Words from Ellen Bass

"to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again."
— Ellen Bass

Love songs make me wanna hollah (and scrap)

So, what's the deal with love songs? I'm not afraid to disclose that, from time to time, I tune into our lousy radio stations here and catch myself (okay, I'm fully conscious of what I'm doing) singing along (more like busting a lung) to Phil Collins. And, lately, since I'm singing, I'm paying more attention to what is actually being said. Maybe you already know this but most "love song" lyrics essentially tell the same story which goes something like this: "Baby, I need you. I'm going to die without you. Since you've left me I'm nothing. I might as well go kill myself because my life without you is absolutely and completely meaningless." So, I ask again, what's the deal, folks? Why do we listen to this garbage and, better yet, why do we believe it?! And, for those of you who don't believe this crap, good for you, but the fact that there are millions of songs out there that spout this nonsense means that someone's listening (and not just a select few.)

I'm bringing all this up now because yesterday I watched an old Roman Polanski film called "Bitter Moon" with Peter Coyote and a hot French woman. For those of you who haven't seen the film, here's a quick synopsis:

Peter, whose name is Oscar in the film, meets hot French woman and they have this passionate sex and love affair until he gets bored and loses interest because, as Common says so eloquently, "good sex ain't gonna keep you." So, he kicks her out - numerous times except she keeps coming back and, eventually, begs on her hands and knees that she can't live without him. "You can do anything you want," she says. "You can have other women, you can hit me," blah, blah blah. (Yes, she actually says these things.) And so, he does just that. He sleeps around. She cooks him dinner. He says it tastes like crap. She cuts her hair and dyes it blond. He says, "Oh, I didn't know it was Halloween." And on and on. Eventually, she gets really sick and he softens for a moment and offers to take her on a trip to Martinique except, when they're on the plane, he fakes having a heart attack and the plane takes off without him. For two years, he goes on a sex spree until he gets hit by a car and hot French woman returns to France (after being in Martinique for those 2 years), finds out about his accident, visits him at the hospital and yanks him out of hospital bed, causing him to break his back (he already had a broken femur from the accident). He becomes paralyzed from the waste down, ending his sexual adventures and she becomes his nurse. You can imagine what kind of nurse she is. They eventually get married because, as he says at one point in the film, "It was like we were two survivors of a major catastrophe and we couldn't be without one another."

I read the comments at the end of the film (it was posted on Youtube) and most people really didn't like it and yet I found myself fascinated. I think the film did an amazing job of exaggerating the notion of co-dependency to the point where the actual mechanism of it and how it's played out becomes so obvious to the outside viewer, one can't help but see how destructive this pattern is. Unfortunately, I think there's a lot of this going on in modern relationships; maybe not to the same extent but it's there in varying degrees. Why is this? Why do we feel like we need another person to be in our lives in a romantic way so that we have meaning? Why not create meaning first? And what is love?

M. Scott Peck in his book, "The Road Less Traveled," defines love as "the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth." He continues to say, "Love is as love does. Love is an act of will - namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose love." Following this definition, then, love and domination cannot co-exist. Love and abuse cannot co-exist. Loving one another becomes an act of mutual symbiosis where both organisms are mutually benefiting one another and mutually thriving. In order for this to happen, we first need to know who we are and love ourselves. To love well means to have a healthy ego and a healthy amount of self-respect which results in healthy boundaries. No self-loving woman would have stuck around with Oscar. The second he even hinted at abuse, she would have been gone and wouldn't have looked back. (This can be the case for a man who's with an unhealthy woman or in an unhealthy relationship.)

The problem is that most of us have a distorted view of love. We confuse lust with love, "deep connection" with love, good sex with love, and emotionally bonding with someone as love (just to name a few. I'm sure you have your own list.) But the truth is that love is selfless. Love supports growth and personal freedom. Love supports our highest purpose on this planet. Love is boundless. Love doesn't covet or get jealous. Love isn't stingy.

