driving ms crazy

The car has become a secular sanctuary for the individual, his shrine to the self, his mobile Walden Pond.  ~Edward McDonagh


You can't see anything from a car; you've got to get out of the goddamn contraption and walk, better yet crawl, on hands and knees, over the sandstone and through the thornbrush and cactus.  When traces of blood begin to mark your trail, you'll see something, maybe.  ~Edward Abbey


Your arms are water. 
And you are free 
With a ghastly freedom. 
You are the beautiful half 
Of a golden hurt. --Gwendolyn Brooks


my poppy bought my first car well before i turned 16.  it was a 1982 vw rabbit convertible, and it ate a quart of oil every two weeks.  i loved this car--psychotically loved it the way only a teenager can love something.  that car represented such freedom to me.  trouble was, i had no idea how to drive it.  like a bunch of other kids who grew up in rural america, i'd been driving for years (on the hunting lease, backroads on Sundays when my parents were too tired to argue with me and we all needed to get out of the house), but all those cars had been automatic transmissions.  this thing with three pedals and six gears was WAY out of my depth.  


it was a good thing we had a huge backyard. and by "huge backyard", i meant we had an entire acre of wide open space, in the middle of town, and already had a driveway running down the middle of it.  mom and dad decided i could learn to drive on the lots, and so, for the summer before i turned 16, that's exactly what i did.  and my dad didn't have to mow all summer.  and i think i only bought three tanks of gas, because i never got above second gear...


the first afternoon lesson did not go well.  it ended with my mother rolling her eyes and going back inside the house, and my dad looking at me from the passenger seat, shaking his head in frustration and moderate disgust that this fruit of his loins was incapable of figuring out the mystical relationship between the clutch and gas pedal.  the harder i tried to get it right, the worse i did, and the more frustrated he got.  i vividly remember trying my best not to cry, when the car died ONE MORE TIME, and i came to the cold and clear understanding that i was never going to understand how to drive this car, my parents would make me sell it, and i'd end up living at home, never go to college, and die of shame because i couldn't learn to drive this car.  


i put my head down on the steering wheel, heard my father mutter something under his breath about hysterical teenage girls, felt him very lightly pat the top of my head, and exited the vehicle.  and OH HELL NO, YOU'RE LEAVING ME OUT HERE?? i remember actually yelling that at him, and him looking back at me, and giving me the face he always gave me when it was time to put me in my place, "queenie, would it really matter if i stayed?  you've got to do this on your own, because nothing i'm saying or trying is working. you know what you need to do, and kind of how to do it.  now, you've got all afternoon, and mom and i will be right inside.   it's just not worth you being this upset, honey.  you don't have to do this.  you don't have to master this in one afternoon.  you've got the whole summer to learn how to do this. you can do this."  that made me cry even harder, because now, i had not only failed learning to drive my car, but i felt like i'd worn my pops down so much that he left me in the back yard.  i went from bereft to totally pissed off in about two point five seconds.  that's a lot of pick-up...


flash forward to forty-five minutes later, and my parents come bursting out the door because i've figured out the magical ratio of gas-to-clutch, and am driving about thirty miles an hour in a half-mile loop, kicking up dust and degraded granite for all i'm worth.  my face was still blotchy from crying, but omg...was i livid and thrilled at the same time...and DRIVING...AND I TOLD YOU I COULD DO IT and i really didn't want to allow my parents the satisfaction of telling them they were right, and i was wrong, but i did deign to slow down, and heard them whooping and hollering from the porch.  


i'm sure i would have eventually learned to drive the car, with mom in the backseat and dad in the passenger seat, simultaneously trying to explain to me the art and science of vehicular operation.  it would have been a much longer summer.  there would have been lots more yelling, and i probably would have ended up saying "fuck" in front of them a lot earlier than i actually did. 


it was a lesson i had to learn on my own, once someone had given me the basic outline, because no one, not even if they've driven my car or one just like it seventy-five thousand times, can tell me how the clutch feels under my feet, once it engages.  no one can tell me exactly what it feels like to know the engine is about to choke, because i've just barely missed the magical recipe for shifting gears.  it's a thing i have to feel under my own  feet, and understand that feeling all the way up my legs, all the way to my brain.  people can give me practical advice, watch my feet, listen to the engine, and shout orders at me all day long.  but until i put my feet on the pedals, and try to make the magic happen, it's all just a bunch of theory and nonsense.  


the first time i actually drove the car, for real, on the streets and in broad daylight, i was terrified.  i was shaking like a leaf, and it was bad enough that my mother noticed.  she told me it was ok if i didn't feel ready yet, that she was more than happy to drive us to sonic in her car.  i knew if i didn't just get in and go, and do this thing, no matter how scared i was, i'd never be able to look myself in the eye, again.  being afraid is nothing to be ashamed of, but being frozen by my fear is.  so, we jumped in my little rattle-trap, and i stalled out twice in the sonic parking lot (i managed not to die from embarrassment, but just barely...), but i had done this thing, even though i was scared out of my mind the whole time i was doing it.   


i rarely think about learning to drive, anymore.  that little girl seems so far away, sometimes.  i see pictures of her, read her old journal entries, remember saying things out of her mouth, and i wonder how much of her is left at the bottom of my deepest self.  because the truth of the matter is that she was a brave girl who knew exactly who she was, even on days when she wasn't.  i like to believe that the fifteen year old who taught herself the art of manual transmission driving is still a little bit around, and is much more a part of who i still am than i imagine...not because i need her drivel or flights of fancy, you understand.  it's just that she's young enough to understand that it's ok to be afraid, and barely old enough to know she's got some serious moxy (with which she already knows she must use great care...), and that now that the hard part of actually learning to drive is over, she's got the whole summer to leave the top down, perfect left turns, and get a killer tan.  she's a world beater, that one...and when i see her, peaking through my eyes, when i have to look in the mirror, and get my nerve up, ask myself hard questions, dare myself to be the girl i know i am, she reminds me that i am, too.    


mil besos,
rmg

both

American Heritage Dictionary:

a·lo·ha

Top

(ə-lō'ə, -hə, ä-lō'hä') 
interj. Chiefly Hawaii
Used as a traditional greeting or farewell.

"...she said. 'In Quadling thinking, one plus one doesn't equal a single unit of two. One plus one equals both." 

