A friend of mine saw the perpetually "busy" signal on my chat program just now and sent me this delicious run-on sentence (which either amuses me greatly or mildly alarms me. Possibly both):
Always red! So stand-offish, putting up this wall that urges me to peek over just for a glimpse of a friend that is so elusive she might as well start to have folklore spread about her at local podunk gas stations over checkerboards by old bearded men.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
I Strive to be Gigantic:
It takes a BIG person, Sarah, to accept full responsibility for their own happiness.
It takes an even BIGGER person to accept full responsibility for their own unhappiness.
But, Sarah, it takes a spiritual GIANT, who upon realizing any degree of unhappiness, decides to be the change they seek - in spite of having to endure the "same old, same old" that may still linger on for awhile.
Yeah.
Fee-Fi-Foe-Fum,
The Universe
It takes an even BIGGER person to accept full responsibility for their own unhappiness.
But, Sarah, it takes a spiritual GIANT, who upon realizing any degree of unhappiness, decides to be the change they seek - in spite of having to endure the "same old, same old" that may still linger on for awhile.
Yeah.
Fee-Fi-Foe-Fum,
The Universe
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
On the Upcoming All Hallows Eve
Sean and I carved pumpkins earlier today. They're sitting on the table, one wearing a Mr. Yuk face and the other looking a bit like it just experienced a very enjoyable stroke.
The house has a nice sharp brown smell to it, like the seeds that I toasted. Outside the colorful trees are lit from behind and beneath by the street lamps, and people are still out walking hand-in-hand. It's a beautiful picture.
I got to thinking, however, with my hands deep in stringy pumpkin squish: Halloween is a totally bizarre holiday. We dress our kids up like dead things and make an honest attempt to scare them stupid. We send them out on the street to beg for handouts door-to-door, and we sit back and watch as they slip into sugar-induced comas as a result.
And here I am, pulling the guts out of a beautiful fruit with my bare hands, salting and roasting its unborn children, then carving out its flesh and lighting up its mutilated body for the whole neighborhood to see.
I mean... seriously. What the hell.
I have to admit I love it, though. Favorite time of year.
The house has a nice sharp brown smell to it, like the seeds that I toasted. Outside the colorful trees are lit from behind and beneath by the street lamps, and people are still out walking hand-in-hand. It's a beautiful picture.
I got to thinking, however, with my hands deep in stringy pumpkin squish: Halloween is a totally bizarre holiday. We dress our kids up like dead things and make an honest attempt to scare them stupid. We send them out on the street to beg for handouts door-to-door, and we sit back and watch as they slip into sugar-induced comas as a result.
And here I am, pulling the guts out of a beautiful fruit with my bare hands, salting and roasting its unborn children, then carving out its flesh and lighting up its mutilated body for the whole neighborhood to see.
I mean... seriously. What the hell.
I have to admit I love it, though. Favorite time of year.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Atonement, continued.
A couple comments on my last post made me feel the need to clarify a couple things. Moreover, it helps me to write everything down. Gets it out of my head so I don't make myself sick over it.
Please do not think I'm convinced that I'm all better now and everything's peachy. I'm happier in myself, sure, but I am nowhere NEAR rehabilitated. I have a lot of things wrong with me-- old, old things that go way back that I've never really allowed myself to come face-to-face with until very, very recently. The atonement of which I speak is not something that I feel I am experiencing right this minute, nor am I absolutely sure I shall ever find it. I just feel the need to stop and reevaluate my life, my actions, and myself, and put myself on a new path to healing. I need to find peace with myself. Start building a foundation to keep myself from making the same mistakes I've made in the past all over again.
I have never done this before. I've never even really asked for help before. It's a learning process. Sarah "on the mend" is going to take a long time, and I'm well aware of it.
Much thanks to those of you who have been supportive, and patient.