I be-friended a woman recently who used to be a third grade teacher. One of her many acts was developing a curriculum to teach the meaning of love to children. One may scoff at this. Teaching love? But, we inherently know how to love...right? That may be true. I think children do inherently know how to love. The problem is that what they inherently know is oftentimes taught right out of them. We all do know deep down what it means to love and, more importantly, how it feels to love. But, how often to we act on this knowledge? How long does it take for a child to become cynical and jaded? My younger brother is 11 and he's got a pretty good dose of this. Sure, there's a place for good constructive criticism of the world and one's surroundings but, in my opinion, this thinking should not replace the strength of love and the act of love.

I think maybe we have some re-schooling, folks. It's never too late to go back for some re-education, right? Next book on my list is bell hooks, "All About Love." I know I could use some re-training and re-wiring of my neurons when it comes to love. Once, not so long ago, I was in bed with a man doing the make out thing. Earlier in the day I had a conversation with a loved one and it didn't go so well. It had to do with our relationship and how, to me, it felt like a sinking ship full of beautiful treasures. So, later, in bed with someone else (I wasn't breaking any agreements, or, in other words, cheating, just so you know), I felt miserable. I was going through the motions and not at all present. I finally said to who I was with, "You know, I had a really rough day and a very difficult conversation with someone. Can we just cuddle?" I think I maybe told him some of the details. (This is the point where those terrible magazines we read with titles like "What NOT to do in bed with a lover" would have something very harsh to say to me.) But, you know, I have this bad habit of being brutally honest. I can't help it. My heart waves around in the air like those flags on fishing boats that notify everyone how many fish were caught that day and what kind. Well, that night, my boat was empty. And so I was honest. And this man's response to me was, "I'll give you all the cuddle power I have." And he did. He wrapped himself around me like a thick, fuzzy blanket and though my heart still ached, I felt understood and heard. In this moment, a profound act of love (and grace)was bestowed upon me. Cuddle power - it's what we can all do for one another - metaphorically and physically. Remember the care bears? Yeah, well, they're for real.

Stilettos, anyone?

Some days call for 3-inch heels and a mean walk that's aided by those heels, of course. Mind you, I never wear heels so these days are certainly interesting experiments in mind over matter (and balance). Today, I practiced walking in these little black monsters in my house before braving the walk between my door and the car. It's not a far walk but it's rough being that it's not really a path so much as chunky lava rock and tall grass. Heels were not made for this sort of territory but are more for the smooth sidewalks and asphalt of a city. Smart woman that I am, I grabbed my Chacos on the way out the door because, let's face it, heels ain't for no wimp and I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to make it through a whole day with these things strapped to my feet.

Nevertheless, in their defense, they give a body a little more "umph" even if it's slightly staccato in nature. Something about wearing them spouts, "Yeah, look at me up on these things. I know I'm hot. I bet I could even do the high-wire, no problem."

Here's a little history: high heels have actually been around for quite some time, dating back to the Hellenic period. Since then, they have gone through many transformations and, depending on the culture, have been worn for many purposes and by both genders. For example, Mongolian horsemen used them to keep their feet from slipping out of their stirrups and Egyptian butchers used them to keep their feet out of the blood and mess of their work. In this sense, high heels have quite a practical function.

So why am I wearing them and why do countless women wear them to work day after day? It's not like we're riding our horses to work or having to step through pig and cow parts along the way. (Well, at least not literally, maybe metaphorically.) I can't answer for anyone else but, for me, because I wear them so rarely it's like a new experience. The world looks a little different standing 3 more inches off the ground. Plus my calves bulge a little more and my hips sway differently and more, shall I say, enticingly. They're fun. In my case they're totally impractical. They're downright absurd, actually. But most things in life are anyway so, if you can't beat it, might as well join, or so they say.

