Forged by The Fire

 It’s been a hard road, an interminable and steep uphill trudge for as long as I can remember. My escapades have landed me in the dung, every single one of them but to be fair it was the mania, my erstwhile chum and faithful companion of yore that usually cinched the deal. Taking me to the edge and leaving me there then skating away with an insouciant toss of the hand was, I must say, grossly unfair. It left me to deal with reality on my own and so I did, upside down. 

Answers became questions, questions folded into fantasies, fantasies eventually faded to black all the while I raced back and forth to try and keep the plates spinning and boy howdy what a gig, folks. All of San Francisco watched this girl play way way way back in the day. Goaded by an energy I couldn’t bridle, my daily escape to oblivion while involuntary and tragic, was nevertheless a show. Outwitting, outrunning and outsmarting the pain that gnawed at my bones became my holy grail, my raison d’être, I couldn’t do otherwise. Each day was a frenzied grind to act out the dervishes in my head all the while looking spiffy (the fun part) and trying to land my next husband, so to speak. And that’s just a slice.

Fast forward a decade. While meeting Jesus in 2004 changed the trajectory of my life, existence continues to wax strenuous in varying degrees as time marches on. In other words, the daily hasn’t been a field of daisies - I think it’s safe to say we get more homework as the days fly by. Blessedly, gaps of grace insulate these gnarly icecaps giving us necessary pause for sanity and respite but on the whole, Jesus’ guarantee that trouble will come echoes true, so brace yourselves. 

Case in point, almost 20 years later I’ve experienced heart break after heartbreak, seemingly senseless physical issues (bleeding out for almost 50 days straight at one point to name one) visiting yet another mental ward upon an impromptu psychotic break, running around chasing my tail in the relationship department which never seems to yield any form of satisfaction (thanks, Mick) and a host of other miseries which leave me to wonder what the heck is going on? If I didn’t believe in the Almighty, I’d have checked out long ago. As it is, it’s still a battle. Like I told someone the other day, I’m grinding through my sixth PhD in the school of hard knocks and baby, it’s no joke. 

As I look through my spiritual eyes, I’m slowly learning to be grateful for the fire I’ve often found myself in. Each trial, each arduous grind I’ve been forced to undertake almost always against my will (’cause who voluntarily dives into pain?) has strengthened, softened, broken, stretched and pulled me in all the right - read: agonizing - of places, fashioning me to be a wee bit more Christlike. Though hard won, the host of character fortifications that suffering has wrought in me have blended a rock solid amalgam that only God Himself could have breathed. Heck, if I can keep this view up, I’m way ahead of the game.

I see God as a sort of master welder, gigantic tongs and all dipping us smack dab in the midst of the most formidable of flames forming characters, melding minds, transforming hearts. Squirming out of his hand, or tongs as is the case, is out of the question - his grip’s pretty secure - so what to do but endure? If we follow the commandments, heed His word and keep His promises knowing He loves us, we’ll see that He does all things for our benefit and a good (or better) attitude towards travail we will have, I can attest.

Life doesn’t make much sense beyond the perspective that knowing Christ has gifted me. Like I said, I sure as heck would have sung my swan song long ago had I not believed. So, regarding all the crap and hardship existence has slung in my face whether deluded or insane, I continue to cling to what makes sense to my heart, to the only eternal line of reasoning I got: Christ and Him crucified. Because Jesus showed humanity the ultimate submission, withstanding the proverbial flame even to the point of a criminal’s death on a cross, how can I not endure my own muck? 

There are worse things than finding yourself in a crucible, forged in the fire of adversity, immobilized by life’s hardships and struggles and that’s not knowing its working for your good. Take joy in the knowledge then, that suffering, though sometimes hard and intense, is creating a more resilient, strengthened and better you. All the good stuff about us is usually good ‘cause it comes at a cost, so don’t be afraid to pay the price, you’ll be glad you did.

A Note on Suicide

 Fear eats at me and chops up my brain 

am I engaging or am I insane? 

