The world can always be divided. Night and day. Sky and land. Sick and well. We live among opposites. It is also said that we exist on a continuum running between these opposites. We are sliding a little closer to sadder, or fatter, or richer, and then we perhaps slide back the other direction. As if we are swinging on a pendulum.
I have a different view. I think the world is divided more into immovable poles on each end of an axis; our earth moves in accordance to the pole on which we are positioned. We turn with the sun and tides in one position and then with them in reverse according to the tilt of our world. Our lives are so much dictated by the position we have, on one pole or the opposite, that our perception of the world cannot help but to follow that path.
I visited two places this morning. I first took my son Ethan to the doctor. He is one, and is just beginning to wrap his little mind around words and their meanings, of gestures of affection and protest, of movement. He looks at me with his clear, ageless blue eyes and I am mesmerized by his utter embodiment of youth and child.
Ethan and I then went to the nearby hospital and visited by grandmother. I work in a healthcare setting, so sick people shouldn't affect me, but today it did. For some reason, the stark transition from youth to individuals sailing into the dusk of their lives caught me off guard. When I entered my grandmother's room, my brother and mother were there, standing around her bed in an all-to-small space. As I have said before, my grandmother was a beautiful woman, and she still is. She has dark wavy hair that doesn't even have a hint of gray. Her eyes are still a milky brown. But she is tired. Her cells have reached up and out, until they have no place else to go except down again. She is entering the place of forgetting instead of remembering, and her movements have become small. My mother held Ethan and made happy chatter, because my mom is good at that, at putting people at ease, but I could not help but to notice the polar opposites in the room.
Opposites exist together, mingling like smoke and light. You can be experiencing an inexpressible sadness, and you walk outside your door and hear laughter somewhere. Or it could be raining, with the sun still blazing in the sky. Your perception of the world is truly dictated by the tilt of your axis, but you are just one small world revolving in a chaotic system of other people and their worlds. Somehow it all equals out. It balances.
The sun is gone now, leaving behind its black sky, but somewhere the sun is rising. Someone, right now, has experienced some great loss, and somewhere someone just now got their big break. Sometimes I feel the weight of the world, and I raise my eyes to look across the room, and someone looks like the picture of peace. We all get our chance at one opposite or the other. We will always be tilting back and forth, in our perceived chaos. I trust God has it under control.
Has the world stopped?
I thought I felt its axis shift.
I am hanging onto
A rail, seasick, back of
My hand over my mouth.
I am sure the world has changed.
I see everything through cracks
In a mirror splitting the scenery
In pieces. It doesn’t fit together.
Did it ever? Did I force it
Into a misconstrued puzzle
Where the sun is below and
The ground is in the sky?
And I called it normal.
I said, look at all my
Normalcy. Marvelous how
I strike perfect angles against
The blurred backdrop of
Dissidence. See how I make
Clear lines, drawing them with
My finger (but don’t notice the
Nail, chewed to the quick and
Bleeding). Perhaps the world
Has fallen on its side, a bulbous
Giant unable to right itself, and
I am stuck underneath it, the breath
Leaving me. I reach for the ground,
But it is in the sky and the sun burns
My fingers. My hands are bathed in flame
And I pull them back, helpless.
I start drawing lines again.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Cloud Cover
In the fall, in West Virginia, there are always clouds. They lay in a thick blanket usually, covering the horizon in layers of gray. When I get my son out of his crib in the morning, I always look out his window to assess the clouds. Sometimes they are pulling apart in the middle with the blush of dawn making the sky look like cotton candy. Or perhaps they are lumpy, like handfuls of crumpled tissue. But often they are black and forboding, with no definition to tell the difference between cloud and sky. It is just the dark warning of the coming rain.
Cloud cover is oppressive I think. It presses down on you and causes the molecules in your body to realign into something harder and impermeable, becoming resistant to the rain. It is no wonder that we often compare storms to life's trials. They press you into something different, too. Makes your skin thick and even calloused sometimes. Makes your mind bend in a direction you never thought it would go. Makes you wrap your arms around your head and close your eyes tight so you can't see things around you at all. Clouds and trials seem to limit your space, as if you are bound up in a tiny box.
I think change is good. I am not a particular fan, and I don't seek change out usually, but sometimes you change, and maybe aren't aware of it until the change is complete. When I was younger, perhaps in my 20s, I was a totally different person than I am now. I was more diffuse, parts of me scattered everywhere. Then life came in all its various forms of clouds, pressing me into something much more solid and orderly. I understand myself much better now, and I know why I feel the way I feel.