Last night, I began seriously reading "The Continuum Concept." (I say seriously because I have this horrible habit of reading about 4 books at a time as if I'm some sort of literary junkie who can't get her fix on just one book. So, I'm attempting to focus on this book until completion - should be interesting.) The point is - yes, back to the bloody point - that the author, Jean Liedloff, experienced something quite extraordinary when she spent a substantial amount of time with various Indian tribes who lived (and hopefully still do) in the jungles of the Amazon. In stark contrast to our Western way of doing things and seeing things, the people of these tribes had no concept of unhappiness. She gives example after example of the ways in which they lived and how they didn't even have a word for "work." Here's an excerpt:

Here before me were several men engaged in a single task. Two, the Italians, were tense, frowning, losing their tempers at everything, and cursing nonstop in the distinctive manner of the Tuscan. The rest, Indians, were having a fine time. They were laughing at the unwieldiness of the canoe, making a game of the battle, relaxed between pushes, laughing at their own scrapes and especially amused when the canoe, as it wobbled forward, pinned one, then another, underneath it. The fellow held bare-backed against the scorching granite, when he could breathe again, invariably laughed the loudest, enjoying his relief.

All were doing the same work, all were experiencing strain and pain. There was no difference in our situations except that we had been conditioned by our culture to believe that such a combination of circumstances, constituted an unquestionable low on the scale of well-being, and we were quite unaware that we had any option in the matter.

But what if we realize that we do, indeed, have options insofar as how we react to what life throws at us? I remember this moment in High School like it was yesterday -

It was during my AP Biology class with Ms. Lentz. It was a gorgeous day and we were outside at the beach. The whales had come to town and we were watching them. I was walking alongside my good friend, Brittany, and we were having a conversation about the way things are set up in our neck of the woods, being the Western world. Even then as a 17-year old teenager, I had a strong sense that, excuse my French, things were fucked up and, though it appeared we were quite privileged, we obviously got the short end of the stick as far as cultures go. I don't remember our exact conversation but the gist was this: How is it that people have to work these ridiculous jobs that, admittedly, they don't really like, just so that they can have money to buy food that, really, they could grow themselves? How is it that our economy, our whole way of life, is based on consumerism? How shallow and empty is that?

Thirteen years later, I'm pondering the same thing and, moreover, I am wracking my brain as to how to exist within this sort of system in a way that feels like my soul is not being eaten. In all honesty, I could give a shit about money. That's my soul speaking. My mind says something quite different and echoes the study that was recently done where researchers found that, indeed, money does make people happy. Okay, maybe it doesn't make people happy but they found that when people made a certain amount, well above the poverty line, of course, they were better able to care for themselves and overall quality of life improved. I buy that argument in this culture, I do. However, in reading about the ways of indigenous people, I get the sense that they have access to a happiness we could never fathom in our capitalistic, competitive system. They don't compete with one another. They live communally, in genuine support of one another's overall well-being. They live in absolute harmony with the jungle that surrounds them, whereas, we are constantly fighting with nature whether it's spraying "Round-up" on roadside "weeds" (I put weeds in quotes because I don't really believe there is such a thing.) or mono-cropping or genetically modifying our food (even newly manufactured GMO salmon is being considered for commercial sale). We're constantly altering, meddling with, or downright fighting with nature to the point that, in my opinion, we're going to drive ourselves into extinction because the planet's going to finally kick us off for being such parasites. I can just imagine when we're gone the planet giving a great big sigh of relief then rubbing her planetary hands together and saying, "Good riddance!"

You might be asking yourself, how did this entry go from the history of high heels to human extinction? I'm not exactly sure myself only that walking on heels reminds me of our precarious position on the planet these days. On the one hand, there's some of us who seem to "get it" even if it means not taking one of those godforsaken plastic bags home with us from the grocery store. And then there's those of us who, quite frankly, need to wake the fuck up. I say to those people, "Get your head out of your air-conditioned Hummer (which, by the way, is, like, so passe) and smell the exhaust." In all seriousness though, I wonder if there's a way to go back a little. It's doubtful that those of us in the Western world could easily return to a life on the land like the Indians. (Okay, maybe some of us could.) But, too many of us are so reliant on our iphones, our ipads and itouches and ifarts and whatever else there is that a life in nature is downright scary. But there must be some compromise. There must be a way. I'm working on it. Until I come to some reasonable solutions, I leave you with a poem...


Plum juice
dripping down my arm
and chin
Fleshy and luscious softness
meeting my lips and mouth
Is there any sweeter satisfaction
than this intoxication
that inhabits the briefest and
most heavenly of moments?

Three Poems

1.

