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.        

        

  

Freebie

I’m a late bloomer, what can I say?  Everything in my life has taken and is built upon its own sweet time but the irony is that at heart I’m an extremely impatient person.  God knew what He was doing, however, when He brought everything in my world to an almost complete standstill after I got saved.  Forward motion for me has thus consisted of tiny increments imperceptible to the naked eye and it’s still that way.  Rare and few are the times I can look back and see speedy changes and timely results.  He has always delivered, but almost always chosen UPS ground when it comes to the outcome.  Now I see the logic, as there was a time where I barreled forward to my destruction at the speed of light with no brakes in sight.  Thank God for His wisdom.  

I’ve had to learn (oh God have I learned!) patience and waiting and simply chopping wood, carrying water on a consistent, steady basis.  In other words, doing the next right thing in front of me while I wait for the package.  But in hindsight, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  That He cares enough to tailor a method to teach me the lessons I so dearly need to learn and show me how to savor the moments of my time with Him is gold.  I wouldn’t have it any other way, even though the seemingly geriatric pace has often been the bane of my existence.

Ultimately, I believe we get what we need, not what we want (in large part) and thank the good Lord for that.  None of us truly know our own best interests and are therefore incapable of mapping out a master roadmap for ourselves, if not out of selfishness.  God knows what He's doing, so don't worry and enjoy the ride.      

About Time

Sitting in my room listening to the quiet patters of falling rain, my thoughts turn to growth.  Not  physical growth (I'm holding steady in that respect), but the change in my inner being, psyche and thinking, which has been nothing short of miraculous.  As I look out the window at the grey, dreary afternoon whose daylight is wrapping to a close, I marvel at how even keeled I feel.   

There was a time when I’d look outside during the dark winter months and feel my soul shrink right before my eyes.  I was always so moody and prone to reacting to outer stimuli, whatever the source, that looking back, I liken who I was to a giant barometer.  Things like the weather and peoples moods once had the power to send me reeling as I had less control over my reactions and, was much more prone to internalize everything I came across, including my own emotional landscape.

I won’t say that I’ve arrived, as we are always morphing as human beings, but it is good to put the proverbial stake in the ground and sit for a while, recounting the changes and steps forward I’ve taken, guided by the invisible hand offered me so many years ago now.  My moods have gentled, thoughts become more even keeled, as opposed to jagged trains of words I’d have to catch and unravel with some effort.  I’m more composed, confident and, I feel whole, not like before where I felt I was made up of so many pieces just trying to hold it all together.  And people notice the change.

Scene shift:  it’s 6:00 Wednesday morning.  I’ve just had coffee and breakfast and am back in the saddle of my writing chair.  Settledness is a sensation I can honestly say I’ve never experienced on a regular basis, until now.  The swiftly tilting planets within me just never let up their motion and I had no choice but to follow behind like a dutiful pooper- scooper running after a horse.  The emotions and moods that sloshed around inside me like an ocean during a storm were always threatening to bleed into the fabric of my day and often did. 

What a joy to feel composed.  What a treat to feel empowered and competent in my own skin, to not constantly feel like I have to prove and demonstrate the validity of my being, my worth, because I already know it deep down inside.  People take me seriously now, because I am doing the same.  I never thought I’d arrive at such a state of personal wellbeing.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was beginning to thrive and at almost 48, it’s about time.       

Ode to a Cat

Ode to Gracie

Gracie she is and Gracie she'll be,
kitten and princess and muffin to me.
She's fluffy and puffy, chubby and cute 
with gigantic eyes and funny to boot.

She squeaks when I touch her and makes little sounds,
she startles easily and hiding abounds.
She'll test out my vitals by checking my breath
to see, when I'm sleeping, if I've passed to death.

Once certain I'm living, she'll stretch out a paw
and scratch on my hand with one tiny claw.
"Come feed me" she'll say in her own kitten way
"Wake up from your sleep, I'm hungry, obey!"

The thing about Gracie, she'll pester and nudge,
then politely bow out when she sees I won't budge.
I couldn't ask for more
she doesn't scratch, hiss or bite,
she's a sweet little kitty all cuteness, no fight.