     --Gregory Maguire, Son of a Witch

so often, i feel like i'm asked to choose between two things that on the surface, look very similar, but at the bottom are really worlds apart.  i feel like i get asked a lot of "mayo or mustard" kind of questions, and answering "both, please, but not too much of either one" is kind of bratty, even when that is the real and true answer.  i don't think it's any wonder my favorite color is grey--like that pewtery silvery underbelly of a good rain cloud, kind of smeared with a darker blue-grey at the edges and in the center. it's a good background for noticing patterns or pops of important colors.  grey is committed, but not immovable.  grey connotes movement, from one thing to another, and sometimes knowing whether the move is from black to white, or white to black, or any of the colors in the paint box is something we don't get to know.  the swing is still in motion. 


i made a flying trip home yesterday to check on the folks, and a less-frenzied drive back, this afternoon...a lady is tired.  the drive down was really nice, in spite of the reason.  the mowers had been doing a lot of work, these last few weeks, and the hay fields were full of round, golden bales of hay.  ranked up for acres, backlit by the sun on it's way back west, with the gold seeming to make the blue of the sky even more vivid and spring-time crisp, and edged by the green, green growth at the edges of the field and road, they reminded me of the last series vincent van gogh painted.  i love that series, even though it makes me sad to look at it, sometimes.  the colors are so vivid, and this does not look like the work of a man who's about to leave this life.  this looks like the work of a man who can't stop painting, who can't stop mixing colors, who can't keep his eyes wide-open enough.  it's funny how things look, sometimes...like those graceful swans who seem to cut right through the water.  down below, they're in constant and consistent motion.


it was nice to be in my mother's house, for how ever brief the time.  i slept so hard that when i woke up at four, with the kind of cotton mouth only real actual tex-mex can give me, i had to remind myself that i was sleeping in my little girl bed, in the guest room, and the bathroom was just out the door, to my left.  i was surprised i was that far/deep asleep.  that almost never happens, ever.  i suppose it goes to show that no matter how old i get, there is a deep and profound sense of safety and security that comes from being near my mother and grandmother.  i sleep like that when i'm at my granny's, in alabama, and at my aunt nea's house, too.  and at camp.  it's a full stop.  it's waking up with half my body asleep, and the other half bearing a sheet crease from temple to toe.  it's that muzzy wake up that takes a good five minutes and then sends you running to the bathroom to give seabisquit a run for his money. it's that gracious acceptance of the end of one day and the conscious and willful intention to be recklessly hopeful about the new day that is beginning, even when the day already looks long, and it's not even 7am, yet.  it's knowing that even while i put my waking body to rest (with the weird dreams i've been cranking out--almost all of them underwater...not like mermaid underwater, but like regular life underwater...weird...or not.  whatever..., a lady's mind is SHO not on siesta with that business...first whales, and now underwater?  really?  i'm not complaining, i'm just saying...parenthetically, weird dreams.) my sleeping body was hard at the work of resting and rebuilding, putting that guacamole to work on...something. 


and the earth was still busy spinning on it's axis, hurtling through this arm of the milky way, speeding out in space, nestled in the palm of this G-d i can't see or explain, but want to know more about and love better, who i can know because i know Jesus, because i see so much love around me in the world, but still feel like i can't really get a grasp on what all that really really means, down at the bottom, because i also see so much  hurt and meanness, too...but all of that is true, every night when i close my eyes, and it's true when i wake up in the mornings.  even so, it's hard to remember that.  i wake up so many days and believe that the universe turns on when i open my eyes.  we look to be standing still, a lot of the time.  sometimes, the movements are so subtle, we don't even notice...but we are moving, constantly. we are bodies in motion, the earth and i, and until we are acted upon by an outside force, remain in motion. 


it's hard to get my giant girl-hands around that, and most days, i feel like the bulk of it goes trailing behind me, like a little kid taking ALL her toys down the hall, and not realizing that the travois she made out of her blankie is spilling a wake of plush carnage from her bedroom to the living room.  because even though it's kind of cute, someone is going to have to pick that shit up.  and if you leave it to that little kid, it's going to take nine and a half hours of whining and poking and prodding, hauling one precious little stuffed bear at a time back to the designated rallying point, and she's going to low-grade whine about it the whole time, too.  and she might kick the wall.  lightly, ever so lightly, but she's going to mean it. she'll be moving...but it's not nearly as charming as the swans i mentioned earlier.  


bluebonnets and cactus and blue sky and lost pines, and the way my grammy smells, and sharing a bathroom with my mom while we both got ready for the day, vanilla cokes, driving with all four windows down, singing really loud and not caring i was at a stop light, having the dog pee on my feet (and shorts, this time...), clean gas station bathrooms, hay fields, big bang theory, phone charger, laughing until my face hurts, pep talks, righteous indignation, family love, old books, old songs, favorite green shirt, the brazos river, sharing stories...that was today.  i never stopped moving.  and i have to tell you, it was, in all honesty, a really nice day, even the hard parts. 


i'm super tired.  i'm ready for baby chapel in the morning.  i'll probably dream about the good shepherd, herding sheep...underwater... 


mil besos,
rmg

the sixth timed run: blather and a play list

this is the part where i make a shameless plug for the couch to 5k app, on my iphone.  it has been worth every nickle.  it's high on the list of favorite material things, at the moment.  i'm not crazy about the voice cue, but that's the worst thing i can say about it.  the guy tells me when to run and when to walk, and the rest of the time, he shuts up and listens to my playlist.

under the playlist is the sound of thomas park...the pick-up soccer match in the middle field, the giggles and squeals from the playscape and swing set, the chit-chat of pairs walking or meeting to walk or finishing up a walk, the low hum of the vehicles and the almost-silent sissss of the bicycles on the street, and birds calling back and forth to each other from the oak trees that line the park.  i love this park.  i found it totally by accident, and it was exactly what i was looking for.  i love running in this park.  i have to make myself not run on my off days.  that is something that i'd never have imagined i would feel about running, not even after i had really committed to training for the marathon.

i know that at some point, in the not too distant future, the distance i am capable of running will outstrip the third-mile track i visit every other day, and i'll have to move to the trails at wolf-pen or start running at bee creek, instead, and start running bleachers.  but that's at least another month away.  and that's ok.  i can imagine that i'll still run thomas park, every so often, just because i'll want to.  it's been a safe place to relearn how to run, to hold my body, to breathe, and feel settled inside myself.  and it's easy, in this little park, just off the main street in happy valley, to remember that it's not important how fast i run, or how far i run.  what is important is to run well.  to push hard enough to know i'm working, but not so hard i can't walk the next day, to remember my form, to integrate all the movements, to remember it's not about anything but right this minute.  running and yoga and praying feel like a lot of the same things to me, right now.  to find that still and quiet place inside myself, so that i can reflect on the day, the hour, the minute, the second...and then, get to that place that's just...quiet.  that's worth a lot of ice for my screaming knees.  a lot.

it's this little magic spot, in this ordinary neighborhood.  this city does a really, really, really phenomenal job on their parks.  i am a fan. i like running around 7:30 or so, at night.  this time of year, in this part of the world, that's magic hour, and if the clouds and the sun and the trees and the grass and the angels all sing just right, you'd believe you could run for a thousand years, and die with a smile on your face.  it's this incredible silvery, lush grey, with spring green and muted blues and shy pinks and it's one of the ways i know G-d loves me.