So, clouds and rain, whether in life or on the literal horizon, do press you down, and even though painful at the time, they change you, often into something that is much more unbreakable. Stronger.
Just so your know, this morning when I got Ethan out of his crib, there were actually no clouds in the sky. Good sign. I am wide open today. But if the rain comes, I will be ready.
Aurora
When you think of me,
When your mind
Takes a path, stepping
Backward, foot behind foot,
Watching for flashes of
Me, in the periphery
Of memory,
I wonder if you notice
I am diffuse;
Particles sliding
Past one another,
Movement fluid
Like the pumping
Of oiled pistons,
An unrelenting
Shifting of elements.
If you try and
Hold me,
Like something
Concrete,
I fall through
Your fingers,
Grains of sand,
Bits of something
Once larger and
Dense, without
Space and shadow.
When you find me,
Finally,
A sky blazing with
Dissipating light,
Fragments on fire
With comet tails
Full of pieces of me
Left
From another time,
Please excuse me
If I don’t stay.
I am fading
Again.
Cloud cover is oppressive I think. It presses down on you and causes the molecules in your body to realign into something harder and impermeable, becoming resistant to the rain. It is no wonder that we often compare storms to life's trials. They press you into something different, too. Makes your skin thick and even calloused sometimes. Makes your mind bend in a direction you never thought it would go. Makes you wrap your arms around your head and close your eyes tight so you can't see things around you at all. Clouds and trials seem to limit your space, as if you are bound up in a tiny box.
I think change is good. I am not a particular fan, and I don't seek change out usually, but sometimes you change, and maybe aren't aware of it until the change is complete. When I was younger, perhaps in my 20s, I was a totally different person than I am now. I was more diffuse, parts of me scattered everywhere. Then life came in all its various forms of clouds, pressing me into something much more solid and orderly. I understand myself much better now, and I know why I feel the way I feel.
So, clouds and rain, whether in life or on the literal horizon, do press you down, and even though painful at the time, they change you, often into something that is much more unbreakable. Stronger.
Just so your know, this morning when I got Ethan out of his crib, there were actually no clouds in the sky. Good sign. I am wide open today. But if the rain comes, I will be ready.
Aurora
When you think of me,
When your mind
Takes a path, stepping
Backward, foot behind foot,
Watching for flashes of
Me, in the periphery
Of memory,
I wonder if you notice
I am diffuse;
Particles sliding
Past one another,
Movement fluid
Like the pumping
Of oiled pistons,
An unrelenting
Shifting of elements.
If you try and
Hold me,
Like something
Concrete,
I fall through
Your fingers,
Grains of sand,
Bits of something
Once larger and
Dense, without
Space and shadow.
When you find me,
Finally,
A sky blazing with
Dissipating light,
Fragments on fire
With comet tails
Full of pieces of me
Left
From another time,
Please excuse me
If I don’t stay.
I am fading
Again.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Ghost Walls
I am a speech therapist working in a nursing home. I don't apologize for it. I chose it. I like the old folks full of their stories. And they have so many. I still see World War II veterans on a regular basis. I see women women who still try to quilt and sew despite arthritic hands. I see all sorts of older people, white haired and rolling in wheelchairs, reaching out for me. They want to share their stories.
There is one thing that always astounds me about my job's environment. It is the pictures. Families bring in pictures of their loved ones. The old black and white or sepia toned ones, of our patients in their youths. Families want to create a sense of home, a sense of memory and comfort, despite the hospital bed and the white tiled floors.
It's the pictures that get me. I am mesmorized by them. First, you look at your patient, this little slip of a woman perhaps, usually in an ill-fitting sweat suit. Her hair is white and thin, combed back away from the hollow face. And her hands. The hands with thick tendons protruding under wafer thin skin. Then you look above her, on her wall, and see her picture when she was, perhaps 20 or so. Her hair then was thick and black, and wavy on top, and pulled back on the sides. Her mouth is painted with dark lipstick, and there is just a hint of a smile in the corners. But the eyes, sometimes piercing, are almost the same as the woman, aged 60 years after the photo, sitting in front of you. You can tell the picture and the person are the same because of the eyes.
Some patients have walls devoted to old photos. As I fed a gentleman once, spooning food into his mouth, I looked around at all his pictures. There were pictures of him, some with his wife, and a couple of his daughter as an infant. There were two pictures of what I presumed were his parents. They were in solemn black clothes, man seated and woman, her suit cenched tight at the waist, with a hand resting loosely at his shoulder. They didn't smile, but seemed to look, perplexed and angered, at the camera. I also worked with a proud woman once, whose portraits lined her walls. They represented her at all ages, but with the same stately look - beautiful dark eyes and an air of wealth about her. When I worked with her, she couldn't remember what she had for breakfast, but she could always sit with me and admire her own pictures.