She might not enthrall with her antics so small,
or make you laugh 'cause she won't chase a ball,
but if you fall back and give her a chance
and not expect any big kitty dance,
you'll see that her ways of being and meowel
are O so funny, that you'll fluff up a towel
and ready a bed in the midst of your heart,
so she can curl up, forever to start...

God, a Fugue in A Minor

So, I love Him, but it wasn't always that way.  No, I remember the era of slinking through the underbelly of SF counting on a prayer to some conjured "batch of the day" god of my imagination to help me make it through the night.  Each day, it seemed, I'd whip up a new flavor of divine assistance, depending on my mood, to help ease me into those twisted moments of yore that proved to be so nasty.  Some days it was music I venerated, others the Buddha.  And still others, perhaps, a rock.  I realize now that everything I tried to find my solace in was created, whether being, object or sensation and, in and of itself, utterly useless to my wellbeing (can the inanimate give birth to life?).  In short, I hadn't yet reached the end of my rope and so willingly grasped at every harebrained "path" that flew my way instead of the maker Himself.

It wasn't until I sat at a table one day with my last and final meal in hand, ready to oust myself a bite at a time, that I realized I'd truly reached the apex of my misery.  Had a friend not called me, "coincidentally", at exactly the right moment, I would have been lost to all avenues of hope.  Her voice, warm and friendly, parted the rapidly closing curtain around my soul and, for an instant, I saw life.  I must've chosen well, 'cause here I am almost 15 years later praying to a God, this time, who I can't hear, see, smell or touch but that is more alive to me that anything I've ever experienced.

Like the woman at the well who sat with Jesus in the noontime hour and, astonished, ran to tell a whole village of the Man who told her everything she ever did, so am I.  Stunned and humbled by this love, I too, run a race against myself to spread the good news proclaiming Jesus is real, and that He loves and calls us by name.  What else is there?

My life today differs vastly from the disjointed, fragmented ball of wax that was my previous existence.  My moods have improved, mind has cleared and a joy has taken up residence in my spirit.  I've a score of thriving friendships and can count on myself to show up responsibly and thoroughly to every event of my days.  It's been this way for years and just keeps getting better.  My journey with Jesus has kept me grounded, sane and anchored in safety - plus, it's been fun.  And as for the experiences that haven't been peachy, the brutal ones that've knocked me off my feet, that invariably knock on the door no matter who you pray to?  Well, lets just say I now have someone to fall back on...

God is real, He is good and He is love.  As for the fugue?  Here's the last of it.



        

  

         

But Now I See

So my trip to Bethel was awful.  A W F U L  Aside from lengthy travel time (it took 24 hours to make what should have been an 8 hour trip with all the layovers, stops and whatnot), my journey was filled with creepy looking folk, stomach issues, a painfully cramping backside due to the prolonged sitting, fist fights, theft and other pleasantries.  

After I finished with my appointment (which, by the way, was stellar - the only redeeming part of my trip) and took an Uber back to the Greyhound station to catch the bus home, fresh horrors awaited me as I stepped out into the stifling, smokey 105 degree heat.  I had a lag time of 2 1/2 hours to wait for my bus, which I wasn’t feeling at all.  There was no sheltering building with air-conditioning awaiting me or the other passengers, just an open air design with a few benches, so I parked it on a cement seat and began to watch the minutes crawl by, bemoaning my infernal wait. 

As I sat, it suddenly occurred to me that I should reach out to God.  As elemental and basic as the epiphany may sound, I was so knee deep in the uncomfortableness of my trip, that I had neglected to lift my eyes heavenward for any sort of help or guidance.  I guess you could say I’d been white knuckling it up until that point.  But desperate as I was to find a reason for the perpetuated misery I was in, I finally came to my senses and asked Him to give me His eyes to see the situation with, ‘cause I was fadin’ fast.  