When the cashier asks you,
"Would you like your receipt?
Kindly nod "yes" and later,
when you pull it crumpled from your pocket
instead of mindlessly tossing it in the trash
write some words on the back
that only you know how to write
and slip it someplace random
but where someone will find it -
a library book,
a magazine at the check out counter,
a stranger's mailbox,
a phone book at a pay phone
You never know
whose life you might save this way.


2.

I think of you now
while I stand here sipping tea.
My clothes are cast off for the night
and I gaze at my profile in the mirror.
My belly's extended,
full of risotto and chocolate cake.
How do I look differently to you now
since you haven't seen this body
in more than a year?
How do you look differently to me?

Sometimes I think of the moments ahead of me -
the moments yet to be experienced -
like oncoming trains.
What cargo do they carry?
What passengers?
What stories?
And when can I expect your train to arrive?

I wonder about the exact moment
we catch sight of one another
after such a long separation.
And, just before that,
will we sense each other's presence?
What will we say?
Perhaps I will tell you
about the night in my kitchen
when you stared into me so intently
it was as if you saw me completely
and how I had to bite my lip
and hold my breath
in an attempt to squeeze the tears back
because you would be half way around the world
in a matter of days.
Isn't this what we all want?
To be seen.


3.

This is my Sunday night:
An oil lantern to my left.
A mosquito coil
burning at my feet.
Two dogs scampering about
attempting to pounce
on the unseen creatures of the night.
A moonless and clear sky.
Sticky plum juice on my chin.
A stream of words still untying themselves.

Gotta love Wal-mart

In case you can't tell from the picture, all those colorful bottles below the "Chemicals" sign are various laundry detergents and fabric softeners. Is this some sort of ironic joke? I mean, I know that those laundry detergents are made up of all sorts of nasty petrol chemicals and I only go near them to take funny pictures. But, your average Wal-mart shopper? Well, maybe they know but don't care or know but, hey, they're saving a few bucks. Who cares if the phosphorescent liquid is contributing to the poisoning of our water after it's dumped out of countless washing machines around the country (and planet?)

While I rarely shop at Wal-mart, I've been paying attention to this particular area just because I'm dumbfounded by it. It's as if my mind draws a total blank as to a probable explanation. At first I thought maybe this used to be the "Round-Up" section but the "Chemicals" sign has been there for almost a year now along with the laundry detergent underneath. And Round-Up has been in its place for a long time in the Lawn and Garden section. Even that doesn't say "Chemicals" above it.

Is this Wal-mart's way of being "transparent?" (I love this new buzz word that's being tossed around these days in the world of politics like the candy that Santa throws out to a frenzied mob of kids during a Christmas parade.) Somehow, I really doubt it. So, what's the story? Is it the act of some vengeful employee whose latest quest is to bring down Wal-mart one aisle at a time? What's next, the dog food section? I can see it now, "Cow, Pig and Horse Parts." Just say it like it is. Imagine how much less we would shop if we knew what we were really buying.

I guess this is just one of the world's mysteries that I will never know. Now that it's been documented, though, maybe next time I'll approach a manager, wink and say, "Hey buddy, nice sign above the laundry detergent" and see what he says.

It's a Tori Amos kind of day

I don't listen to Tori Amos that much these days. She seemed to be what I needed when I was an angst-ridden teenager. (Yeah, remember those days?) But, every so often, she's exactly what I need - a good dose of melancholy mixed with a bit of anger and some good sensuality thrown in. I reached for her today and, by God, belted out every word as I crawled along the highway, stuck behind yet another person who doesn't understand that 40 MPH is the MINIMUM speed limit, not the maximum.

I think I'm coming to understand what it means to feel depressed. It's not something to be afraid of. It's something to sink into. Like a bitter melon or a pungent tonic. Just cringe and toss it back. Admittedly, it does feel like blackness constantly hovering over me and, periodically, leaning into me with its weight. Thank God (or Goddess) that I have writing to lift me out of what feels like an emptiness so complete, I realize I'm not really breathing. I think we all go through times like this where what's been for so long no longer fits. It's like trying to stuff ourselves into clothes we once wore and loved but are too damn small and maybe a little faded and frayed. And so change is necessary yet sometimes the most frightening thing.

