman.

Your face grew grey, then whiter as time passed. Your eyes, still clearly brown and so dark, seemed richer as you aged. More bowlegged as arthritis bit at your hips, you moved slower, and less, with more intention. I grumbled as you started taking up the doorway. But secretly, your big shoulders looked like gentler Rocky Mountains, and there was a comfort in climbing over you.

I came home yesterday morning to find you hadn’t moved the entire time I’d been at work. Your full, bushy tail dusted the floor almost absently when I stroked your face, asking what was going on. Dr. Pipes thought the rain may have made your bones ache.

You got up to get a drink and fell last night. And I cried inside my head when I noticed you couldn’t move your back legs at all. You coughed, sounding like a cat with a hairball. And although the rain eased this morning, you didn’t move. Or eat.

We went to see Dr. Pipes. You’re so big now, I had to have help lifting you into your spot in the trunk of our PT Cruiser. I wrapped the blankets we used as slings around you, trying not to notice your eyes differently dilated or how the smell of sick, wrong-ness clung to your fur.

You've spent most of the week there now. They took X-rays and blood. You were drugged and slept on a mat. And I prayed you could come home with me, able to walk again and sit for your cheese and cookies. But as time passed, the more I prayed you'd hurt less.

I suspect you knew how hard it would be for me to let you go. Ever the gentleman, you closed your eyes and went where I could not follow about an hour ago.

Because you were, are, shall be my sunshine and my therapy.

and if your love

if your love were new
it'd be something growing and tender
not as frail as new life
but unfurling

and if your love were a color
it'd be morning light
or a flavor
Curry
full of surprises and
things i can't identify
but crave

if your love were a smell
something robust and fresh
and haunting
holding the weight of beauty
chopped wood or air before
a fierce storm

but your love
is better
worth nurturing
and being gentle with
because it keeps me warm

and because it's you

mission statement

A friend asked during a recent conversation if I'd ever written a mission statement. I hadn't, purposefully avoided the tension the mere idea created for me - for years - until I attended a conference recently. There was a moment, sitting in a sunlight-washed room, I could see where how my life had a theme and how what had happened to me could be used to do something big and worthy. And the words to convey that popped in my head.

To return dignity to the violated however, wherever, whenever it is needed so there are more survivors and fewer victims; To not tell people what to think or how, but to show why they should; And live to such a robust, affecting life it's obvious I couldn't have done it on my own.

Or, to convey faith alone in Christ alone, for His glory alone. And to really enjoy chocolate.

It was originally supposed to be a blog-only mission statement, but it's sort of become a life mission statement. Trying to view it through the lens of my writing morphs it a bit:

To write so a person who doesn't know me or have a vested interest in my life would appreciate the word choices, the idea presented, and gain something worthy from the experience.

I'm no Scott Harrison or Jenna Lee Nardella, but there're plans for my life, a theme, a reason.

And now, a mission statement.

shamefully distracted

The first time I felt what I could identify as shame, where I felt on display to disadvantage happened at the opening of a Dale Chiluly exhibit at the major art museum in Dallas. A beautiful gathering in a light-splashed, sleek space filled with beautiful people murmuring appropriate words of beauty about clean, well-turned pieces. 

And then, me. 

Dad had actually made it by to pick me up for a weekend (of sorts). Less than an hour before, I'd been a kid, running around in a sweatshirt and culottes. My hair carefully braided by my mom's nimble fingers that morning sticking amok, sweaty, unraveling. 

Then, he was there. Mom asked if I could shower and change, said I wasn't fit for something fancy as I was. Dad got cold and angry. I was in the car as soon as I could move so they only yelled, so we wouldn't need help cleaning up the aftermath. The sweat from my sweatshirt seeped into his fine leather seats, but he chirped debonairly as he wove his car through the steel maze of downtown.

And we were there.

Thirsty and looking for something to do with my hands, I moved towards a pretty blonde girl near a table with cheese and fruit. She had a braid like me, a red-and-white dress, and she looked like my friend Tabby. I smiled, quick and unsure. 

Her eyes went flat and she moved away. I wasn't fit company.

I wondered if I had tracked all the dust of my life behind me like Pig Pen. Tucking behind a nearby pillar, I sipped something liquid and cold. My cheeks burned, I knew I smelled. My clothes were torn, my sneakers permanently scarring the pretty white floor.

Turning my head, I looked for my dad and found him smoothly sipping something bubbly, his eyes roaming a tall, tastefully black-clad blonde. Feeling me look at him, he sighed, his shoulders subtly hunched and cheeks colored.

I'd embarrassed him.

I leaned back behind the pillar, rolling my eyes. Two choices loomed: I could not move from that spot. The floor could eat me, the pillar could suck me into cool stone nothingness.

Or I could walk away from him.

I put my cup on the table and walked, keeping the pillar between us. Inside the room, color burst, lush like oceans. Things made of glass slithered and uncurled tentacles above my head, like giant, welcoming jelly fish. Some pieces just sat, splashing puddles of color on me as light shone through them.

My company didn't matter. I fit.

Roaming the rooms felt like entering undiscovered worlds, and I still don't know how long I wandered. I fell into hope and color and beauty so sharp it felt keen on my eyes. I was free.

Sometime later, my dad found me. His eyes glacially furious, a white line around his lips. It seems the blonde had seen me, asked if I was his. When he shared I was my mother's child, but had gone to find me, he was shocked and saddened to not find me where I'd been.

I embarrassed you, I remember saying, so there was no reason for me to stay.

It was a quiet ride home in the cooling night. Stars winked like lights along the edges of the glass I'd just seen. I dreamed of swirls of color teasing the stars, clouds hugging the moon like family.

He returned me to my mom's, and drove off with a punch of gas. 

A few years later, he met and fell in love with a fabulous tall, slender woman. The day of the wedding, he asked if I was planning to attend. My brother was with me for the weekend, so I said I'd have to bring him if I came.

Dad didn't understand why I should have that need. I said I didn't see why, if he couldn't admit he had two children, he should need to have any. It was the last time we spoke.

I found out about his death from my cousin on Facebook. 

While I read a book about the fatherlessness epidemic in America, my angry father rode his motorcycle into a long, good night.

At his funeral, I couldn't reach his wife's side to offer my condolences for her pain. My thoughts slid cool in my head, as I tried to classify the absolute lack of feeling. Not tasting of shock or bitter-copper like pain, it wasn't something easily named. No color burned hot like regret or clingish grey-green like unrequited hope.

I felt clean, like stars and lights along the edges of the glass. I mourned the passing of a hurt man so angry, life passed him while he was shamefully distracted.