Please do not think I'm convinced that I'm all better now and everything's peachy. I'm happier in myself, sure, but I am nowhere NEAR rehabilitated. I have a lot of things wrong with me-- old, old things that go way back that I've never really allowed myself to come face-to-face with until very, very recently. The atonement of which I speak is not something that I feel I am experiencing right this minute, nor am I absolutely sure I shall ever find it. I just feel the need to stop and reevaluate my life, my actions, and myself, and put myself on a new path to healing. I need to find peace with myself. Start building a foundation to keep myself from making the same mistakes I've made in the past all over again.
I have never done this before. I've never even really asked for help before. It's a learning process. Sarah "on the mend" is going to take a long time, and I'm well aware of it.
Much thanks to those of you who have been supportive, and patient.
Monday, October 13, 2008
In Which the Writer Expresses Atonement
It is said that the heart is the seat of human emotion. The heart, as is well known, is a rather powerful muscle... and muscles are slowly becoming my specialty. Therefore, I'm finding myself rather often thinking philosophically about the body and how it functions as an appropriate metaphor for various emotional states.
Trigger points are a favorite. A trigger point is a hypersensitive nodule in a muscle that, when compressed to a certain level of discomfort, refers pain, tingling or numbness elsewhere in the body. If held over a period of time at that particular level of discomfort, the nodule is starved of blood. The referred pain diminishes slowly. When released, the point is flooded with new, fresh, oxygenated blood-- the cells are nourished, the muscle relaxes, and the phantom pains disappear completely. Other stuff happens, too, with synapses and filaments and whatnot, but it's the blood that I want to talk about.
I feel like this is a description of my behavior and subsequent healing over the past year or so.
I have been truly awful. I was experiencing so much inner pain and confusion that it spread itself out over my whole little world, referring that discomfort to my friends and family. Although I could definitely see and feel the effect my inner "trigger point" was having on my life and the lives of those around me, I couldn't (wouldn't?) take a good solid look at where that referred pain was coming from.
I hurt people. A lot of people. I hurt people I cared about deeply, people that meant everything to me. I did some terrible things, I told some terrible lies, I covered my face and hated myself thoroughly for a long time. I couldn't even begin to describe what was happening in my heart to the people who loved me and wanted to know, other than to make up lame excuses and shrug it off. Or whine. Or nag. Or distract their questions with something else.
I didn't know where to begin, how to name the bad thing inside me, so I manipulated those around me to hide my shame at being "broken."
I'm so sorry. I was wrong.
I've been taking steps, over the past few months, to find and push on my trigger point. I figure that the more I starve it of the bad blood that's been congealing over the past eight years or so, the more healing will take place when I finally release it. It's been an enlightening process so far. I'm learning how to set boundaries, how to express discomfort or need, how to stand up for myself, how to apologize honestly. It feels good to own up to myself, to confront the things in myself that I've been so afraid of. Therapy's been rewarding on that front, and continues to palpate the tissue of my soul for that point.
You all have a right to be angry. You have a right to express your pain to me, or withhold it, as you see fit. I accept the responsibility of my actions and the subsequent trust I must now re-earn.
I am learning to love myself. No... that isn't quite right; love is not hard to come by for me. I am learning to respect myself, and accept my shortcomings, which for some reason is much more difficult.
But I feel, for the first time ever, as if I'm truly on the mend.
Trigger points are a favorite. A trigger point is a hypersensitive nodule in a muscle that, when compressed to a certain level of discomfort, refers pain, tingling or numbness elsewhere in the body. If held over a period of time at that particular level of discomfort, the nodule is starved of blood. The referred pain diminishes slowly. When released, the point is flooded with new, fresh, oxygenated blood-- the cells are nourished, the muscle relaxes, and the phantom pains disappear completely. Other stuff happens, too, with synapses and filaments and whatnot, but it's the blood that I want to talk about.
I feel like this is a description of my behavior and subsequent healing over the past year or so.
I have been truly awful. I was experiencing so much inner pain and confusion that it spread itself out over my whole little world, referring that discomfort to my friends and family. Although I could definitely see and feel the effect my inner "trigger point" was having on my life and the lives of those around me, I couldn't (wouldn't?) take a good solid look at where that referred pain was coming from.