I've spent so much time creating this little life for myself. I built my own house pretty much from the ground-up. Lived without electricity or a phone or a fridge for more than a year. Closer to two. I've planted hundreds of trees. I've established my own business. I have two dogs who are adorable. I've worked tirelessly to establish myself as this independent, self-sustaining, strong woman who can do it all and off-the-grid, no less. And that's great. I'm proud of myself. And, at the end of the day, this loneliness and darkness hits me so hard, it's as if I can see nothing else. Not the brilliance of the stars or the red glow of lava pouring new earth onto this little piece of the planet, not anything but black. And somehow, here in the dark, I realize (I think it's my Higher Self) that I'm in this process of re-defining who I am. It's like being in a cocoon. I have to go through this dark tunnel right now. It's part of a woman's journey; the hero or heroine's journey as it's often called. For so long I've identified myself as the quintessential Amazonian woman and now, it's a damn poor fit because it's left me alone on 3.5 acres of land wondering "what in the hell am I doing here?" I realize I've walked myself every step of the way and now, it's time to walk myself in a different direction.

My mind so wants to ask the endless questions: But where will you go? What will you do? You've established all of this here...what else could there possibly be? You live in Hawai'i, for God's sake, where so many people would just die to live! And on and on and on. It's all fear based. And it's also based on the fact that part of me is clinging to an old identity because, without that, who am I? Who are any of us if we are not defined by our work, our friends, where we live, if we are parents, etc. etc. Who are we without any of these labels? Who am I? Who are you?

Yesterday, after one of my more difficult mornings and afternoons, I decided to go for a bike ride. On my return home, I visited this small gravesite by the ocean. I sat down on one of the graves - it happened to be one of an infant who only lived for a day. To either side of him were his grandparents. Somehow, the understanding that I am going to die at some point lifted my spirits and not in the sense that you're thinking. I mean, the understanding I felt sitting there gave me permission to live it up because this is all I got. I don't think I believe in re-incarnation, at least, not in the traditional sense. I think that when I die, my remains will go back into the earth and fertilize the soil and that will bring forth new life. So, in a sense, the ending of my life will birth new life but I don't think I'm coming back into human form again. I'm always open to being wrong though.

I have these moments of absolute clarity and yet, slowly, ever so quietly and sneakily, that damn party crasher, Fear, moves in on me. Just when I think I'm onto something like being a writer or moving to California or going to see this man in France who I still long for, Fear puts up his black-gloved hand and says, "Oh no, no, no, you can't do THAT. Are you SERIOUS?! What could you possibly be THINKING?" And he stands there in my way like a big bully smoking his goddamn awful menthol cigarettes with his cocky little smirk and sunglasses. He never shows his eyes, the damn coward.

But, you know what, one of these days, I'll drum up enough love to pick him up and carry him off in my womanly arms and tell him, "Basta! You go sit in your little corner and sulk all you want but I'm going and you can't stop me."

Sometimes, we live in a place for a certain purpose and when that purpose is done, our time there is over. A little over a year ago, this man from France (who I mentioned earlier) was watching me in the kitchen while I was struggling with something. He had already asked if I needed help. (He was always asking me if I needed help) and, as usual, I said no and continued struggling on my own. So, he stood there and watched me. And finally, after some time of me still struggling, he smiled, shook his head and said in the most loving of ways, "You're all alone in the world, aren't you?" I don't think even he realized how accurate that statement was/is. And that's the trouble with being a pioneer in anything. It's a lonely position to fill because you end up being out there, all alone. And for a time, the pride accompanying such solo accomplishment is big enough to fill the growing void. But, at some point, the costs outweigh the benefits.

Now that I've set myself up as a pioneer woman, I'm not quite sure how to bow out of it. And yet, I know the answer will come in time. It's like planting a seed, origin unknown, and waiting for that little seed to get the message to sprout, each day checking to see what exactly it's growing up to be. I guess I'm still growing myself up. I'm not yet sure what I am. Then again, maybe none of us really know. We're all just pretending to some degree or another. Pretending to be happy and content. Pretending to love our lives meanwhile drinking every night. It's all just make-believe. I've seen people who seem to have it all - the house, the loving husband/wife, the beautiful child, the enviable job and yet, I see a deadness in the eyes. It's like the spark's been snuffed out.