My favorite pictures are the candid shots. They are in multi-opening frames usually, and all the life of the pictures put in the frames jump out at you. There are pictures of women, all looking around at each other, dark mouths open and laughing, standing with arms loosely wrapped around each other in front of white snowball bushes. Or there are pictures of men, cross-legged on a sofa with a geometric afgan thrown over the back, with cigarettes wedged in between forefingers and middle fingers. There are also some of mothers with babies on their laps. The mothers in these pictures are never looking at the camera; they are always looking over at their babies, seemingly amazed that they were able to create such a being out of themselves.
Life to me is a little like a ghost wall of pictures. There are moments that you want to freeze because they are so utterly perfect. There aren't many moments like this, but over a lifetime, you might collect enough to fit into a collage frame. But by the time you do, your pictures are old and in black and white. A feast of images of times past. But aren't we lucky that we are able to have these moments, old though they might be, that we can always admire in our minds. Like an album plastered all over the inside of our brains.
My grandmother is 83. There is a picture that my mother has of her on the steps of Inez High School. She is seated, her graduation dress spread around her, a dark, full skirt, and light colored scoop-necked top. Her hands are clasped lightly in her lap, and her held is tilted just slightly to the left. She had the most beautiful full head of black hair. My mom says there was no one more lovely than my grandmother. And that her will and resolve were strong and unbreakable. I am thankful that I have access to these images, of generations fading, to know from which I came, and to see their previous lives unfolded and real.
These ghost walls often call out to me, as if to say, Remember me. I came before you and I will come after you and I will always be. Because, really, we all spring from the images on the wall.
There is one thing that always astounds me about my job's environment. It is the pictures. Families bring in pictures of their loved ones. The old black and white or sepia toned ones, of our patients in their youths. Families want to create a sense of home, a sense of memory and comfort, despite the hospital bed and the white tiled floors.
It's the pictures that get me. I am mesmorized by them. First, you look at your patient, this little slip of a woman perhaps, usually in an ill-fitting sweat suit. Her hair is white and thin, combed back away from the hollow face. And her hands. The hands with thick tendons protruding under wafer thin skin. Then you look above her, on her wall, and see her picture when she was, perhaps 20 or so. Her hair then was thick and black, and wavy on top, and pulled back on the sides. Her mouth is painted with dark lipstick, and there is just a hint of a smile in the corners. But the eyes, sometimes piercing, are almost the same as the woman, aged 60 years after the photo, sitting in front of you. You can tell the picture and the person are the same because of the eyes.
Some patients have walls devoted to old photos. As I fed a gentleman once, spooning food into his mouth, I looked around at all his pictures. There were pictures of him, some with his wife, and a couple of his daughter as an infant. There were two pictures of what I presumed were his parents. They were in solemn black clothes, man seated and woman, her suit cenched tight at the waist, with a hand resting loosely at his shoulder. They didn't smile, but seemed to look, perplexed and angered, at the camera. I also worked with a proud woman once, whose portraits lined her walls. They represented her at all ages, but with the same stately look - beautiful dark eyes and an air of wealth about her. When I worked with her, she couldn't remember what she had for breakfast, but she could always sit with me and admire her own pictures.
My favorite pictures are the candid shots. They are in multi-opening frames usually, and all the life of the pictures put in the frames jump out at you. There are pictures of women, all looking around at each other, dark mouths open and laughing, standing with arms loosely wrapped around each other in front of white snowball bushes. Or there are pictures of men, cross-legged on a sofa with a geometric afgan thrown over the back, with cigarettes wedged in between forefingers and middle fingers. There are also some of mothers with babies on their laps. The mothers in these pictures are never looking at the camera; they are always looking over at their babies, seemingly amazed that they were able to create such a being out of themselves.
Life to me is a little like a ghost wall of pictures. There are moments that you want to freeze because they are so utterly perfect. There aren't many moments like this, but over a lifetime, you might collect enough to fit into a collage frame. But by the time you do, your pictures are old and in black and white. A feast of images of times past. But aren't we lucky that we are able to have these moments, old though they might be, that we can always admire in our minds. Like an album plastered all over the inside of our brains.