Always this question inside my head 

as I pen down the poems and wonder in dread. 

Flying to heaven, sliding to hell

manic depression, I wear it well. 

I’ve pranced back and forth on deaths holy door 

refraining to knock, only God knows the score. 

But the flowers they bloom so gentle and pretty

And I think of how much I love this city… 

So much life all around, such kindness and caring

Why would I OD on skag despairing?

“Exactly” I think as I search myself 

for reasons to put this attack on the shelf

None better than God who greatly loves me 

who died for my sins so I could be free

Not even the struggle with my mental health

and thoughts on suicide I’ve pondered in stealth, 

Could stop his love from reaching around 

all the defenses and basis I found 

to say that life sucks and’s not worth living  

Man, depression can be unforgiving

 

He’s there and he sees, walks a mile in my shoes 

In contemplation sensing my blues. 

Then he tells me daughter come near 

I’m all you need, your purpose it’s here

Just then the sun hits my sad face 

And I linger a while in his grace 

He gives me his hand and peace floods my soul 

To him I surrender and give up control.

  

Return to Innocence

So, I’ve decided to go back over my journals and take a trip down memory lane.  Since writing is my lifeline and because I’ve done it for so long, one could probably surmise I’ve a lot of fodder to work with.  The other day I chose a thin volume from 2006 and settled down to read, anxious to see where my mind was at.  And somewhere in the middle, amidst all the suffering I was slowly working out, I came across a letter I had written to my mother. 

I should mention that before I met Jesus in 2004, my life had become a wash from bipolar disorder and my writings reflected it:  mangled thoughts and ideas scribbled haphazardly ran rampant on every page.  But after my conversion the sea calmed, sailing smoothed and I could think clearly again.  Although I was grateful to see this in the diary, the sadness I was still processing broke my heart - it takes a while to work out the kinks.  Enter mom.

Standing at 4’11 and weighing in at petite, my mother is not exactly what you’d call Goliath.  An immigrant from the Old Country, Anna Maria came to the US after marrying my American father in an arranged marriage.  Scared but hopeful, she devoted herself to raising my brother and I as best she could and though we’ve had our ups and downs and all arounds, I grew up spoiled and deeply loved.  I still remember the beautiful dresses and sweaters she would knit me that I proudly sported in birthday and Christmas snaps.  

Though well intentioned, my mother nonetheless ruled with an iron fist which clashed with my deeply independent nature.  This, coupled with a few other events, led me to “fly the coop” immediately following High School and soon after, the disorder hit.  When I reached the city I escaped to, I began rubbing elbows with danger and living a wild and fast paced life.  I soon forgot my mother and everything familiar I’d ever known, eventually losing myself. 

As life fell apart, I began crying out to her in frantic phone calls and though she couldn’t do anything other than console me, as I wouldn’t come home, she nevertheless hung in there.  As the situation worsened, my mothers friends cautioned her to ignore my calls, as they regarded me a lost cause, but with a compassion that would have melted glaciers, she kept sending me care packages, letters and keeping in touch with the doctors that were trying to help me.  I eventually did come home and let’s say I took the long road, but back to my journal.

As I reread what I’d written to my mother, I realized that amidst all the confusion and turmoil of those times, it was her unrelenting love like that always returned to, like a sunflower craning towards the sun.  Through her virtues I returned to innocence of that little girl who wore those knit dresses.

  

  

On Art

Here I am computer in hand and fingers ready to type.  This time, it’s art.  I’ve decided to pick my own brain regarding the captivation I feel when I create and make things and also what I think about the process in general, so let's see what happens, shall we?

When I’m in the studio paintin’ away on somethin’, I’m usually totally lost in the moment, spellbound by the process and enveloped in “the zone”.  Like a jet plane becoming airborne, I find that my state of mind transcends the mundane and elevates beyond the daily, waxing truly sublime.  I’m relaxed, content and open (the ideal state for receiving more ideas which, in turn, come).  The calm I feel is complete, there’s no lack or want and the very act of painting itself feeds my internal appetite, providing fire for the soul.  

