Thursday, February 26, 2009

Sweatpants

My dad says that if you wear sweatpants in public you have given up on the world. I am wearing sweatpants right now. Maybe I have given up. Maybe it’s because I want to go home. I want to breathe Brasilian air. Maybe I want to un-remember all the moments that broke my devoted stride. Maybe I want to learn life from outside of these four walls to which my attendance is counted. Maybe I want to hear poetry spit from the mouths of people who have the credibility of living the words they spew. I know I want to wipe the hideous grin of glee from Satan's sick and crooked mouth from my mind. Maybe I want to break away from these impulsions that hold me prisoner to the twisted dismay in my head. Maybe I want these unhealthy thoughts to stop trailing through the sane parts of my brain like heavy trains carrying polluted shards of glass designed to cut bleeding wounds into my mind.

Dark, I know. But the sun is out. And it's being a little feisty. So I pulled the blinds down. I sit amongst the clutter that has grown into my skin. Prescriptions for medications that promise to disinfect the wounds float around me like little pieces of white plastic inside an overly decorated shiny snow globe playing the kind of music that makes you cry. I have attempted to escape into the TV screen but it only snobbishly reflects the ugly scene that did not quite fit with the images it attempted to play into my living room. I have tried filling the void inside of me with comfort food and impulsive treats of indulgence only to find they turned my mirror into an antagonist that sits waiting in a dark room. I tried numbing the awkward silence by filling my lungs with a buzz that would hum past the quiet, but it has only numbed my sense of smell. I sit here uncured. So I play Tetris, making the pieces fit perfectly together, wishing I could do that in my life.

These incessant moments of cowardly careening have worn me down to a very small nub. During these times I have allowed people to come and pick from my tree and now there is no fruit left. Truth be told, I have no desire to produce any more fruit for the spring picking of people hungry for an extra dose of sugar for their daily diet. How long have I been sprouting this produce to feed the emotional appetite of people through whom I sought validation? An appetite, might I mention, that is broken and can never be fully fed; much like my ability to feel validated by their passion for my fruits. Broken. Un-fillable. Somewhere along my gypsy journey with my "fruit delivering" business (where my slogan became "I bring my fruit tree right to you, and all you need is somewhere I can store my stuff"), I lost several things. I still have Tye, my ever my faithful bear with invisibly small eyes. I still have pictures and scrapbooks telling the stories of all the places I planted my tree. But the other day I was looking for my dignity and I must have left it in one of the cities. I then thought if I could find my self-respect, it could get me by for a while. That was nowhere to be found (that one might be in a trailer park in Alabama, actually).

In a sickening epiphany, I realized that dignity had become a commodity I could not afford and I didn't qualify to receive self respect to pay collateral for that dignity. So I decided to look a bit harder. When my mom lost something, she would always send me on a mission to find the object because she said I had an uncanny ability of finding things. Well, I guess that quality paid off. I discovered traces of my self-respect and pieces of my dignity. Most of it was behind some photo albums, under a couple scrap books, and tucked behind my "kiss book". I didn't find either one in its entirety, but the pieces I found are going to be enough to for a foundation.

So after this precious discovery and another enlightening session where my South African mentor compresses 26 years of my parent's advice into 1 hour, I decided to dust the pieces off and start shining them. The final push might have been the violent pinch of having yet another piece of fruit ripped off one of my branches. The fruit was sweet and satisfying, they said. But the tree was disposable. That was the last piece of fruit. I gathered the leaves I had scattered and walked out of the room.

It turns out the tree is in fact, not disposable. It's actually not disposable at all. Not only is the tree not disposable, but the fruit it produces is actually good and useful fruit. Yes, the tree is useful. And it’s good. I am not....disposable. In fact, I was walking through a field the other day and the sun was shining so brightly on me. I was awe struck at the realization that somehow I ended up in Oklahoma...alone. The sun shone through the cold winter wind. As if God was telling me; "Just so you know, no matter what you find about yourself, or about life...it doesn't change how much I love you". Although I have been picked into a nub by my selfish ambitions and the selfish ambitions from those around me, God's power has never been so limited that it cannot make a nub transform into a beautifully shining tree. In fact, there is nothing God's power cannot transform.