I thought I had the answers by living "alternatively." I've always had trouble with the mainstream way of doing things. I've always been a rebel in my own way. If someone tells me I can't do something, you can be sure as hell I'm going to prove them wrong. I walk on the manicured grass instead of the designated pathways in fancy places because I can't stand convention and doing things because that's the way they're supposed to be done. As much as I love this side of myself, I'm starting to see the dark side, that being isolation.

I know there must be a way to live in community and still be a rebel. I guess this is the next part of my journey after my descent into the underworld where I must deal with this psyche of mine; namely Mr. Fear, himself. I have a feeling that when I get close enough to remove those glasses of his, I'll see he's really just a ghost telling an old story because that's the only one he knows. So I'll give him a new story: one of a woman courageous enough to leave her island of broken down dreams in search of a warm hearth where friends and family welcome her.

My, what a derriere you've got!

Today, I have officially seen the most incredible ass. In-credible as in the literal meaning of the word when dissected - not to be believed.

It happened at the local Y where I recently joined (or rather, re-joined after a long hiatus.) Hands down, they've got the best pool in town. It's treated with salt as opposed to chlorine and so, I don't leave afterwards with a whopper of a migraine. I had just swum many, many laps, hurling my body through the water one long stroke after another, kicking my feet behind me. I am a lap swimmer at heart. There's something about swimming back and forth (or maybe hither and thither) along that solid black line painted on the bottom of a pool that calms my mind. And then there's the little sommersault in between that marks the end of one lap and the beginning of the next. I crave lap swimming and can't seem to ever get enough.

So, I'm done with my session for the day and I head to the shower. I whip off my bathing suit and enter the shower area except that there's an elderly woman sort of hovering in between me and the showers. I see only a partial profile of her as she is very gradually making her way out of the first shower stall. She says to me, "Oh, do you need to get in here?" and I respond, "Why, yes, I do. I would love to rinse off." And so she backs up into her shower stall and I pass by not taking any more notice of her until I exit the shower stall. And there it is. Wha-bam! I am mildly stunned for a moment and have to regain my composure. "What an ass!" my mind is shouting and I have to use ever ounce of willpower so as not to let out some kind of animalistic sound. This thing is large. And I mean LARGE as in ENORMOUS. I realize at this point that I am truly a terrible person because after she dons her muumuu (nothing else would enclose this mammoth of an ass), she is obviously struggling with her things and her crutches. And instead of offering to help her, I am mentally trying to figure out its exact dimensions. In the meantime, another woman, much less terrible and fascinated than myself, offers to help her.

At this point, you must be dying to know just how big this thing was. And its shape! The way it hung like two ample, ripe, genetically mutated pears that had been injected with some turbo growth formula. My guess is that this ass was at least 4 feet wide. I'm talking each cheek was two feet WIDE and maybe that long as well because this thing HUNG ("Swing low sweet chariot...Comin' to carry me home!") Any man would be jealous at this woman's sheer length.

Fascinated, I watched her walk (well, more like, stumble) to her car, obviously weighted down by that mass now hidden underneath the thin pink fabric of her dress. All I could do was make small giggling sounds to myself and blame New Jersey. "It's because I'm from NJ that I'm like this," I kept telling myself. Poor New Jersey. It gets blamed for everything - even my sick fascination with a poor elderly woman's buttocks.

Ode to Dad

These are the things I remember:

Pickle Dates. These took place directly after the Bucking Bronco rides where you would magically transform into a wild bronco and toss Robbie and I around, laughing probably as much as we did. Then, after we were all yelled and screamed out you would say, "Hey, let's have some pickles!" and we would dip into the Klaussen pickle jar to savor its splendid vinegary-salty wonders with contented smiles on our faces.

Teaching me how to ride a bike. I remember your hand on the back of the bike seat, giving me that necessary nudge to get me started, you running alongside my wobbly bike, me oftentimes crashing (one time on my face.) That was pretty bad. But I know one day I took off and there was no stopping me and it was just that little nudge that started me off!