and these are the songs i listened to, when i was running at thomas park, today:
   1. under my thumb--the rolling stones (it's a good song to use as a wind up)
   2. chest fever--the band (...like you didn't see that one coming.)
   3. atlantic city--levon helm (...i know...i know...so good)
   4. hold on, i'm coming--sam and dave (that hook KILLS me in the best possible way, every single time)
   5. righteously--lucinda williams (she's kind of a badass, and i LIKE running to this song, because the solo   just SHREDS.
   6. case of you--joni mitchell (oddly a really nice torch song to run to, i was skeptical about putting it this close to the end of a run, but it was a nice steady pace, and that dulcimer is just SO sweet.  graham nash was a lucky guy.)
  7. highway 61 revisited--bob dylan (again, no shocker.  this is my favorite song to put at the end of a run.  it's a great little kick to finish with, and sometimes, i feel sassy enough to sing along, in my head.
  8.  DON'T JUDGE
       whatcha say--jason derulo (i hate how much i like this song.  i LOVE imogene heap's original.  that whole album reminds me of my apartment at camp, and that absolutely insane and wonderful summer.  this song, though...well, it's up there with jill scott's"hate on me" for making me feel a little bit sassy.  that was a good thing to feel at the end my run, today.

i'm writing a lot.  i'm reading a lot.  i'm playing a LOT of music, and i have GOT to go buy new strings, this week. i'm spending a lot of time on the phone.  i'm constantly and pleasantly surprised by grace, peeking around the corners of my life.  i feel like i'm stretching out into this place, and this season in my life.  it's like finding my stride, again, after not having run for so, so long.  it's familiar and brand new, all at the same time.  i'm incredibly grateful.

mil besos,
rmg

...and all the people were singing...

Ram"ble (?), v. i. [imp. & p. p. Rambled (?); p. pr. & vb. n. Rambling (?).] [For rammle, fr. Prov. E. rame to roam. Cf. Roam.]

1. To walk, ride, or sail, from place to place, without any determinate object in view; to roam carelessly or irregularly; to rove; to wander; as, to ramble about the city; to ramble over the world.

He that is at liberty to ramble in perfect darkness, what is his liberty better than if driven up and down as a bubble by the wind? Locke.

2. To talk or write in a discursive, aimless way.

3. To extend or grow at random. Thomson. Syn. -- To rove; roam; wander; range; stroll.

---

Ramble (Page: 1186)

Ram"ble, n.

1. A going or moving from place to place without any determinate business or object; an excursion or stroll merely for recreation.

Coming home, after a short Christians ramble. Swift.

2. [Cf. Rammel.] (Coal Mining) A bed of shale over the seam. Raymond. <-- 3. A section of woods suitable for liesurely walking. muskrat ramble -- a dance -->

--webster's revised unabridged dictionary, 1913

my love affair with The Band started my senior year in college. it was the year i turned 21, took an obscene number of course hours, and tried to figure out just what was going to happen after August, when i would be a college graduate.  i remember watching a lot of VH1's "behind the music". when i say "a lot", what  i mean is that i skipped more than one class and put off studying for SEVERAL tests to watch episodes i hadn't seen, before.  i vividly remember sitting on the denim-covered couch (come on...it was just barely not-the-90's, anymore) watching "behind the music: the band", and realizing that i knew those guys.  i just didn't know that i knew them, before.  

the sound this band generated (and the sound generated by levon helm, in particular) was a sound that was as familiar to me as my own mother's voice, the ebb and flow of the cadences as wise and weathered and insistent as the rise and fall of my father's voice.  the stories they told with their music were familiar stories to me, even though some of them were brand new stories.  and there's this bearded general, somewhere between General Sherman and General Lee, driving this chariot of sound and fury up your driveway, and all the way through the back wall of the garage, burning a swath of carpet a mile wide through the middle of your living room, shattering the plate glass window, and finishing with a wink and a big wet kiss at the bottom of your swimming pool.  greil marcus said once that they were the best band in america.  and to that, i must add a very emphatic "you're damn skippy."  

what the band created together, when they were at the top of their game--deeply engaged in the business of being each others' business, was something that was bigger than just being bob dylan's band.  not that that's a bad job.  i mean...seriously?  bob dylan's band.  but they were their own band, firstforeverandalways.  what they pulled out of dylan was incredible.  what dylan pulled out of them was incendiary.  what they made together took everything that rock and roll had been before and made it louder, harder, deeper, and fundamentally impossible to ignore.  and while it sounds hackneyed and tired, the fact remains that that sound changed everything.  

everything on "music from big pink" lets you know that this album is special.  i feel like it's the musical equivalent of  landing on the moon.  there was always the chance that the doing of the thing would be the undoing of the doers.  but...the expected and intended outcome was worth the gamble.  listen to any track, and whether you know the song or not, i'll bet you dollars to donuts, the music will sound familiar to you.  you'll catch yourself humming little snips of it for the rest of the day.  it'll change your life, if you let it.  

when i started therapy, and really making space for myself inside of my own life, claiming it, as it were...i needed a lot of security blankets.  "music from big pink" and "the  last waltz" were albums that i could cuddle up inside of and rest.  some of the songs are incredibly sad, and there is always an undercurrent of angst or otherness or tension in rock and roll.  that's what makes it rock and roll--the speed and the volume that come out of some of our blackest emotions.  when i hear "the weight", i feel like i know every person in that song.  every single character has some weirdness about them, but they are each necessary in the song.  "long black veil", "chest fever", and and "i shall be released" are further examples of the deeply personal and universal stories the songs celebrate.  i love that album.  i run to tracks off of it, all the time.  i listen to it when i'm in the shower.  i listen to it in the car. at least one track from "big pink" is on almost every play list i've made in the last three years.  and when i was at the oldest bar in houston, last friday night, they played the entire b side.  THE. ENTIRE. B. SIDE.   

true story: 

"the last waltz" was filmed the same weekend my mom took my dad home on approval to my grandparents. levon helm sang "the night they drove old dixie down" in public, for the last time, the night my dad asked my poppy if he could marry my mother.  i love that.  there is something so primal and elemental about that song. the song crawls up out of the woods, with the tangy reek of pine resin and the faint after-taste of something someone's uncle carries around in a mason jar, trying to explain how things got to be the way they are, and with an apologetic tone that ranges from the jeremiad to the lovers' lament, we come to understand the profound effect war and poverty take on people, regardless of the era, because levon just can't help but tell you this story.  and when levon is singing, you believe he really did work on the danville train.  you can hear the sadness in his voice, the exegesis of emancipation and reconstruction and deconstruction and trying to make something meaningful out of the scraps left laying around him.  it's a song and a sound and an ethos i always associate with the way my father explained hard things to me, with the old stories shelby foote tells like they were brand new, with sticky-humid summers full of pine needles, red clay, sweet tea, and the slowly drawled-out terms of endearment my Granny uses instead of all our names.  it's sad and sweet and perfect.  