No sooner did I pray, that with a jolt (as much as one can be jolted in 105 degrees, that is), I became aware of an elderly lady sitting next to me.  Her wrinkled arms, thin as toothpicks rested on the handlebars of a walker that looked like it carried all that she held dear in the world.  She asked me my name and gave me hers.  I tried to spark a dialogue with her after that, but she looked away so I left her alone.  Just then a security guard passed by asking her how she was doing and I heard her tell him that her toes had just been amputated.  I looked down at her slippers and winced.  She finally got up and shuffled across the way to catch her bus.  I wondered where she was going and what would become of her…

Soon after, a man with two big plastic garbage bags full of clothes came and plunked them down where the lady had been sitting.  He looked clean and honest, if not homeless, but I keep an eye on him anyway - I was more than a little fearful in my unfamiliar surroundings.  The dude didn’t look like he wanted to hack me, however, so I chose not to change seats and continued to bide my time, open to whatever dialogue might come up between us.

He circled the sidewalk for a while, looking like he had much on his mind then stopped and asked me what the good word was.  I responded with a comment about God and he nodded, continuing on with his pensive pacing.  He eventually tried to buy a ticket to Oregon, but his card was declined.  I could see that this was a very big deal for him and watched as shock and disbelief indeed filled his face.  Collecting himself, he made a phone call to someone and explained why he wouldn’t be coming to visit, exhorting whoever it was to hold strong and not give up.  It sounded like a desperate situation.  I couldn’t help but think that here was this down and out guy encouraging someone else when I’m sure he himself could’ve used the cheer…  

Continuing on with my eavesdropping, I found out that he had just gotten out of a shelter and that in lieu of Greyhound, his next step would be to get on local transit and ride around, in the hopes that something would come up.  My heart broke as I watched him heave up his bags and slowly walk towards the bus, I wished I could’ve bought him the ticket.

At this point, I needed to stretch my legs - I’d been sitting for almost 13 hours straight - so I took a slow, cautious (as there were lots of ahem, shady-looking elements in the vicinity) stroll around the station, trying not to pass out from the heat.  I didn’t make it far before I decided to sit down again.  This time, I chose a spot close to a dejected-looking young man with a duffle bag next to his feet who had previously asked me for some bus money.  I’d given it to him though secretly I’d wondered where it was  really gonna end up…  I guess he’d been honest though, because there he sat, waiting for Greyhound.

I lowered myself down with an unceremonious plop and proceeded to study him out of the corner of my eye.  He looked to be about 20 with a mop of brown hair that poked out from underneath a baseball cap and a mustache.  Sitting hunched with his elbows resting on his knees the way he was, it looked like he had lost all his fight.  

At this point, I felt a tug to reach out to him even though I didn’t want to (beat by the heat as I was).  I ended up opening my mouth and asking him if he was thirsty.  He turned to me looking surprised that someone had actually acknowledged him and I could see that he was indeed parched by the saliva that had dried up on the sides of his mouth (is it any wonder?).  And In a voice barely louder than a whisper he said that he was, so off I went to buy him a bottle of water.  Before I left though, I made sure to fish out the remainder of my food and give it to him.  He took it with gratitude and a few moments later when I tapped him on the shoulder with the ice cold liquid, his eyes almost popped out of his head.  Looking like he had just won the lottery, he shyly reached out his hand for the drink.  I had the sense that he had been going at it completely on his own for a chunk, just trying to survive.  

The young man’s surprise at my small act of kindness had caused me to wonder if anybody had reached out to him or any of the others like him I’d met that afternoon.  Probably not was my guess and this, not out of a maliciousness or callousness, but when things happen and we’re in survival mode, it’s our tendency to only look out for our own and not zero in on others people’s plight.  Combine this with the fact that we usually live in our own bubbles anyway, is it any wonder our society is so broken down?     

I’m certainly not trying to elevate myself to Mother Teresa status here, as there have been plenty of times I’ve turned a blind eye (more than plenty in fact) to the needs of my fellow man.  But I’ve always felt that when there is a call it is our obligation, if at all possible, to fill it.  Proverbs 3:24 comes to mind:  “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act…”  Never before did that passage ring as true as it did on that hellaciously hot August afternoon.   