Akin to reading or horticulture, arting can be deeply satisfying - an end unto itself.  It is giving by nature and the only taking it asks is that you faithfully render it’s truth onto your surface of choice.  Trust is essential, doubting is death, first thoughts are everything - unfiltered, heavenly, perfect - whatever they may be.  

Creativity is also like clay and potential.  It is malleable, like a ball you hold in your hands that, once softened and primed for action, can be molded and manipulated any way you choose (giving way to prospective genius!). This preparation takes practice, though.  Factors like falling and getting back up, stretching, tearing apart, piecing back together again, thought, balance and adjustment all make up this process.  Many, many, many mistakes also make up that blessed imaginative state.  Furthermore, it is impossible to reach already “knowing everything”.  Like Charlie and his family before they struck it rich in that Willy Wonka film, you have to be willing to be hungry and honest about it in order for potential to find you a worthy recipient.  And when it does, it will reward you handsomely.

To create is to imagine, to feel the pulse of that cosmic artistic vein that pulsates through the atmosphere, granted us by God Himself.  It is both the act of becoming (or making) and discarding, a sort of simultaneous paradox .

Another thought is that it is imperative to replenish the impulse to art inside of us regularly.  If there’s nothing to feed on, how can we produce anything?  Things like reading, travel, museums and walks can all serve to satisfy the emptiness that finishing a piece of art can sometimes generate.  Like birthing a child, the act of creating can leave us empty and we need to be sensitive and cater to that void - refilling our stations, so to speak.

These considerations are all things that have come to me as I’ve thought and ruminated over my own artistic journey.  They are in no way comprehensive, but I think can serve to help understand that unique beast that is art.

Faith

Mysterious, this faith.  

Takes a lifetime of cultivation, blood, sweat, tears.  

Although an occasional snooze is permitted, don’t fall asleep on the job! 

Invisible, imperceptible, ‘tis yet one of life’s strongest forces.

To the faithful, it is everything - to the atheist, at best, a joke.  

For me, it’s hope.  

Pipe dreams!  You might say. 

Wishful thinking!  One may surmise.

Based on what?  Some could sneer.

Yes, yes, I understand.

But for me, it is reality:

“The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) 

Often, I’ve coasted - prayed faithless, conniving prayers.

Groping my way along the dark, winding path life is, 

I’ve faltered and reached for the instructions, cheating my way out of faith’s practice, fair and square. 

Still, somehow, the light has managed the impossible:  to seep in and settle around my shoulders - like the warmest blanket.

Cozy and snug, faith is a muff for my soul,

Sieve for my doubt,

Repository for the yearnings I fancy in silence, 

The default for releasing uncertainty and fear.

It never fails to bolster, hearten, comfort.

Like Red Bull, it gives me wings,

And in its promise, my spirit takes the flight of hope.

Call me crazy - some have - but let me indulge!

After all, instructions may get the job done, 

But faith yields possibility - a whole lot more fun.

     

  

   

Polk Street Blues

Her small form hovered around me like a mother bear doting on a sick cub.  Silently picking up after me in the tiny disaster of a room that I occupied, her compassion was overwhelming.  Dirty laundry, plates, and pans, grimy windows, dusty knick knacks, an old, gray shag that had seen better days and, lets not forget, the lingering stench of death impending peppered the room.  This was the cheery reality that my mother came to when she visited me in SF during the spring of '98.  

I had previously crescendoed with the bipolar disorder that I had gotten slammed with a few years back and was subsequently reeling in it’s wake.  Having ridden its manic wave for all it was worth and then some, I was now experiencing its polar opposite: a tormenting depression.  But back to my mom.  I cringe to think of how helpless she must have felt watching me spiral into that harrowing abyss but she never let it show.  Instead, with a tender smile and a calm demeanor that never left her, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work tending to her sick daughter in one of the bravest, most important roles of her life.  No small feat.  Being present to me, who at 26 needed constant attention and care was, I’m sure, exhausting.  She bought me food, stayed by my side ever ready to listen, affirm and humor my gloomy ramblings, took me to nice restaurants which I couldn’t enjoy because of the eating disorder I was still plagued by and was, simply, saintly in every way.  