I hurt people. A lot of people. I hurt people I cared about deeply, people that meant everything to me. I did some terrible things, I told some terrible lies, I covered my face and hated myself thoroughly for a long time. I couldn't even begin to describe what was happening in my heart to the people who loved me and wanted to know, other than to make up lame excuses and shrug it off. Or whine. Or nag. Or distract their questions with something else.
I didn't know where to begin, how to name the bad thing inside me, so I manipulated those around me to hide my shame at being "broken."
I'm so sorry. I was wrong.
I've been taking steps, over the past few months, to find and push on my trigger point. I figure that the more I starve it of the bad blood that's been congealing over the past eight years or so, the more healing will take place when I finally release it. It's been an enlightening process so far. I'm learning how to set boundaries, how to express discomfort or need, how to stand up for myself, how to apologize honestly. It feels good to own up to myself, to confront the things in myself that I've been so afraid of. Therapy's been rewarding on that front, and continues to palpate the tissue of my soul for that point.
You all have a right to be angry. You have a right to express your pain to me, or withhold it, as you see fit. I accept the responsibility of my actions and the subsequent trust I must now re-earn.
I am learning to love myself. No... that isn't quite right; love is not hard to come by for me. I am learning to respect myself, and accept my shortcomings, which for some reason is much more difficult.
But I feel, for the first time ever, as if I'm truly on the mend.
A Lover's Quarrel
There are some to whom a place means nothing,
for whom the lazy zeroes
a goshawk carves across the sky
are nothing,
for whom a home is something one can buy.
I have long wanted to say,
just once before I die,
I am home.
When I remember the sound of my true country,
I hear winds
high up in the evergreens, the soft snore
of surf, far off, on a wintry day,
the half-garbled song of finches
darting off through alder
on a summer day.
Lust does not
fatigue the soul, I say. This wind,
these ever-
green trees, this little bird of the spirit--
this is the shape, the place of my desire. I'm free
as a fish or a stone.
* *
Don't tell me
about the seasons in the East, don't talk to me
about eternal California summer.
It's enough to have
a few days naked
among three hundred kinds of rain.
In its little plastic pot on the high sill,
the African violet
grows away from the place
the sun last was, its fuzzy leaves
leaning out in little curtsies.
It, too, has had enough
of the sun. I love the sound of a storm
without thunder, the way winds
slow, trees darken, heavy clouds
rumbling so softly
you must close you eyes to listen:
then the blotch, blotch
of big drops
plunketing through the leaves.
* *
It is difficult,
this being a stranger on earth.
Why, I've seen pilgrims come
and tear away at blackberry vines
with everything that's in them, I've seen them
heap their anger
up against a tree
and curse these swollen skies.
What's this?--a mountain beaver
no bigger than a newborn mouse
curled in my palm,
an osprey curling over tide pools and lifting
toward the trees, a wind at dusk
hollow in the hollows of the eaves,
a wind over waves
cooling sand crabs washed up along the beach.
Each thing, closely seen,
appears more strange
than before: the shape of my desire
is huge, vague,
full of many things
commingling--
dying bees among the dying flowers;
winter rain and the smoke it brings.
If it fills me with longing,
it is only because we are wind and smoke,
flower and bee;
it is only because
we are like the rain, falling,
falling through our own most secret being,
through a world of not knowing.
* *
At the end of the day,
I come, finally,
to myself, I return to the strange sounds of a man
who wants to speak
with stones, with the hard crust of earth.
But nothing listens.
When the sea hammers the sea wall,
I'm dumb.
When the nighthawks bleat at dusk, I'm drunk
on the sadness of their songs.
When the moon is so close
you can almost reach it through the trees,
I'm frozen, I'm blind,
or I'm gone.
Fish, bird, stone, there's something
I can't know, but know the same:
I hear the rain inside me
only to look up
into a bitter sun.
What do we listen to, what do we think
we hear? The sound
of sea walls crumbling,
a little bird with hunger in its song:
You should have known! You should have known!
* *
Like any Nootka Rose,
I know there are some
for whom a place is nothing. Like the wild rose,
like the tide and the day,
we come, go, or stay
according to a whim.