I guess all this is to say that I am strengthening myself for the next punch. Satan brought his little posse out and they wreaked havoc in my life this weekend. They pulled out all the stops and let out all the demons. I am still standing...but only because God has planted some amazing people around me that help me remain upright when I sway too low. This year started out with a big wave that knocked me off my feet in an attempt to uproot me. I am still standing...because the roots run too deep to be pulled out of the soil. Even after years of falling. Last night I was talking to a friend who knew me back in the days when I dreamed of being a grown up with "real" drama ( I thought drama meant some really cute guy named Dawson would chase me around while Blessed Union of Souls or the Cranberries played in the background). She told me I had matured as a woman and that it was just a little wave that hit me and I need to jump back up and keep swimming. It just made me realize that the next time a big wave comes I am going to have to be rooted so much stronger. So that is what I am going to do.

For so long now I have convinced myself that "holding on" was so much harder than letting go. For so long I have believed that it made me such a stronger person to press on past someone pushing me away and keep producing my fruit for them. But this weekend, when I started shining off those pieces of dignity and self-respect, I realized I was wrong. It is harder to let go and allow yourself to be pushed away, thus risking the belief that you are disposable and that your fruit will be taken for granted. That is especially bad news for someone who finds validation from the "likability" of her fruit.

There have been those who believe the tree is disposable and that the fruit is readily available for their luxurious snacking urges. And that hurts me. Deeply. That will never change. But it doesn't have to keep happening. I am discovering that if I am being stonewalled out of someone's life, it is harder to let that happen, because of the blow that I take to my heart. But as they say...the harder road is always the most fulfilling. However, it is going to take more strength to take this stand. Which is why the next time a punch gets thrown, or a wave gets blown...I will be standing more firm.

But I will probably still be wearing sweatpants...

Sunday, February 8, 2009

A Lovely Night

The moon was full. It looked down on me so bright. It was showing off it's thick and rich shine with bursts of streams of light through the dark rain clouds as they rolled by. The air felt like a night on the shore of a beach in Brasil. I could almost smell the ocean and feel the salt lingering on my skin. I was almost at peace. The flags clanked against the tall and heavy flagpoles. There was no other noise. Just the wind. My head was clear of any thoughts.
Except the light of the moon and the sounds of the empty parking lot.
The night was so lonely
and so lovely.
My clothes were filthy and the woman at the checkout aisle complimented my coconut ring. There was a couple from Oklahoma Christian in front of me in line. The guy smiled at me. The girl was focused on...her groceries, I guess. I recognized them. They didn't see how tired I was. I walked past the door greeter. She was slightly bent over and her shiny silver hair fell behind her shoulders, except for a couple of rebelious strands. Her glasses and her smile revealed she was probably in her 60s. She was sneaking in a text on her phone. Someone on the receiving side of that text
probably loves her.
I walk out into the night and it was raining. I appreciated the comradery of the sky matching the weather to my mood. The cold rain brushed my skin as if it was trying to clean my dirty clothes. But it couldn't clean my soul. It would have to rain so much harder. Even then... I could walk through the heaviest rain storm dropped by the most menacing clouds.
All it would do is make
my fingertips soggy.
His voice on my messages sent a chill through my skin. I could hear the mistaken conviction in his voice. That helped me shake off the chill. I endulged in the innocence of moons past. Three times. Then I deleted. How long have I been endulging on this mold? I have my grocery bags filled with sugar and a fresh pack, both meant to comfort me. This morning the preacher
said we glorify God with EVERY dollar we spend.
Yeah... I am just
a shining success.
The wind violently shook my car. Maybe it was trying to rock me into a lull as it slapped my cheek with the rain through the open crack in my window. Maybe it was trying to show me discipline and comfort, but it was confused about the order of such endeavors. Who cares. It was raining now.
It smelled like the earth and the
streets were getting purified.

I wasn't though.
My apartment was empty. I recognized it. The wind blew me in as I pushed the door open with my foot. It always drags on the carpet. I would have them fix it, but it's my flaw. I like it. The flaw whispers reassurance that I have a spot where the wind can't slap it's discipline onto my face with rain.
The apartment was so quiet when I closed out
the howling wind with the heavy door.
It's such a lovely night.
Such a lonely night.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

In Between Roads...