in flights of fancy, i have imagined what it would have been like to have lived next door to the band, to have baked them a cobbler, or mended a couple of shirts, commiserated with their girlfriends, and listened in on mythical and mystical jam sessions.  i have imagined flirting shamelessly with levon helm, circa 1975.  i've thought about what the walls of big pink or levon's barn would say, if they could talk.  i like to think they'd be so full of experiences, i'd never hear the end of the stories.  the basement tapes, the midnight rambles...the stories, the music, the voices...G-d...how would i even start to say "thank you", without sounding like a 15 year old gushing over the latest pop sensation from either coast?  how would i say "thank you" without dissolving into tears, trying to explain that there were moments when the music was the only thing to remind me that i was not all alone in an impossibly big universe?  

it's hard to know and understand in a real and concrete way that this life is passing away, a day at a time.  when heroes die, we lionize them and romanticize them and preach them right through the pearly gates.  when i hear levon, when i hear the band, the collective sound and fury and celebration and announcement of "THIS IS HAPPENING, NOW", i don't think.  i just know.  

and i know this much is true: 

heroes live forever.  lions are the kings of the jungle.  romance is what happens when no one else is looking.  the kingdom of heaven is now.  

peace on your journey, levon.  thank you for the music.  i love you.  

mil besos,

rmg

this one is about swimming lessons, after a fashion...

"eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. the river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. on some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. i am haunted by waters. --norman maclane


whence come the highest mountains? i once asked. then i learned that they came out of the sea. the evidence is written in their rocks and in the walls of their peaks. tt is out of the deepest depth that the highest must come to its height. --friedrich nietzsche




why did the old persians hold the sea holy? why did the greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of jove? surely all this is not without meaning. and still deeper the meaning of that story of narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. but that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. it is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.  --herman melville




i was thinking about the last time i taught swimming lessons, the other day.  i used bonnie's parents' pool--one of my favorite pools in the whole world.  i only had one student, and she was five.  and i had nine weeks in the pool, with this little cherub, before i left home for college.  


there were days that summer when the only thing that was constant and made sense was teaching this blonde child how to swim.  there were days when being in the pool with her was the only reason to not sit down in a corner of my room and quit.  the great thing about teaching swim lessons to a five year old is that they are usually too busy to notice or mind if you're having a bad day or cried all morning.  they are usually just so excited to be in the pool, none of the rest of it matters.  and so, for two hours, every day, five days a week, i was in the pool with the happiest kid in the world.  


she was such a fast learner.  we could have been done in two weeks.  but my student's momma insisted that her child needed more time in the pool, insisted that i be the one to do it, kept paying me, kept trusting me in ten feet of blue blue blue water with her most precious gift.  the little swimmer moved quickly from bobbing in the shallow end to learning to kick her feet and move her arms at the same time.  she got really good at blowing bubbles, but when it came time to learn how to alternate breaths on each side, she picked up a funny little head-wobble when she swam.  she looked so emphatic, shaking her little blonde head side-to-side in a "no-no-no-no" fashion for a couple of days, until she figured out it's a slow, non-scary thing to drag your face out of the water when you need a little breath.  i laughed a lot watching her spazz out, wriggling like a little worm on a hook. 


by the end of the summer, the kiddo could do two strokes, float on her back, and regulate her breathing.  she could swim a whole length of the pool, too.  we were both surprised when she did that, because i don't think either of us were entirely sure she could... when we would swim lengths, it was usually left to right across the shallow end, not up and down from shallow to deep. that way, i was in front of her, with my feet on the ground, the whole way.  it was a good system.  


but one day, not long before the end of that summer, she seemed ready to try a long lap.  she could tread water, so she knew what to do if she got scared and needed a breath.  i promised i'd be right in front of her, just like always.  she took a big breath, and we started swimming.  the shallow end petered out pretty fast, and so i was swimming, too, face-up, under water (a trick i mastered in elementary school, known in the above-ground pool world as "mermaid swimming"), with a hand just barely touching her little kid tummy.  her face was in the water, and she was blowing bubbles, and my face was about two feet below hers.  she knew i was right there, and while she didn't grab for my hand or my hair or panic, her big baby blues were locked on mine, even under the water.  we finished our lap, and both sputtered up for air giggling and wiping the hair out of our faces.  


when i think about that summer, i can still taste the tears.  fifteen years on, and there are still moments that bring me to my knees, days when i would give or do or be anything just to go over five or six life questions with my darling dad.  but there are also days when the smells of chlorine and gold fish crackers and coconut sunblock remind me that we take the bitter with the sweet.   


the little girl i taught to tread water in the deep end of bonnie's parents' pool taught me to tread water in the deep end of my life.  that's the unvarnished, honest truth.  it's humbling to admit that a six year old kept me from drowning.  but that's the unvarnished honest truth, too.   i'm hanging out with her and her momma for the first time in many moons, this weekend.  my little swimmer is a grown girl, now, and a freshman at my old university.  i'm inordinately proud of that.  i'm inordinately proud of her.  and grateful.  very grateful.  


mil besos,
rmg

overcast, with an 80% change of rain

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
--ee cummings


my friend john's funeral is today.  it was such a strange shock when he died.  he was cleaning off his roof, and slipped and fell...and that's what happens when you fall off your roof, sometimes.  


i remember saying goodbye to him, on my last sunday.  he was so excited for my move--his little grand girls and one of his daughters live in happy valley, and attend where i work.  we have breakfast together, on Sundays, before junior choir.  they are, just like their granddad (and father), exceptional people who just love, love, love the people in their lives.  he gave me a big hug, and told me how proud he was of me, and how much he appreciated my hard work.  he told me that i had important and special work to do in the world.  and we both cried a little bit.  but i assumed that i would see him in a few months, when he and linda would come to happy valley for a visit.  


i will see him, again.  i know that much is true.  and i'm grateful every day that john was alive in the world, and am humbled that i got to know him.  


in other news, 
and it may be a little bit exciting.  it may be a real thing, it's too early to say that much...but what i WILL say is that i did go on an excellent first date, on friday.  and farmers' market hang-out on saturday.  nice guy.  seriously NICE GUY.  and he likes good things, and has seriously amazing taste in music.  and BIG BLUE EYES.  and he loves Jesus and his momma.  and i'ma stop, now, and letchu finish...because grown ass women don't gush over dudes on their blogs.  except that sometimes this one does.  and she especially does when she's had three big cups of coffee, because her allergies necessitated a BIG DOSE of benedryl, this morning, and that sometimes results in talking about herself in third person for a whole paragraph.  


also, (and this bears repeating) i love my job.  it's the most fun i've ever had working, including the time i was queen of camp (but not like how john waters is queen of camp...).  i keep saying it was worth everything it took to get me here.  i mean that, all the way down to my toes.  it's more than that i love that kinder had a butterfly release today (with butterflies they raised themselves), or that i have a functional and sky-lit office, or that there's a can full of bacon grease in the refrigerator.  it's all of those things, and none of those things.  it's that on saturday, i peeked out of the kitchen and saw a vision of the kingdom of G-d that almost literally brought me to my knees.  it's that we filled a city park with little kids and grown ups and prayed outside, yesterday.  it's that we come together every week, and retell a story about a Jesus who loves us and lives with us, because we forget that story, and it's one we must not forget.  it's that this place is motivated by love and compassion and kindness and gentleness and hospitality, and JESUS.  i love that.  


dear spring,
you have never looked more lovely than you look at this very moment.  and even if the clouds gather, and the lights go out, and the colors run, and it all blows away, it was still worth the now.  


mil besos,
rmg

Easter Hangover...