It is enough, perhaps,
to say, We live here.
And let it go at that.
This wind lets go
of everything it touches.
I long to hold the wind
I'd kiss a fish
and love a stone
and marry the winter rain
if I could persuade this battered earth
to let me make it home.
Sam Hamill (Port Townsend)
for whom the lazy zeroes
a goshawk carves across the sky
are nothing,
for whom a home is something one can buy.
I have long wanted to say,
just once before I die,
I am home.
When I remember the sound of my true country,
I hear winds
high up in the evergreens, the soft snore
of surf, far off, on a wintry day,
the half-garbled song of finches
darting off through alder
on a summer day.
Lust does not
fatigue the soul, I say. This wind,
these ever-
green trees, this little bird of the spirit--
this is the shape, the place of my desire. I'm free
as a fish or a stone.
* *
Don't tell me
about the seasons in the East, don't talk to me
about eternal California summer.
It's enough to have
a few days naked
among three hundred kinds of rain.
In its little plastic pot on the high sill,
the African violet
grows away from the place
the sun last was, its fuzzy leaves
leaning out in little curtsies.
It, too, has had enough
of the sun. I love the sound of a storm
without thunder, the way winds
slow, trees darken, heavy clouds
rumbling so softly
you must close you eyes to listen:
then the blotch, blotch
of big drops
plunketing through the leaves.
* *
It is difficult,
this being a stranger on earth.
Why, I've seen pilgrims come
and tear away at blackberry vines
with everything that's in them, I've seen them
heap their anger
up against a tree
and curse these swollen skies.
What's this?--a mountain beaver
no bigger than a newborn mouse
curled in my palm,
an osprey curling over tide pools and lifting
toward the trees, a wind at dusk
hollow in the hollows of the eaves,
a wind over waves
cooling sand crabs washed up along the beach.
Each thing, closely seen,
appears more strange
than before: the shape of my desire
is huge, vague,
full of many things
commingling--
dying bees among the dying flowers;
winter rain and the smoke it brings.
If it fills me with longing,
it is only because we are wind and smoke,
flower and bee;
it is only because
we are like the rain, falling,
falling through our own most secret being,
through a world of not knowing.
* *
At the end of the day,
I come, finally,
to myself, I return to the strange sounds of a man
who wants to speak
with stones, with the hard crust of earth.
But nothing listens.
When the sea hammers the sea wall,
I'm dumb.
When the nighthawks bleat at dusk, I'm drunk
on the sadness of their songs.
When the moon is so close
you can almost reach it through the trees,
I'm frozen, I'm blind,
or I'm gone.
Fish, bird, stone, there's something
I can't know, but know the same:
I hear the rain inside me
only to look up
into a bitter sun.
What do we listen to, what do we think
we hear? The sound
of sea walls crumbling,
a little bird with hunger in its song:
You should have known! You should have known!
* *
Like any Nootka Rose,
I know there are some
for whom a place is nothing. Like the wild rose,
like the tide and the day,
we come, go, or stay
according to a whim.
It is enough, perhaps,
to say, We live here.
And let it go at that.
This wind lets go
of everything it touches.
I long to hold the wind
I'd kiss a fish
and love a stone
and marry the winter rain
if I could persuade this battered earth
to let me make it home.
Sam Hamill (Port Townsend)
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Crap, now I have to take the board exams...
Act the part, Sarah, act the part.
You will become a massage therapist. It's a done deal. Actually, I've already sent out the party invitations.
Act the part,
The Universe
And in the process, Sarah, you'll touch, teach, and heal millions and millions of people... (And not just because I've invited them to the party.)
You will become a massage therapist. It's a done deal. Actually, I've already sent out the party invitations.
Act the part,
The Universe
And in the process, Sarah, you'll touch, teach, and heal millions and millions of people... (And not just because I've invited them to the party.)
Sunday, September 28, 2008
'Cause If You Want to Disco, Come to San Fransisco!
I just spent the last week in the Bay Area with my best girlfriend, Liza. She's moving a couple hundred miles north of Portland for work tomorrow, so we figured it would be a good idea, while we still had time, to get the heck out of the city and visit a different one.