Something bizarre that I wouldn’t let go of during her visit was the need for me to write my mother a letter.  Let me explain.  Since I couldn’t communicate well through words (depression had stolen my coherency) I became obsessed with trying to write her a letter instead.  Too sick to realize that she knew it anyway, I thought that if I stole away and penned her an essay about how much I loved her, she'd know what was in my heart and I’d feel better.  Communication has always been key for me.  

This warped thought process led me to leave her side for chunks at a time in which I’d desperately stuff myself in some cafe or bench along Polk, the street I lived on and try to compose something meaningful, which never worked.  In fact, it only served to heighten my anxiety because I knew that I was wasting precious time.  My mom, gracious as she was, played along hiding what I’m sure must have been a growing concern for me.  I know my futile attempts at scribing broke her heart as they only made my illness more glaringly obvious.

In one of the few pictures I have from those painful times, you can see my mother smiling and diminutive, arm around my waist as though holding me up and I, an unhappy giant hovering over her tiny frame, leaning on her as though I was losing my balance.  The misery of the moment is obvious on my face even though we were framed by a gorgeous, sunny day.

My mom was a slice of life in the otherwise dingy existence that I dragged myself through during those parched years.  Brave and determined to help, she was the singular reason I didn’t let myself die.  Her love, fierce and loyal cut through my anguish when nothing else could and even though I would face many more years of mental malady, knowing that someone unconditionally loved me made the difference between life and death. 

I’m in a completely different place now, in fact, it feels as if I’m talking about someone else when I revisit those crazy years.  Since then, I’ve grown in more ways than I can count and of course, life has happened as it does. But my mother’s love, the one true thing that has sustained me my whole life, still lights up my world.  For me, it is like the dawn of a new day or the scent of a daisy, pure and honest and true.  I know that at some point, I’ll have to let her go, but for now I will enjoy the love that has always warmed my bones and and healed my heart.

Look ma, no hands!  

Wait

Waiting.  I could write the book, but you wouldn't be impressed.  No, it's been a long, hard, haul full of whining and pining and the wait continues. Waiting has been the bane of my existence, the rock in my shoe, the proverbial dangling carrot.  God has promised me a husband and I have dutifully sat tight (but not too tight, 'cause I'll test the waters ever so often just to make sure the pie is still cooking) waiting for the green light and, at 47, I'm still sitting.  

I wish I could tell you that during my 25 year (yes, 25 years) long wait, I've been heroic and patient - a real Joan of Arc - but that's not the case.  A great many of my moments have been pockmarked with debilitating impatience, fits of anger, pouting and other unsavory cajoles to quicken the delivery up just a tad.  None of which has worked.

I'm not proud of how I've handled the wait.  At times, I've humiliated AND disappointed myself - it just hasn't been a pretty sight.  On more than one occasion, out of rage, I've chosen to regard the Father with disparage and scorn to punish Him.  Needless to say, it has availed nothing.  One time, things got so bad that He literally told me I was nanoseconds away from choosing evil over good, for good and to decide wisely.  I listened.  At the end of the day, I love God and want to obey Him so I snapped out of it, but its been an uphill climb...   

I've had to learn what it means to become patient, to lay down my desires at His feet and simply to trust, time and again.  These have been near excruciating lessons to apprehend (for who, in this day and age, wants to be patient?), but they have been necessary.  Had I been given what I so dearly longed for years ago, I would have destroyed it.

I've had many false starts with partners, the endings of which have often been brutal.  This time, I'm doing things differently.  I haven't dated (not even online) in a chunk and I feel readier than I ever have in my life to meet someone, in fact, I feel primed.  We'll see what happens.