...been kind of quiet, last couple of weeks.  holy week was FAST and INTENSE.  i was real glad when Jesus came back on Sunday.  lent seemed a lot longer than it usually does.  i mean, it wasn't...but those forty days sure felt heavy and long.  so i guess lent did it's appropriate job.

i'm still running.  i'm still yoga-ing.  i still need to go buy some new guitar strings, but i keep playing on the old ones.  learned a new song last week.  i was trying to nourish my inner-15 year old boy, and so i learned "you can't always get what you want".  you guys--that was probably the best song to learn during holy week.  every single time i sat down to play it, i feel like i heard something new and learned something a little bit deeper.  i'm constantly amazed and humbled at the way G-d sometimes peeks around the corners of the ordinary things in my life, and tells me how loved we all are.  i'm sure my upstairs neighbors are totally over hearing me play it, along with some of the other songs i always play when ever i pick up my guitar.  but that's ok, because i'm totally over the sound of them constantly...moving furniture...and being kind of uh, noisy about it.  i'm all for them ...moving as much furniture as they want, as often as they want to move it...but...man...i'm wondering if they aren't doing some project for school because DAMN...anyway, i've been playing my guitar REAL loud.

spring is so fast and furious...i feel like i'm on fast-forward, some days.  it's ok to stop and breathe.  it's ok if i miss something.  it's ok if i don't know the answers or if i have to start over, from the beginning.  grace finds a way to come inside, take off it's shoes, sit on our laps, and love on us, whether we think we need it or not.  the real trick is to not pull back or try and reschedule, but to be willing, right then, to cuddle up to it, and hold it like the precious thing it is.

mil besos,
rmg

for what it's worth

second run, last night.  found a park i can imagine spending lots of time in, right in the middle of a sweet little neighborhood, just a street over from my own.  afterward, i did a sixth chakra workout--no tears, but DAMN, the mantra pose KILLS me, every time.  i love that work out, though.  i love the rhythm i've built this week.

 it's been a hard week, and i'm not entirely sure why.  all i know is that it feels heavy, right now.  i don't say heavy in a negative/positive way, just as a neutral statement.  things feel heavy, right now.  some of that is Lent, and allergies, and some of it is just life at this very moment.

had a total meltdown, yesterday.  not pretty.  emotional leftovers are even worse than the last scraps of thanksgiving dinner you find at the back of the fridge the week you clean it out, so you can do your christmas shopping...icky.

everything is kind of fuzzy around the edges--between the rain, constant mold bloom (it's super-humid in happy valley, y'all...), and pecan pollen all the deuce over everything, i'm living off a steady diet of benedryl and caffeine.  i feel bad for my kidneys.

off-day on running, which is a good thing since it's raining cats and dogs...yoga, tonight.  trying to decide between doing chakras 1-3, or a combo of 4&7...decisions.

mil besos,
rmg

real things

yoga workout, last night...heart chakra...i cried halfway through the warm up.  i had this really frustrating conversation, and just allowed myself to descend into this shame spiral, the deep and painful kind that i sort of used to live in.  it was gut-wrenching.  i couldn't relax or concentrate on my breathing.  all i could hear, instead of the yogini or the soundtrack, was this litany of criticisms.  this voice in the back of my head was telling me over and over how silly and stubborn i am, how naive and ridiculous i can be, how i'm too particular about the way i live my life, how strange it is for me to need time to myself, or instructions on what i should do to take time for myself, how i never ask for help, how i never this never that miss the mark, no matter how big the bullseye is...it was exhausting.  maybe some of those things are even true.  and as much as i have asked G-d to make me sufficient, not fabulous, not abundant, not unshakable, not inviolable, just sufficient...someone who makes sound decisions, someone who thinks of others first, someone who stands on her own two feet, someone who says please and thank you and is not afraid to apologize when she is wrong, i am aware that i am a work in progress.  i know that in the final analysis, and in whatever kind of experience comes after this life, it's really only between me and G-d, all that business.  but...damn, sometimes...we leave marks on each other.  and sometimes, it is hard to still the voices that linger long after the phone call ends.

but every single day we wake up on the green side of the grass is a fresh start.  and as i worked through my tears and willed myself to focus on being present, not rehashing the phone call, not feeling like a total failure, and just allowed myself to feel how i was feeling, i found one of those spaces i wish i could crawl into and stay in forever.  every time i do yoga, i am reminded of the breath G-d breathed into me when i was born.  sometimes, when i practice, it's like i can feel that first breath, feel the Presence hovering over me, swaddling and animating me.  the will to do one more pose, one more mantra, one more breath washes over me, and nothing but that single and solitary experience of Now and This and Right exists.

run #2 tonight...

mil besos,
rmg

mile marker

i went for my first run, yesterday, in the neighborhood just around the corner from my apartment.  (as a side note--definitely not renewing my lease...gunshots, pretty close, twice in the last six weeks, and the cops showing up all strapped in their vests and pounding on the apartment upstairs and across the way from me helped me make up my mind.  holy canoli...) at any rate, the run went much better than i anticipated.  running in public did not induce the shame-spiral i was sure it would, which was a nice thing.  that was the furthest i'd run since i was probably eighteen or nineteen years old.  i was pleasantly surprised.  

then, wonder of wonders, i did a whole hour of yoga, after my run.  

this is really happening.  

mil besos,

rmg

countdown to awesome...

eighteen months from today, i'll be 35.

what. the. deuce.

in the next eighteen months, among other things i can't possibly foresee:

i'll finish the book.

and train to run the marine corps marathon in october 2013.

get excited.

mil besos,
rmg

being here

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

--dylan thomas
"fern hill"

in the midst of doing this new thing, in this new place, knowing and seeing all my imperfections and weirdnesses, i am constantly amazed at how good life feels, right now. sure, there are ups and downs, and about a million and one questions that i'd love to have answered...but, seriously, you guys...the last two mornings, i've woken up with a smile on my face. a smile before a cup of coffee, before seven a.m., even.

to be here, to live here, to feel this way, for however long it lasts, is worth everything it took to get here.  i mean that, with my whole self.  the last year was absolutely terrifying and scary and lonely and hugely formative.  i can't help but be grateful for it, even as i am so glad it's over.

adventure isn't just looming, it's in the now. life isn't something i wait for...it is something i consume daily. there is no more waiting, there is only now, and there is only this, and when now is later and this has become that, i'll have a whole new backlog of stories and faces to sort through and fall in love with, all over again.

once i gave myself permission not to know everything, not to get it right on the first try every single time, once i told myself that all falling down meant was that i had to get back up again, and once i finally remembered that grace is unlimited and bottomless and all around me, it was like i could see the sun, again...feel it on my face...it is good to remember. it is hard not to forget. i set up little reminders for myself, all over the apartment, all over my office, all over my conversations...i don't want to forget, again.

it's ok to struggle. it's ok to not know. it's ok. it's all ok, and it always was ok, even when it wasn't.

shit happens. grace abides. love conquers all.

mil besos,
rmg

borrowed bits...

"Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism.  
It is not the conviction  that something will turn out well, 
but the certainty that something makes sense, 
regardless of how it turns out." 
 --Vaclav Havel

This feels really, really, profoundly true.

I saw two movies this month that felt really real: 1) The Descendants, and 2) Jack Goes Boating.  And I read Where Men Win Glory, and even though I knew the story, Jon Krackauer broke my damn heart, anyway.

Spring seems to be hovering, waiting to settle like some layer of magic fairy dust, and I am excited to see what Happy Valley looks like in the full flush of spring.

mil besos,
rmg

...it's an egg...hold it like an egg...

i finally finished putting my clothes away.  it only took six weeks.  i've done laundry three times.  but somehow, i could not bring myself to sort out drawers, separate the pants/skirts/tops into a workable/wearable format, arrange the shoes, etc.  stephen king is right--it is hard to know how to begin.

i love the new job.  i love the people i work with, and i love the people i work for.  there hasn't been a single day that i felt something was wasted.  now, i know some of that is just the newness of the place, the otherness of this adventure.  but i also think it's just a really healthy, reasonable, growing, and lovely place to land.  and that kind of scares the crap out of me.

i mean, sure i put all my clothes away.  but...i haven't hung a single picture or unpacked a single knickknack.  like at all.  i have two frames up--one my grammy painted, and a notecard my dad had pinned over his desk for years.  it's like i almost don't believe i live here, in my little apartment, in this funny little town.  there's a part of me that is scared to believe that i live here, for a whole variety of reasons.  i'm realizing more and more how hard the last year was, how lonely and frightened i was for so much of it.  i'm learning every day that i don't ever have to go back to that place, that i can do different.  i'm learning every day how lucky i am, how lucky we all are.

grace is a funny thing.  it finds us in the most unexpected places.  you know, i have never been a good sleeper, at least not on the regular kind of sleep cycle that most of the world enjoys.  i have an internal clock all my own.  but you know, since the first night i unpacked in happy valley, even on nights when i don't get a whole-whole lot, i have slept like a baby.  no bad dreams.  no staring at the wall.  no sheer and consuming panic.  no tears and sobbing.  and when i remember that, not having pictures on the wall or knickknacks on the end tables seems like pretty small potatoes.

mil besos,
rmg

theories, suppositions, and further nonsense

dear modern american heterosexual males,

let me break the news to you, as simply as i can...

i don't need anything from you. i really don't.

there may be a laundry list of things i'd like to have from you, would LIKE TO HAVE, or share, but my needs are utterly and completely met. i like the way you smell. i like the way you look. when you don't have your head shoved up your ass, i really like to spend time with you. also, most of the time, you are a really good kisser.

you don't have anything i need. i realize this is hard for you to understand and deal with. you've been raised to believe that you have to provide, and i have to need.

but neither of those things is true.

i'm sorry you are bound to a world where you can tell someone how much you love them, want to disclose all your secrets, spend your extra time with them, and crave time and attention from them, but can't manage to see a world where all that actually equals a vibrant and vital relationship. it all comes down to packaging for you, and frankly that further illustrates why you don't have anything i need, why i have such a hard time being still and confident around you.

i'm not a dude-princess. i'm not your sister. i'm not a substitute mother. i'm not your young aunt, or the girl from down the block. i'm what i was always intended to be, the person God and my parents helped make me into. and you want to know why spending time with me feels so fucking great?

it's because i'm the girl you've always wished you could meet, hang out with, kiss, marry, and have babies with. there you have it. i am that girl. you won't find much better. and you've done a whole lot worse. we both know you have. it's ok to admit that, here.

and because you can't see the self-sufficient, world-wise, and seriously funny girl in the size sixteen jeans as anything other than a dude-princess, your best friend, your favorite "sister", your go-to girl Friday, the person you call to troubleshoot your bullshit, to paraphrase one of your own, you've got 99 problems, but this bitch ain't one.

see, when the power structure is challenged, like how i do, and it becomes clear to you that i don't need anything from you, that i'm choosing actively just to hang out with you, that i can take or leave it, etc. when you realize that i can take care of myself, figure out tight jams on my own, make shit happen, etc., you won't let me be an authentic female, anymore. you turn me into this valkyrie, who you're afraid of and attracted to, at the same time. but you can't deal with the fact that ultimately, i could make it without you. i don't want your soul. or your last name. i don't need your help. i can do it on my own. but i'd sure like for you to be around, and cheer, and hold my hand, and brush the hair back from my face.

it's true, i'm not like a lot of girls, or even the vast majority of them. i'm ok with that. in fact, i'm proud of it.

and sometimes, on chilly and tired mondays, i wish you were, too.

weak sauce, brah.

weak. sauce.

end of rant,

mil besos,

rmg

Portrait of A Lady...

Sometimes, Thursdays were my Sundays.

I saw her every Thursday that she felt like it, unless I was sick or out of town. Sometimes, we saw each other on Sundays. But mostly, Thursdays were our day.

We had the same routine every week. I was always about ten minutes late. Her dog always barked at me, like I was after the good silver and all his doggie treats. Sometimes, she would show me pictures of ridiculous shoes in the Neiman Marcus Catalogue, and we would laugh wondering how anyone could ever walk in shoes like that, much less afford them. She would tell me about recipes she had tried, or ones she wanted to try. We talked about her kids and her beloved husband, Lloyd. She always asked about my family, any guys I might be dating, and would sometimes tease me that I had better not wait too long to start having babies, if I was going to have them. I would ask her about how she was feeling, and she was usually pretty honest, which means I didn't always hear happy answers. But this is what we did, week in and week out, whether we were at the top of our game or at the bottom of the hill.

Her living room was a holy place. The carpet, the pictures, the knick-knacks, the granny square throw on the arm of the couch, her chair, her mail table, the clock with shells that her daughter-in-law sent her from Florida, and the way she almost always had the card I sent her the week before poised on the coffee table that sat between us—this was our sanctuary. This is where we met, prayed, talked, laughed, cried, shared, and fed each other. This was our pantry, where we went to get our bread and drink. And this is what we did, week in and week out, whether we were at the top of our game or at the bottom of the hill.

Communion was a holy moment for us. Me in one chair, her in the other, the little dog perched on an ottoman between us…”This is the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven”. I would say to her, and I would put the Host in her hand, and I would hold it there for a minute, mostly just to hold her hand in those moments. To remind her that even though she couldn't come to the building, that this was church, that this was just as real, that she was and is just as important as anyone else, that she was and is a part of who I am as a person of faith.. She always met my eye. We had an understanding. We knew.