These roads...have been so justifiable. They have been so easy to travel. Easy to explain out of one's conscious. They are so deceiving, though. They are so inviting. The lights always catch my attention and the music always lures me in like a hungry fish to a big fat colorful bait dangling in the water. The people always seem so...accepting. Loving. Especially when I begin to partake in the same feasts as they. Once you sit at their table and drink from their chalices and eat off their plates, you are family. Handling problems is so easy on those roads. We just fill our glasses to the brim and raise them to a toast that blames everything else, thus abdicating us from truly taking on responsibility. We dip our heads in our bowls and avoid eye contact that will convict us of our self injuring misdemeanors. We fill our glasses and make another toast to the personal strength we possess in not needing anything or anyone. We succeed at escaping our thoughts with enough toasts and our bowls are empty. Our glasses never are. So we dance on the table, celebrating the fulfillment in our lives. We laugh. Oh, how we laugh. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes there are fights. But we can always make another toast and blame the glasses.

So many toasts hurt my eyes when the sun decides that the night has had enough fun and rises. The road always seems rougher at those moments. But the others around me awaken. And we all see the emptyness in each other's eyes as we travel the road. It hurts our feet a little more. But as we toil the road we grow weary and we sit to rest at the table. The troubles of that day call for a toast. We all raise our glasses....

That vicious circle rolls sickeningly down those roads.

However, one of those times when the sun decided to cut in on our nightly routines, I woke up more empty than usual. I caught a glimpse of something off the road. Something brighter. Not like the lights on the road I was on...something more...pure. I mentioned it to my friends. So we toasted to it. And filled our emptiness with the poison in the chalices. I guess I spent enough nights in this love affair with the poison that it made me wander off the road. It felt lighter. There were not as many sights, but the sun was so much easier on my eyes. I took deep breaths of the air and it didn't pierce my lungs like stabbing spears of smoked tar. I spent some time there and eventually wandered back on the road. I could feel whispering in the air around me as I wandered. It seemed like I travelled a long way back there, but it never felt like I was moving.

And then...one morning...I woke up back on the road. I felt the sun soaking me with a heat of disappointment, but the cold wind nipped at me like a lonely puppy at it's owner's return. The whispering kept reassuring me that the table was waiting. All those people were waiting to raise their glasses and say a toast in honor of the heartbreak I endured and drink to the pain we all felt. They did raise their glasses. We found many toasts to make. This was the same road, but it was a new table and new people. Somehow they knew I had returned and they celebrated. So did the whispering. When the table was empty I invited those voices in and allowed them to guide me to a place where people were joyously toasting. Night after night I would find more things to toast about with my glass filled to the brim. Morning after morning the sun tore through the night breaking up our party and sobering our minds from their altered state.

This morning I woke up so tired. The sun was shining through and the wind was still nipping coldly at my face. The voices were still whispering. But the road feels different today. There was nothing to toast last night. There was no other entity to blame. I did not sit at the table for the nightly toasts. So when the sun woke up it did not hurt my eyes in the same way. The pain seeped out of my mouth through my voice and I could feel the exaustion down to my bones. I saw the road a lot more clearly, I guess the poison is leaving my system. The road hurts the bottom of my feet and the lights seem so pale in comparison to the sun. The air is choking me and I longed for a breath of that purity that does not sting me. The whispering is still here, but it has begun to scare me. I no longer want to invite it in. Night has fallen and there are toasts being made and chalices being raised. The voices whisper that those people miss me. I am drowning them out. This road felt much more fun the first time.

Somehow it was justifiable. I was young. I was searching the roads in my journey and figuring out which one to travel. When I was hurt, those roads provided me the releif I needed without actually having to trek through the difficult terrain. I thought this road was a shortcut through all the hard terrain...straight to the right path. But it wasn't. And it's not. The right path is to the North of where I stand. There are dense woods to travel and high mountains to climb. There are difficult dangers to fight off and survival skills that need to be learned. But past all those challenges is the right road...and that's the one I need to be on. But I'm too tired right now. I have stepped off the painful road, but I hurt. My head hurts. The bottom of my feet are bleeding and my vision is blurred from all the flashing lights. I can't hear clearly from the loud beat of the bass in the music. My lungs are still filled with the heavy air, which is making it harder to breathe and wearing me thin. I am altogether...numb. I feel like I am standing here. I can't move to start walking and I can't sit to rest. I am just....here. I can see the road and all the people at the table. They are raising their glasses. I can see the rough terrain with the pure air and the sunlight. I am immobile. The voices are telling me to come back to the road and find relaxation. The rough terrain is offering me peace. I am stiff where I stand. I feel something watching me so I glance towards the smoky road, and I see a silhouette of darkness. It just grins. The whispering chuckles. I shudder and shake the whispering out of my head. I still can't move. But I think I feel a tingling movement in my toes...