What a trip-- we hiked all over, saw all the touristy things, stayed in a cool little hostel in North Beach. At the end, I was delighted to find that Liza and I had no issues spending that much time together. We were still just as enthusiastic about being around the other person as we had been at the start of the trip. This is the way we've always interacted, even when we lived together a couple years ago, and I'm still awed by it. Not every day that you find someone you love so thoroughly that you never get sick of their company. True friendship.
I'm going to miss her so much.
What a trip-- we hiked all over, saw all the touristy things, stayed in a cool little hostel in North Beach. At the end, I was delighted to find that Liza and I had no issues spending that much time together. We were still just as enthusiastic about being around the other person as we had been at the start of the trip. This is the way we've always interacted, even when we lived together a couple years ago, and I'm still awed by it. Not every day that you find someone you love so thoroughly that you never get sick of their company. True friendship.
I'm going to miss her so much.
Monday, September 22, 2008
No Step #2
When in a hurry, Sarah, step #1 for changing the entire world is falling in love with it as it already is.
Same for changing yourself.
You like?
The Universe
Same for changing yourself.
You like?
The Universe
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Up From Here
The season is changing. My alarm goes off and I'm waking up in the dark now, always a little bit chilled. Where did summer go?
I feel almost as though I'm suddenly faced with everything I could possibly want at this moment in my life, and it's overwhelming to experience joy, real joy, after so many weeks of emptiness. I'm spluttering a lot trying to find the words: love, a career, my family close by, my friends reaching their goals. Enough to make your head spin!
I can sense my loved ones near me, and love them in return, and let them go. My grieving process isn't even close to over, but it's nice to not feel angry about it anymore. Like their deaths were something done to me.
Good to read back in my posts and find one recently that ended with, "I can only go up from here." It's still true!
I feel almost as though I'm suddenly faced with everything I could possibly want at this moment in my life, and it's overwhelming to experience joy, real joy, after so many weeks of emptiness. I'm spluttering a lot trying to find the words: love, a career, my family close by, my friends reaching their goals. Enough to make your head spin!
I can sense my loved ones near me, and love them in return, and let them go. My grieving process isn't even close to over, but it's nice to not feel angry about it anymore. Like their deaths were something done to me.
Good to read back in my posts and find one recently that ended with, "I can only go up from here." It's still true!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
No Great Fanfare
There is no great fanfare
when you discover your soul
is caught by another, no
trumpets or overture medley,
no perfectly choreographed
dance scene in the street,
the handsome men in tucked
primary-colored shirts, beardless,
slinging arms round the
impossibly small waists of
their female counterparts, no
swish of pastel skirts or harmonized
whistling, high-kicking
with all their might to celebrate
your admittance to love-- no,
only the soft pit pit perkle
of the one-cup coffee maker,
sugar and mug waiting quietly nearby
and a single trill of birdsong
outside in response to your nearly
imperceptible "oh."
when you discover your soul
is caught by another, no
trumpets or overture medley,
no perfectly choreographed
dance scene in the street,
the handsome men in tucked
primary-colored shirts, beardless,
slinging arms round the
impossibly small waists of
their female counterparts, no
swish of pastel skirts or harmonized
whistling, high-kicking
with all their might to celebrate
your admittance to love-- no,
only the soft pit pit perkle
of the one-cup coffee maker,
sugar and mug waiting quietly nearby
and a single trill of birdsong
outside in response to your nearly
imperceptible "oh."
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Healing the Two of Us
And what if there were enough
to go around? What it,
slipping my hands into the film
surrounding her, I could somehow
pull myself into being? Cupping
the starry black jelly, invisible,
that coats each golden hair
on her arm? Drinking it into
my listening fingers? What if
my ears were my palms, fleshy,
lined with age, with love and
secrets in the dark; what if
I could heal the two of us
--both of us, each of us, we--
by breathing her breath just once
or twice?
to go around? What it,
slipping my hands into the film
surrounding her, I could somehow
pull myself into being? Cupping
the starry black jelly, invisible,
that coats each golden hair
on her arm? Drinking it into
my listening fingers? What if
my ears were my palms, fleshy,
lined with age, with love and
secrets in the dark; what if
I could heal the two of us
--both of us, each of us, we--
by breathing her breath just once
or twice?