Patooeyland. I remember the look of mischievousness when you told stories about the people who lived in Patooeyland and spoke in Patooey language and I remember the magic and wonder I felt while imagining life in this wondrous place.

Talks on the beach. You would always have a plethora of magazines to share and we would sit and talk and maybe read or stare out at the water and maybe daydream while looking at the endlessness of the horizon.

Going to you when I was 16 after being in Canada and after you and mom had long split up. I had only been seeing you for 2 days a week for awhile and, on this night, I told you that I wanted you to be more in my life. And you cried. It was in that moment that I saw your vulnerability as a man separate from your role as my father. And I felt this deep well of compassion and understood for the first time that you were doing the best you could and that life was just as hard for you as it was for me. And I loved you for this.

Stealing your socks. You always had the greatest argyle sock collection and I would pilfer them from your sock drawer and then subsequently receive endless streams of compliments from friends. And you never seemed to notice or, more likely, if you did, you never said anything.

Helping me through college, buying my first car which was actually a truck with yellow rearview mirrors and a badass loud exhaust system. Making the downpayment for a piece of land right near an active volcano (Lord, have mercy on you for this one), and telling me today that when I left for college you felt like you were losing a friend.

These are the things I remember now, safely stored in the treasure chest of my heart, similar to that treasure chest you brought home for me once that was filled with princess gear - every little girl's ultimate fantasy.

I think maybe I forgot some of these things - they're mixed in with so many other memories. I like pulling them out now, like vintage photographs of friends from long ago. And I smile as I see each one and recognize the beauty and wonder and joy you've imparted to me as a father and as a man on his own unique journey.

(Happy to be?) Sailing without a rudder

I admit it. I often feel like I'm sailing without a rudder. I've gone through many ideas about this and I'm realizing more and more that the mind alone is not to be trusted. The mind in combination with the heart in combination with the soul, well, that's another story...

The problem is that somewhere along the way (Yes, I'm about to blame my poor parents because at some point, we have to weave our way through the dysfunctional labyrinth of our childhood so we can find our way to our true selves - not who we were told we were supposed to be) I came to believe in the mind. I've always thought I could think my way through things. If I just got the right book. If maybe I slept with that book by my side. Piles and piles of books of all persuasion but mostly self-help these days. I even had a dream once where I was on the beach of my hometown and the Marquis de Sade was buried in the sand alongside that detective guy from the X-Files. I wanted to uncover the X-Files guy (God forbid I uncover the Marquis de Sade with his insanely ravenous, debaucherous ways. Everything about him screamed out "DANGER!" to me at the time.) I had to choose: this grave or that grave. Which one? I chose and started digging and, of course, it was the Marquis de Sade who began to emerge from the sand. And what did I do? I threw books at him - piles and piles to keep him down, to keep him from coming for me. And this is how I dealt with that ravenous part of myself (because, of course, that's what the Marquis represented.) He was (and probably still is though I feel more integrated now) that part of myself that hungered for everything - sex, adventure, everything and all at once. He is my worldly appetite.

My point of this story is that who tells us who we are and what we are supposed to be doing? What's this idea of "supposed to?" Is it familial? cultural? societal? based on our gender? our age? our race? our sexuality? I'm asking this question rhetorically and, at the same time, looking for answers because I find myself struggling with this question of identity and what in the hell I'm "supposed" to be doing with my life. I dread that question people often ask upon meeting for the first time: "So...what is it that you DO?" How the hell am I "supposed" to answer this question? I do a lot of things but do these things define who I am?

In High School, I was a member of almost every possible organization I could be a member of...was it enough? And then in college, I said "fuck it" and became a kind of academic robot, spitting out papers, taking exams, going through the motions. And then I took my degree and went to Europe and weeded for 4.5 months straight in an attempt to unclog my brain. With each weed I pulled, it was like I was calling my soul back to my body. "Here, here, little soul...it's safe to come back now. Here, I'll give you a treat."