    

More tales of woe continued to unravel themselves before my eyes as I sat waiting for my ride outta hell, too many to recount.  Maybe it was because the heat had gotten to me, or the fact that I could see that the fires, which had devastated most of the surrounding area, had dipped the morale to a dangerous low but I felt such a resigned desperation as I sat at that station - as if I was literally experiencing it on my own skin, right along with everyone else.  

Musing, I realized that the travail along my trip had served to break down all my defenses, allowing the reality of the moment to seep into my blood in a manner that it wouldn’t have any other way.  The long, angsty hours of my journey, the emotional appointment I’d had at Bethel and my own innate compass for compassion towards the disenfranchised and homeless had all served to magnify the desperation and hopelessness that screamed at me in the station.  

I know my eyes were opened that day for a reason and I feel that reason was for me to get a little taste of the plight of the needy, so I could do just what I’m doing now - highlight their drama.  Later, as I sat in the cool of the bus, I thought about the people I’d met and how I wished I could have helped them, I mean really helped them beyond just feeling bad and buying someone a water...  

There is a crisis.  Many are not doing well in our society and it’s up to those of us who have the power to act (and most of us do) to step up and do something about it.  Otherwise, we’ll have completely missed the point of what we profess to stand for as Christians and as human beings.  Dear God, open our eyes to see and anoint our hands to do your work, amen.  

          

  

     

The Dancer

Can I just toot my horn for a sec?  Frenzied gyration, dizzying twists and mind bending moves, insane synchronicity and complete rhythmic symbiosis - all this and more as I danced my youth away during those wild years of infamy.  My body became an instrument that I used at will for my enjoyment, rapture and thrill as I threw myself into the music whilst clubbing and frankly, whenever else I could get it.  Back in my glory days, when I went where the wind blew and then some, dancing was my religion - the only true pleasure I had as my life unravelled helplessly between my fingers.

I remember the excitement I used to feel as the anticipation of a night spent perusing and partaking of nightclubs coursed through my veins.  I'd prep to step out in my hotel room at the Golden Eagle, that cesspool of humanity, while beats would hit me from the cheap radio that was perennially by my side.  As I sit in my maturity now and peck out these words, I still listen to those beats.  House music, my love my passion, the fuel to my rhythmic fire, alas, is now only a stint between worship tunes and peaceful melodies, but I still get it in there as it continues to and always will be in my bones.

Back in the day, I was the queen, the star of the night as I rocked with my Sicilian stilettos, a madwoman in invisible chains nevertheless for a moment free with the ecstasy of total surrender to motion.  You must understand, however, that everything I experienced was heightened to the umpteenth degree by this little thing called chemistry.  My body failed to produce what my brain needed to be happy, so my mind went a little cuckoo.  This translated to an enhanced dancing experience that frankly, blew people away FYI

So what of it?  As my mentor John Really would say "all that and a nickel buys a 5 cent cigar, if you smoke cigars".  Even though I don't really dance anymore, my life today is immeasurably deeper and more satisfying since I met Christ.  And nothing has the corner market like peace, stability and the maturity I'm grateful to now have - not even dancing.  I am thankful to have grown up, even though it has meant leaving certain pleasures behind but God never takes without replacing and I lack nothing.   Still, deep in the recesses of my soul there lies a bag of glitter and a dance floor, waiting.

Brother

Pockets of grief linger in my heart,

the organ that's been torn all apart.

This country night I've not much to do,
so I sit on the porch feeling like goo.

I'm watching my brother wash off his car, 

and marvel at how thorough his efforts are.

He scrubs and he soaks and wipes patiently,

sweating with work and spent energy.

The strains of the music that fills his ears,

mix with the moment erasing my tears.

It's cloudy and muggy and windy tonight

but somehow watching my brother makes it alright.

I wish we could talk like we used to do

when we were little and all things were new.

But we struggle, we fight and argue so much -

it's really a shame we're so out of touch...

My brother, my comrade, my partner in crime

lets hang out lets talk more, it's certainly time.  

On Smartphones Part 1

It’s a quiet Tuesday afternoon and I sit at my computer thinking of the cell phone that I have purposely left in the kitchen and my internal dialogue goes something like this:  “Was it a good idea to leave it on the table?  Maybe I should go get it, what if I need to look up something?”  Never mind that I’m sitting at a computer where the world practically lives at my fingertips anyway…no, somehow the phone seems important, necessary even.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was having a slight case of separation anxiety.  