Monday, September 8, 2008
Some Fantastic Advice
Me: My love life is a mess, Cass! How did this happen?
Cassie: It is exactly what it should be. I think that it is rare that at 23 you would be settled down and comfortable. I wasn't. And anyone that I know who was regrets it. Honestly, I wouldn't worry too much about it. I know that sounds ridiculous, but the truth is that anyone you find now has almost zero chance of being your lover and man for the rest of your life. You have so many changes that you are verging on, and in them you will lose yourself as you know it. That alone is enough to tear a relationship apart. So, it's a mess, just the way it should be.
But the beauty in all of what I just said is that you come out on the other end, and things are not so messy, you know yourself better and have a better (WAY BETTER) idea of what you want and need in a man.
Which is why I suggest you date all to hell. And kiss all of them.
And feel a tiny bit sorry for them, because they won't get to see what turns out. But you know inside, that what will be eventually will be partially contributed by them.
Me: That's wonderful-- all of that. Haha! Thanks, Cassie.
Cassie: I am glad you think so, because there are few that would actually understand what I just said. :) You are welcome.
Cassie: It is exactly what it should be. I think that it is rare that at 23 you would be settled down and comfortable. I wasn't. And anyone that I know who was regrets it. Honestly, I wouldn't worry too much about it. I know that sounds ridiculous, but the truth is that anyone you find now has almost zero chance of being your lover and man for the rest of your life. You have so many changes that you are verging on, and in them you will lose yourself as you know it. That alone is enough to tear a relationship apart. So, it's a mess, just the way it should be.
But the beauty in all of what I just said is that you come out on the other end, and things are not so messy, you know yourself better and have a better (WAY BETTER) idea of what you want and need in a man.
Which is why I suggest you date all to hell. And kiss all of them.
And feel a tiny bit sorry for them, because they won't get to see what turns out. But you know inside, that what will be eventually will be partially contributed by them.
Me: That's wonderful-- all of that. Haha! Thanks, Cassie.
Cassie: I am glad you think so, because there are few that would actually understand what I just said. :) You are welcome.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Someone Telling Me Something?
This eerie song, a favorite of mine, has come up on my various playlists five times today. In the car, on my walk, on my computer. Five times. I'm starting to get a little creeped out.
Give me your hand
The dog in the garden row is covered in mud
And dragging your mother's clothes
Cinder and smoke
The snake in the basement
Found the juniper shade
The farmhouse is burning down
Give me your hand
And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast
And high as the flame will rise
Cinder and smoke
Some whispers around the trees
The juniper bends
As if you were listening
Give me your hand
Your mother is drunk as all the firemen shake
A photo from father's arms
Cinder and smoke
You'll ask me to pray for rain
With ash in your mouth
You'll ask it to burn again
Iron & Wine, "Cinder and Smoke"
From Our Endless Numbered Days, 2004
Give me your hand
The dog in the garden row is covered in mud
And dragging your mother's clothes
Cinder and smoke
The snake in the basement
Found the juniper shade
The farmhouse is burning down
Give me your hand
And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast
And high as the flame will rise
Cinder and smoke
Some whispers around the trees
The juniper bends
As if you were listening
Give me your hand
Your mother is drunk as all the firemen shake
A photo from father's arms
Cinder and smoke
You'll ask me to pray for rain
With ash in your mouth
You'll ask it to burn again
Iron & Wine, "Cinder and Smoke"
From Our Endless Numbered Days, 2004
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Remember the Tunicates!
Okay, okay, okay.
I'm young. I'm beautiful. I'm single. I'm at the start of my career. Enough of this moping shit.
I went grocery shopping, painted the bedroom, had my first appointment with my therapist... who I think will help me process all of this loss and pent-up anger immensely. Finished all of my extremely late homework and turned it in with absolutely NO excuse and a sincere apology.