I hated leaving her house, every single time I did it. Saying goodbye to the safe, warm place we made, seeing her George Burns' rosebush fade into the distance... I hated leaving her house. The dog would get after me again, always while I was giving her a hug goodbye. She knew I would call her next week, but I would tell her that, anyway. She would always tell me “Thank you”, even though I knew she was thankful and she would always tell me she loved me, even though I knew that, too. She would lock the door behind me, and I would wait until I heard the bolt turn, before I made my way across the lawn, back to my little car, on to the next place.

Sometimes, Thursdays were my Sundays.

For my darling friend Arlene, this Thursday is a forever Sunday. And she's probably already in the kitchen, dancing and laughing, and waiting for the rest of us to show up and eat.

Such grace, such incredible strength, such a woman...

mil besos,

rmg

2011: The Year that Ate My Lunch...and Punched Me in the Face...and Then Pushed Me Down a Flight of Stairs Into The Best Place, Yet.

I remember a night last January, early in the month, when I still had Christmas lights up on the porch. Just about five minutes before I fell asleep, one of those lightening bolt thoughts shot across the landscape of my mind, and I knew that by the time the next January rolled around, Things Would Be Different. Despite the drop in my stomach and surge in blood pressure, I fell right to sleep.

You guys...2011 kicked my ass. Hard. Unmercifully. Explicitly. Remorselessly. Gratuitously, even. But here I sit, in the waxing days of 2012, with all my limbs and family and sanity (mostly) in tact. One of my favorite writers has a line that says, "Ka is a wheel". So it is with time. We are seasonal creatures. And the seasons move in circles, too. And sychronicity is everywhere. Once I started sifting through the pieces of this year, I realized that I had never been surprised by any of the drama and weirdness that's been thrown at me over the last twelve months. I knew, down in my bones, that God had asked me to be looking for a window, and that I would know it when I saw it. I know that sounds weird. It looks weird to type it out. But I knew it, in my bones. And I knew I had just better pay full and focused attention to pretty much everything, all the time. This was what we like to call "daunting".

By March, I'd promised myself and God that even if I had to drag myself screaming and crying through the rest of the year, or however long it took for things to not suck so badly, I would not just lay down and quit. That was a hard promise to keep.

By the middle of September, things had gone from weird to downright surreal, and I was mostly just hanging on for dear life. And then, I saw the window. No, seriously. There really was a window, and it was broken into a thousand pieces. Seriously. And it was my car window. I walked into the car port, and for a minute, didn't really register what I was looking at. Some precious child of God had smashed my window in with a tree limb--for an ipod and communion kit that I'm sure they though was a purse. Looking at the glass and seeing the mess, this cold shiver of understanding ran up and down my back, and lodged itself in my belly. I knew everything I needed to know about the whole back quarter of 2011 just by looking at that window.

In short order, over the next two months, I was informed that I would no longer be employed at my former parish after December 31st, because of monetary issues. One other staff person was also effected by the economy. Frankly, I was relieved. But I was also terrified to be functionally out of work, in the middle of such a risky time for employment in pretty much every sector. I looked and fished and hunted and pecked and prayed and worried and threw up a couple of times. I switched out cars. I found a realtor. I tried not to panic. Grammy almost died, again. My sister in law had major back surgery. Granny had major headaches and vertigo. My therapist had a major stroke (no seriously, I'm not making this up).

And...you'll love this...because this is what put shit over the top...this dude, with whom I'd had a 15 year long friendship and who I quite simply adored, decided that the new theme song to our relationship was going to be "I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore", and made out with me fiercely after buying me a birthday dinner, and wants to see what would happen if we, you know...had a relationship for the real. Like real people do. And then...after two whole dates...THE DUDE DIS-A-FREAKING-PPEARED. No, seriously.

And when I called, to offer an olive branch (after not hearing from him for two days, and wondering if he might be...dead...) and asked him to call me, just to talk and clarify, not to yell or scream or try to fix--nothing. NOTHING.

Keep in mind, this whole shenanigan goes down the SAME WEEK, SAME TWO DAY PERIOD, that I was made an unofficial job offer that was for a really exciting job and had that offer unofficially retracted in less than 36 hours. For the record, I've still not been formally informed that the conversation I thought was official was unofficial, nor have I been informed that I am no longer in the running for the job. HOLY SMOKES. Yeah, so dream job and hot boyfriend were literally vaporized at almost the exact same time.

Clearly, there was nothing to do but drive to the beach for less than 24 hours, and rinse myself off in the Gulf of Mexico.

I cried a lot, this year. I cried more than I've cried since my dad died. I cried in front of people. I cried on my steering wheel. I cried at my desk. I cried on the phone. I cried in the shower. I cried while the cat stared blankly at me, wondering what in the deuce had happened to his person. I cried waiting in lines. I cried after dates. I cried before dates. I cried a lot.

And then, in the middle of November, my fairy godmother called to invite me to come work with her. In College Station. And all I could do was very tearfully say "Yes, and thank you." And I've been trying to figure out the rest of it, along the way.

I've moved all the stuff I own to a town I never thought in ten million years I'd ever live in. I moved out of the condo that I bought in 2006, five years to the day after I signed the closing papers. Driving out of town, and trying to avoid snarling traffic, I ended up taking the back way, which was the way we'd driven into town the day I started looking for houses.

Syncing up...life has a funny way of doing it. God has such a weird sense of humour.

I'm right where I'm supposed to be. I'm so happy to be here.

mil besos,

rmg

sweet spot

it was a shot i could hit over and over, for hours.

one, two, square up, swish...running steps, snag the ball...one, two, square up, swish...running steps, snag the ball...for hours. it was my shot, and even after i couldn't play ball anymore, i would find myself out on the court my grandfather put in, shooting for hours, until the security light came on, and it was too much of a hassle to chase the ball down the alley.

one, two, square up, swish...

i can still hit that shot, eight times out of ten, for hours...one, two, square up, swish...i think about teaching my hypothetical children that shot, watching them learn how to follow through, to shoot from the bottoms of their feet, to make a shot with their whole body, to hear the sound a brand- new net makes when a perfectly inflated ball drops right through...to wait breathlessly (if your shot was a little off...) as physics decides whether the rim pitches the ball in, or spits it back out...to chase your own shot and to keep shooting...one, two, square up, swish...to watch them get to that spot where making that shot, refining the mechanics of it, how the slap and shuffle become the only sounds in the whole universe, and the troubles of the day are worked and worried over and made right inside those sounds--there is something holy about the sweet spot.

the shot was something i could always do, like diagramming sentences or memorizing dates for a test. i just could/can do it. you'd think that finding the sweet spot would be more of an intentional endeavor...but the absolute surprise of virtuosity is what what makes that spot so sweet. when no other shots would fall, it's the one i would always go back to, and start reworking the floor from that best of all spots. nothing felt as good as hitting that shot time after time after time, even when no one was watching but me. hitting that shot became like saying a rosary, keeping my prayers, making my mitzvoh...like i was made to hit that shot...