My grandmother is 83. There is a picture that my mother has of her on the steps of Inez High School. She is seated, her graduation dress spread around her, a dark, full skirt, and light colored scoop-necked top. Her hands are clasped lightly in her lap, and her held is tilted just slightly to the left. She had the most beautiful full head of black hair. My mom says there was no one more lovely than my grandmother. And that her will and resolve were strong and unbreakable. I am thankful that I have access to these images, of generations fading, to know from which I came, and to see their previous lives unfolded and real.
These ghost walls often call out to me, as if to say, Remember me. I came before you and I will come after you and I will always be. Because, really, we all spring from the images on the wall.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A Bit of Good Advise
I once told a friend of mine, who wondered how to deal with the reality of life, you need to pray when it gets hard, pray when you have a million reasons to give thanks, pray in between, and live your life. It was excellent advise, I think.
Too bad there are days when I can't even follow my own advise. Today was one of those days for me. I am so good at dishing out good tidings to other people, patting, encouraging, hoping. I enjoy doing that. I want people to feel o.k. I want them to feel better again.
It's just that sometimes I can't do that for me. Sometimes, I just have to find a quiet place, because I feel so exposed. I wear my emotions all over myself, so it is obvious when I am overwhelmed or sad or upset. I don't want people to see that I am on occassion not strong. Actually, my skin is rather thin. Sometimes not protective at all.
It is also hard to show off your flaws. I feel like I wear mine like girl scout badges sometimes, displayed on a big green sash for all to see. My Cry-Too-Easily Badge. My Regret Badge. My I'm-Not-A-Perfect-Mom badge. There are many others, I assure you.
So, today, I wore my badges. I wore them to work, and then to my daughters' dance class, and even wore them at the dinner table. When my mom finally called me, the tears started rolling, because it had been coming on all day, and sometimes just at the sound of her voice, I am a little child again.
After a good deal of me lamenting all my flaws and baggage, my mom said, "Jennifer, I think you're perfect. You are one of the most perfect people I know." Now, I know she is my mother, but I don't think she said it because she thought she had to. Despite my badges and my horrible display of misplaced emotion, I was still perfect to her. People who love you, who care about you and have no reason to judge you, have a knack for that. Seeing your perfection when clearly you are an utter representation of imperfection.
I felt better after that talk. I took a walk and felt very close to God. I am thankful that He has strategically placed people in my life right where they should be.
Here's a bit of a poem to reflect some feelings of the day.
Favor
Descending
Like an ax
Splits me
In two
Down the
Middle
I fall
An apple
In two
Halves
I am
Exposed
The bruise
Unnoticeable
On the red
Skin is deep
To the core
Could you
Kindly cut out
The ugly spots
Of me
If not
Why did you
Bother with
The knife anyway
Too bad there are days when I can't even follow my own advise. Today was one of those days for me. I am so good at dishing out good tidings to other people, patting, encouraging, hoping. I enjoy doing that. I want people to feel o.k. I want them to feel better again.
It's just that sometimes I can't do that for me. Sometimes, I just have to find a quiet place, because I feel so exposed. I wear my emotions all over myself, so it is obvious when I am overwhelmed or sad or upset. I don't want people to see that I am on occassion not strong. Actually, my skin is rather thin. Sometimes not protective at all.
It is also hard to show off your flaws. I feel like I wear mine like girl scout badges sometimes, displayed on a big green sash for all to see. My Cry-Too-Easily Badge. My Regret Badge. My I'm-Not-A-Perfect-Mom badge. There are many others, I assure you.
So, today, I wore my badges. I wore them to work, and then to my daughters' dance class, and even wore them at the dinner table. When my mom finally called me, the tears started rolling, because it had been coming on all day, and sometimes just at the sound of her voice, I am a little child again.
After a good deal of me lamenting all my flaws and baggage, my mom said, "Jennifer, I think you're perfect. You are one of the most perfect people I know." Now, I know she is my mother, but I don't think she said it because she thought she had to. Despite my badges and my horrible display of misplaced emotion, I was still perfect to her. People who love you, who care about you and have no reason to judge you, have a knack for that. Seeing your perfection when clearly you are an utter representation of imperfection.
I felt better after that talk. I took a walk and felt very close to God. I am thankful that He has strategically placed people in my life right where they should be.
Here's a bit of a poem to reflect some feelings of the day.
Favor
Descending
Like an ax
Splits me
In two
Down the
Middle
I fall
An apple
In two
Halves
I am
Exposed
The bruise
Unnoticeable
On the red
Skin is deep
To the core
Could you
Kindly cut out
The ugly spots
Of me
If not
Why did you
Bother with
The knife anyway
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