This weeding certainly helped but, somehow, I'm still stuck with this existential question of the purpose of my existence. I'm still waiting for the clouds to part and for God's voice to come streaming down, "Melissa Cardwell, wow, I finally found your file. Sorry it's taken me to get back to you on this one. We have quite a backlog here. Ahem, so, your life's purpose (drum roll) is...." I know. This line of thinking is totally absurd. Completely outrageous. It doesn't make any sense. And somehow, I keep waiting. Come on, God, I know you can do it!

Plan B is this: I wake up, I half walk/am half dragged down the street by my wild dogs, watch them sniff and pee and shit on imaginary things that only they can smell, eat breakfast, stare at the massive amount of weeds on my land that I just can't seem to even begin on, contemplate the meaning of existence while staring at the sky, wonder why I feel this angst when I live in such a beautiful place this feeling quickly followed by guilt about feeling this angst, maybe take a shower, head to work while contemplating my existence, then maybe get a couple bodies to rub which, for some unknown reason, heightens my levels of creativity so that I may pursue all avenues of fantastical thinking which propels me to bust this all out in some form of the written word.

Is it just the human condition to always want more and to never be satisfied with what we already have or is it just me? I'm somehow still at the oral phase only it's more metaphorical these days. I don't necessarily want to stick everything in my mouth but I want to FEEL everything. I want to feel the whole world in my hands. I want to go to India and see life and death on the same corner. I want to drink wine while sitting at random fountains in Rome. I want to help the women of Afghanistan to reclaim their power and educate the men so that they stop cutting off the fucking noses and ears of their wives, I want to sit with the dying and support women who are birthing babies into this world. I want to go to the Pyrenees. I want chickens. I want to bathe naked in rivers and pitch my tent in different forests. I want to be a nomad. I want to live in a sustainable ecovillage. And I want a tipi. Is this too much to ask?

So who am I? What do I do? Well, that is an open-ended question, isn't it?

Burn

You keep me close enough
so I fall in love with you
over and over
and just far enough away
where you can still reach me
to break my heart
a thousand times

Like any hungry animal
I go for the bait
naive
to the sharp hook
waiting to bloody my cheek
and yank me out of my waters
where I can no longer breathe

I've died
so many times
I've lost count
I guess I've not learned the lesson yet
This time,
what bloody mess will I become?
what grovelling fool?
what lovesick dog
chained to my own unquenched desire
howling into the night?

Maybe this time,
just maybe,
I will finally learn
not to throw myself
into your fire
but rather,
to seek the luminescent waters
where I can swim
and swim deep
down into the center
of my own beautiful soul

So, when you're ready
to stop fucking around
you can find me here
and maybe join me
if I let you.

Thank you to the writing Gods and Goddesses. I know I have gone through periods of time where I have ignored you but you must know by now that I can't live without you. When I have been drowning, you have saved me. When my heart has been shattered, you have shown me the beauty of the pieces and helped me to stitch myself back together again in a different form so that I may be more loving, more open, more wise. It is pen and paper that has saved me over and over again from myself, from my neuroses, from lost loves and heartache. Somehow, all the craziness makes sense when those words come streaming from those deep waters beyond thought, beyond consciousness, beyond logic.

Thank you, Rob B., for being a reminder to get to it.

Here's a relatively new poem that I wrote in the midst of feeling totally broken-hearted. I am realizing that it truly is a gift to have a broken heart. It is in the brokenness where we can really see who we are and where we can truly understand that nothing in the material world really and truly matters. All that really matters, all that has ever really mattered is how deep, how wide, how bold is our love.

This patient presence
In the midst of grief’s roiling storm
It is to you I throw out my arms
And plead
Great Goddesses
Great Grandmothers
Great Queens who have passed through
These wicked gates before me
Who have known this searing pain
Who struggled through the rips and tears
Of birthing yourselves
Into a world
Not so kind to women
Hold me now
Take my tears
So they may be transformed
Into the wine of remembrance
Of who I really am
For now
I am merely a slave
Shackled by this strange amnesia

Release me into the deep, dark
Waters of myself
Long before time ever mattered
Long before my flesh was touched
When I was still just a seed in the womb
Of the Goddess, herself
Birth me again
And this time I will remember
I am whole
Just as I am
There is no need for fear
Or defense
Only love lives in my heart and in my belly
And it is this love
I have to give
Wholly
Infinitely