all i need is a wooden floor, a hoop with a backboard, a basketball, and time. i can hit that spot for hours...hours...and nothing but the slap, slap, slap, the swishes, the way you start to rhythmically time your breaths to the shot...with no one watching but the darkened game clock, no one to hear me swear when i miss, or squeal when i barely make one in...

soon, i'll have a ball in my hands, again. and i'll find that spot, and i'll shoot until i can't get my arms over my head, anymore.

one, two, square up, swish...

mil besos,
rmg

catching up

by the time i was finally pulling my hair up into the black elastic hair-tie i wear around my left wrist, i felt like every string in my body was tuned up to a pitch that would shatter glass. standing at the edge of the water, all i could think of was that this was absolutely worth the tank of gas i used. i didn't run, like i thought i would. i never stopped walking, either. honestly, i felt like i could have walked to europe, and never had to break stride. soon, i was junior-high shrieking at the chilly water temperature, even as i was thirty-year old woman observing the clarity of the water that was creeping slowly slowly slowly up my legs. by the time i was up to my neck, that awful taste of tears had been washed out of the back of my throat, and i found myself laughing out loud, staring up at the late afternoon sun, as the latest edition of sunset water colors began to wash over all that unbelievably soft-enough-to-touch robin's egg blue.

i drove home with salt and sand in my hair, my lips chapped, and my eyes dry.

i have always known how to do this. and i have never been afraid to do it. taking life by the horns, and turning it around right sometimes takes years, or weeks, or months. sometimes it takes a bath of fire or ice to jar loose what is stuck....conversely, what is sometimes stuck will not be moved. and what cannot be moved must either be enshrined or left behind. the difference between an altar and a stumbling block is greater than or equal to the difference between a raven and a writing desk. sometimes, the salt wears away the blemishes, and the magnifying effect of the constantly moving water makes the rest of everything else look tame and rather ordinary, by comparison. baptism looks like about a million different things, and i have been baptized into a thousand different iterations, all along the way, and they all remind me of the one big time i was baptized...in a little white robe over my fancy purple little kid bathing suit, in a concrete baptistry that was painted as blue as the sky i swam under saturday afternoon.


the raindrops, the rivers, the swimming pools, the ponds, the gulfs, the oceans...all the water in the world has one memory. and that memory is about birth and being clean. the wisdom of the water, the sanctity of the sacrament, the banality of broken hearts and lazy afternoons--who would be foolish enough to stay in her room and weep over ANYTHING AT ALL, when such riches lay literally at her feet?

there were waves and laughter. that is worth at least a tank of gas.

waste is the cardinal sin.

mil besos,
rmg

PS...TANGENT...POST-MODERN RANT TO FOLLOW: ts eliot maintains that everything tends toward reconciliation. there is no good friday without easter sunday. crazy horse screams down from his wounded mountain, from a thousand-odd miles away, that silence is a message. G-d does not play at dice... how will you live your one wild and precious life...be a bride married to amazement? did you proclaim that it would not always be night, knowing you are right? how many bumpersticker slogans can dance on the head of a pin? and doesn't integrity do a fabulous job of keeping it's side of the bed warm, at night? wrecking balls come in all shapes and sizes, and you'd better be ready to watch them do their job...and those sacred cows you've tended so sweetly...hope you like hamburgers. do you want fries with that? buy the ticket and ride the ride. or buy the ticket, and chicken out at the last minute, and watch people step around and over you to take the ride. thought you were the only one in line? oh...sorry...this is a pretty popular ride...and it's awesome. you go on This One, and things will never look the same, again. not your idea of a good time? that's fine...just...you know...be on your way, stand not amazed, etc.

we have work to do. and we don't have time to deal with amateurs, because after twelve years in the minors, i don't try out.

an odd turn of events

all the major meteor showers conspired to occur all at once. rather than streaming down like normal, in the correct order, they simply agreed to go, as though they were all of a piece. of course, they seemed like a rather ancient and spectacular species of leonid, springing from the mouth of the lion. they fell so hard and so fast, this reporter was unable to keep track of the wishes, much to her consternation. it was possible, even for a moment, to believe that at the very least, a few that landed in her pocket might yet come true. but as with most things, we must all agree with tom petty...the waiting IS the hardest part.

strange astronomical weather notwithstanding, change seems to be abroad in the land. colors are rising, rain may indeed fall, ebenezers seem to spring up everywhere, and it would seem that the headlines ought to be eight feet tall and proclaiming that bidden or not, G-d is present. and that ought to mean something, ought to occupy us...on all the streets we travel. in the end, the things that bring us together are more powerful and transcendent that the things that separate us. this reporter is not the first person to say that, and is by far not the most eloquent. but the fact remains...some things, some people, some experiences must be. just be.

this reporter must add that while einstein's figure for the speed of light is just as true now as when light was switched on, to begin with, the old man left out the figure for the speed of thought. science currently operates under the premise that nothing may exceed the speed of light, as to do so would likely (...) result in the total annihilation of any substance, were it achieve said speed. would that such were the case with circular thoughts that have no real chance at reasonable or satisfying answers. would that the thoughts would speed up to such a pitch that they would burst into...stillness.

eye witness accounts report of a strange event, happening in what may best be described as "the long ago", and concerns a rag-tag bunch of exiles on their way to a home that none of them had ever, ever seen before. the rag-tag bunch was led by a run-away with a stutter. they found themselves wondering, and wandering, and being pursued by fearsome foes. they wondered if it would just be better to bag the whole shooting match, and go back to making bricks out of dirt and sweat, and pieces of their fingers and souls. they wondered why they were fingered to die in the desert, why they didn't just stay where they were. there were already plenty of graves to be had back the other way. they were panicked. up against the wall. freaking the deuce out. wondering what, if anything, they could do to at least make an effort to defend themselves, demoralized as they were. from somewhere down the line, word was passed, or rather A Word was passed. the only thing to be done, the most best right correct and absolute thing to be done, was to be still. the fight was on, but it was not their fight, although the fight was most definitely about them. and at the end of the day, there were no graves dug in the desert, only the sound of the wind on the water, and the counter-harmony of the mystic music inside the pillar of fire.

this reporter must own up to the fact that her account of this story is second hand, at best. she must also concede a rather large bias toward the rag-tags, and the stuttering run-away. there are other accounts of further escapades in the desert, however, this reporter finds this particular item rather notable.

one is not often presented with easy answers, surface or otherwise. to this reporter, the staggering and audacious simplicity of the order to simply be still, is humbling. we feel this requires further study, as this reporter is quite sure that understanding this very simple idea is Quite Important, on a wide variety of levels. she thanks you for your consideration of this matter. additional reports to follow as information allows.

all is well.

mil besos,
rmg