The situation sounds absurd, but it is actually not far removed from the reality that millions of folks currently experience; an unnatural connection to their smart phones, those wily, ubiquitous devices that have succeeded in winning us over one text at a time.  You may laugh, but it’s true.  One has only to look around to notice the aforesaid glued in our hands while our heads bend down to take in byte after byte of entertainment or distraction, such as the case may be. 

Take the gym for example.  I remember when people went to work out unhampered by the technology that now eats up all our attention.  They were there, well, to work out.  Nowadays when I scan the horizon, as far as my eye can see, I notice smart phones populating book holders on treadmills, stationary bikes and the like, while their respective owners exercise glued to the screens, taking in content with rapt attention and appearing more interested in virtual reality than in breaking a sweat.  It’s sad to see people pause their routines just to take in something on their phones.  I want to shake them and shout, “You’re here to work out, so work out!”

Or how about Bart (the Bay Area rapid transit system for those of you unfamiliar), that grand repository of the human soup?  Nowhere else can one gauge so accurately the trends and zeitgeist currently inhabiting society than in those telling cars.  In riding, I’ve witnessed the disturbing sight of practically every person poring over their phones in one way or another.  Passengers stand up in the thick of commute time with practically no room to breath looking like so many penitent churchgoers...eerily silent and disturbingly still, their bent heads blankly take in the device in their hands.  In all fairness, tuning out is allowed after a long day at work or life, but we've gotten way too comfortable at downright ignoring the action and potential danger around us in order to check a Facebook status, or scroll through our pictures.

Our phones have become extensions of our identity.  They have transformed our way of thinking and relating to each other and to the world.  Unfortunately, I don't see this as a trend that's going to reverse anytime soon, like melting icecaps, unless we, as individuals, question our habits and lifestyles more than we have.  I can't see the future, God's in charge of that, but I do surmise we need a drastic shift in our rudders, otherwise we're headed for the iceberg, folks, we're headed for the iceberg, and who wants that?

Photo Album

Strolling through the pages, unsuspecting as could be, I visited the glances staring back at me.

They were of a girl so desperate in the hood, that forsook all her beauty to see if becoming a dealer she could.

The little girl she was, pretty as a daisy, with mischief in her dancing eyes later got certified as crazy.  

All throughout the pictures, there was a story I could tell, my eyes held the key to my madness and my hell.

Walking through the years, I kept noticing my smile at first my teeth were showing, then fell out of style.

Hidden behind lips, that were drawn across my face, the saddest of smiles, revealed a harshness that was foreign and out of place.  

At first I was happy baring all my soul; looking at the camera, beautiful and whole.  

Then came the storm that shook me to the core and left me ripped to pieces strewn and on the floor. 

In one shot after the battle ceased, I was heavier, more peaceful yet still fragile as a leaf. 

New Year's

So it's upon us, the New Year.  I wonder what this one will bring.  Last year hosted a flurry of health challenges, medical tests, relationship meltdowns (well, one -- but it was a BIG one) and family worries.  There was a lot of stress and some disappointments.

But there were also some major joys.  I got to move into and decorate the FIRST house/cottage I've ever lived in by myself.  I got a cat, who has become my joy, then I got another cat who I've already fallen in love with.  I'm taking charge of my health by starting to exercise regularly again and feel terrific, I've also discovered for the fist time ever, cooking and I adore it and am pleased to say that many of the things I make turn out delicious to the delight of my friends, who enthusiastically let me know!

I've been able to set my own rhythms and with more clarity have been realizing that I alone am responsible for my own choices, decisions and feelings whereas before, I was lost in a sea of codependency as a roommate, always juxtaposed with other's thoughts, feelings and actions...  This has been the most freeing thing for me, I believe.  I've had room, a lot of room, to grow up.  I care less what people think, and stand up for myself with more decision, and less apology.  There's room for growth, always, but I love what I see in myself and who I'm becoming.







Seeing myself as a whole person has been exciting liberating and challenging all at once.