truth be told

if you asked
I’d have to tell you the truth and say
that life has made a liar out of me
I would also say
if you happened to ask
that of all the things that I
have done
they are still measured
by what I have not done
and the things that seem
to have mattered the most
were the things that I
planned for the least
so I believe there is
a power so powerful
of the things that are unseen
unknown
that I’d gladly be made
a liar
over and over
again

Believing in Miracles

I sat in the worn wooden pew, the middle of the seats worn lighter, from so many hours of sitting, over years and years. The percentage rate of sitting compared to kneeling or standing, being so much higher. Maybe 75% sitting, 20% standing (especially for songs), and then only 5% kneeling, (because it’s so hard, and your butt catches the edge of the pew). So many prayers, and chanting Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers and the Profession of Faith, recited out loud, from these pews, to the God in the front, the Christ on the cross, little droplets of blood on the hands and feet, and dripping like sweat from under the crown of thorns on his head. Poor Jesus. Poor me, my eye had been cut by a paper pamphlet at the State Fair, a paper cut on my cornea and it hurt, badly. In that moment, eye stinging under the patch, I decided I must have enough faith for a miracle. I felt worried about testing God, but I so wanted my eye to stop hurting, and I so wanted a miracle, too. I prayed, "Dear God heal my eye." Prayed this over and over and believed that the pain was stopping, was going to stop, would stop any minute now.

I sat there on the worn pew, that day, a child of 9 or 10 and prayed. As much as I wanted my eye to not hurt, I alsoI wanted my faith to be real, I wanted it to manifest into something tangible, something that felt more than the unease and uncertainty I always felt around God and church things. I wanted to know if God was for real. But putting this to the test, might also reveal, that my faith wasn’t real, wasn’t good enough, or that God just wasn’t going to pay attention to me.

That was the first time I prayed and really believed I might get a miracle. In spite of my eye having to heal on it’s own, a miracle of sorts I see now, I continued to believe and hope for miracles throughout my life, it was my way of reconciling all the things I didn’t know much about, my way of not knowing, shall we say “how things work.” What happened though, is that the more I learned about how things work, is the less I wanted to believe in miracles. And now not believing in miracles makes me somehow feel like I’m cold and mean. Most times, it seems, even to myself, that it is unrealistic to expect people to belly on up to the truth of the fact that God does not intervene in people’s lives if they believe enough, pray hard enough, or gather enough people in their church or on the net to pray with them, hard enough.

But, this I know. Even though I prayed and prayed, and my faith was rock solid, and I lifted my hands in the real born again way during singing at the born again Baptist church, my husband did not ‘come around’ to being able to be a good husband or father. He did not find a ‘real relationship with Jesus,’ and become a ‘godly man,’ born again into accepting all the cultural accoutrements of this particular sort of faith, which stressed a ‘personal’ relationship with Jesus Christ.

Looking back, he was a good enough husband, and is a good enough father, with his shadow stuff hanging over him, he does the best he can. I don’t think I have to forgive him, either, it is enough for me to know, to understand. People say they “just don’t understand,” when things don’t go the way they want them to, well, I understand, and I could explain, but people don’t want to know, they want to have things go their way, and then pray to God to get them to go that way. And if they don’t they can just say, “Not the Lord’s plan.” I don’t know what they do with all that disappointment and anger at the Lord not listening, I really don’t. I just couldn’t take it any more, that’s all.

The Deliciousness of Boredom

I do believe that I hold within me the memory of sheer boredom, a beautiful emptiness, yet fullness of promise, of things to do in the future, when I grew up. The memory of time devoid of the anxiety that I constantly carry now, anxiety over the rising costs of food, the lowering value of my home, the burden of student loans, and out of control health care costs. When I was a child, these were the worries of grown-ups, and I was pretty sure that they were all capable. This was before I knew that my dad drank too much and that my mom was a bit of crazy. But every so often, I get to remember that feeling, of laying about on my bed, of staring at the ceiling, of walking aimlessly down the block, to see if a friend were home, because, simply because, I was bored.

a blue box

a few weeks ago I woke up knowing
I needed to make another box
a blue box
a deep blue box

every day since then I would wake up
thinking I needed to start the box
but would get distracted
by getting ready for work

by checking email
then facebook
then reading more
of the book I was reading
and soon it was time for work

until the next morning
when I would wake up and think
I should meditate
or write
but no
I’d check email
check facebook
feel lonely
empty
go to work

today I woke up at 6:00 am
and knew
that today
I must begin the box

a week ago
I’d bought a postcard
of Frida Kahlo
my hero
in so many ways
to give to a friend
but I never did
I carried it about in my purse
and then last week I knew
Frida would be part of the box

I got down on my knees
and dug the paint
out from under my bed
found the just right cigar box
took off the loose top
and opened the blue paint

all my body became alive
as I painted the box blue
and all the things that I keep doing
mean nothing
when there is paint
on a brush
in the pale morning light

strong enough

The thing about life, is that sometimes we get strong enough to face the sad things, the hard things, and we are still alright. If I lived long enough, I would figure out the formula, like how much time and love need to pass for us to go back and revisit hard things in our lives. But I've always been under the impression that life is too large, too wonderful, too precious for me to enjoy all of it, so I've had to pick and choose, and hopefully choose wisely, where to invest my time and energy, so let me just say, I'm ok, strong enough to explore my own shadow side, brave enough, as I hope those I connect with need to be, to do the hard work of living and trying to make sense, when there is no sense at all. It's like enjoying just jumping into a beautiful blue wave on a warm day, or taking that drop of ocean and looking at it under a microscope, sometimes, you just need to jump in, before the day ends. Poet or scientist, mother or therapist, or just me, working through the hard things.


Neglect

I need to write for myself again

whoever she is

when I find her

I will take her in my arms

and never let her go

I loved Michael

because he held

me and rocked

me and sang to me

silly songs

in his beat up recliner

in his trailer

in the Lazy U

trailer park

in Medford

on 35W

just North of

Owatonna

and he gave me a place

to rest

amidst everyone wanting something

needing something from me

which my grown children

now tell me

I was never able to give

to them

and so I wonder

what was the point?

being raised to measure by

how helpful

useful

there

I was for

everyone else

I was neglected

and neglected myself

and my children perhaps

although I will say in my

defense

defensively

I did what I could

I loved you my best

and even if it seems

my love was not enough

if I find myself

will my love be enough

for myself




anointed

who will be the one to rock
the scared ones
who will be the one to hold
the shattered ones
who will be the one to hold
out hope
when it seems there is none
who is the one who will write
the sacred text
because the old one
is too worn out
to read anymore
and too many were killed
and abused by the sacred words
of the past anyway
who will map out
the future
for those who are lost
who will find the star
that will guide us
safely home

dreaming of Paris

times i think that life has passed me by
surely, this couldn’t be it
surely, this isn’t all there is
this is not
not
where i dreamed i’d be
at 10
or 15 when i was sure i’d live in Paris
the whole rest of my life

when i go to the doctor
last week
and i’m told it’s arthritis
surely, surely, these are not my hands
how will i write
make jewelry
make a sure grip
on life

at very bad times
i blame my ex
he never loved me
and stole my youth
and sealed my fate
in Owatonna
with three baby girls
how would i move to Paris now?

most times
i blame no one
how could i have known how
to move the four of us to Paris
with just an english degree
a small bit of french
and an imagination
the size of a
pea

looking for love, likes movies, dinner out

I tried it again, but briefly. Online dating. Someone brought it up again, and even though I vowed I would never try it again, I did, this morning, for like an hour. Jazzed had a free weekend, and so I thought, hmm, what’s to lose?

What’s to lose? Well, this is what’s to lose: my sense of sensibility and my idea, that somehow, if two people are meant to meet, they’ll meet. I don’t want to lose that, and I don’t want to lose hope that there is a guy out there with whom I can hang out with and learn to love. There, I said it and I’m holding on to it. Honestly, the feelings I kept feeling looking at pictures and profiles online was just embarrassment and disappointment. Like really, this is what’s out there? And then, then, I felt mean, judging, like I’m sure all these guys are great guys, but with tag-lines with spelling errors and blatant calls for booty? I wanted to say, “Hello, what are you in fifth grade?” (See, I said I got mean.)

The vulnerability was palpable, and it is not an attractive trait. Someone I know just dismisses all who are online as desperate, and of course desperation is really not something anyone is looking for. But there it is, I’ve said it, I was feeling a bit desperate, too, and I had to talk myself away from the wall. Back off, I said, stand down, relax. I had to tell myself, you will meet someone in reality, in real time, in real life, and it won’t feel like trying to pick out a puppy at the humane society.

I also felt paranoid, probably left over from when I did have a few dates from online matches years ago. One disastrous meeting after another. Picture in the movies when they just flip off calendar months, and imagine about 4-5 dates like this, too self-absorbed, too materialistic, too sketchy, etc. . . On to the one that sent me offline probably forever, the guy who wouldn’t quit calling, and calling me terms of endearments even though we never, ever met in person.

So, this morning, I took down my profile nearly as quickly as I put it up. I felt relieved, hopeful, the universe has plenty, the internet, well, only so much.