It's been a beautiful couple of days. Perfect weather. I've been out walking a lot, and breathing, and watching people. I'm allowing myself to fully and thoroughly miss each of my grandparents, my godfather Paul, and, suddenly and all afresh, Sean Sole. This pain is a lesson. Often I'll catch myself talking to Sean out loud, asking him for advice, telling him stories I remember about our friends. I can hear him in my head, crystal-clear, over three years after his death: "I love ya, Sarah-Belle!"
I still ache inside, I still feel heavy all the time. But I don't feel like this will get any worse. And that's a blessing, right?
I can only go up from here.
I'm young. I'm beautiful. I'm single. I'm at the start of my career. Enough of this moping shit.
I went grocery shopping, painted the bedroom, had my first appointment with my therapist... who I think will help me process all of this loss and pent-up anger immensely. Finished all of my extremely late homework and turned it in with absolutely NO excuse and a sincere apology.
It's been a beautiful couple of days. Perfect weather. I've been out walking a lot, and breathing, and watching people. I'm allowing myself to fully and thoroughly miss each of my grandparents, my godfather Paul, and, suddenly and all afresh, Sean Sole. This pain is a lesson. Often I'll catch myself talking to Sean out loud, asking him for advice, telling him stories I remember about our friends. I can hear him in my head, crystal-clear, over three years after his death: "I love ya, Sarah-Belle!"
I still ache inside, I still feel heavy all the time. But I don't feel like this will get any worse. And that's a blessing, right?
I can only go up from here.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Exactly Where I Should Be
The very feelings you're now feeling, Sarah, the good, the bad, and the confused, are in large part why you chose this lifetime: To simply feel them.
Let's get this party started,
The Universe
Let's get this party started,
The Universe
Monday, September 1, 2008
In Need of an Exorcism?
I haven't shopped for food in weeks, nor done any of my homework. I'm escaping the city every weekend. My condo is a mess. I'm drinking too much. I'm proud that I even remembered to pay the bills today.
THIS IS NOT ME.
Sarah, hyper-organized, optimistic, always punctual, always on-task, works to the best of her ability, cleans things to calm herself, cooks her own meals, eschews sitting on the internet all day.
Who is this person that's taken over my body? A part of me is aware that I just went through a difficult year and have finally come out on the other side clean, so to speak... so at this point I am most likely allowing myself to grieve fully. But still. I feel so entirely incorrect that it's frustrating; I know the steps to take to put myself right again, but I can't quite drag myself out of the funk enough to take them.
I'm painting my bedroom today. Perhaps some loud jazz and primer fumes will clear my head.
THIS IS NOT ME.
Sarah, hyper-organized, optimistic, always punctual, always on-task, works to the best of her ability, cleans things to calm herself, cooks her own meals, eschews sitting on the internet all day.
Who is this person that's taken over my body? A part of me is aware that I just went through a difficult year and have finally come out on the other side clean, so to speak... so at this point I am most likely allowing myself to grieve fully. But still. I feel so entirely incorrect that it's frustrating; I know the steps to take to put myself right again, but I can't quite drag myself out of the funk enough to take them.
I'm painting my bedroom today. Perhaps some loud jazz and primer fumes will clear my head.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3
I sit down at the piano and start writing a somber little waltz... and ten minutes later an hour and a half have gone by. How does this happen?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
On Being the Big Spoon
I had a good friend stay with me last night. After kissing my eyebrow goodnight, she curled herself up under my chin and fell asleep breathing onto my collar bone.
Just having that warmth, the feeling of a body inhaling and exhaling on the pillow next to mine... God, I miss that intimacy. I miss the knowledge that there will be someone there when I wake up in the morning.
She and I talked earlier this afternoon about pets. I thought briefly about getting a dog, some little furry thing to wrestle with and care for and take with me on my walks. It would be nice to have a doggy roommate. I never thought I'd ever be this lonely; I was always the social butterfly, never without a friend or partner nearby. It's strange. Much of the time it isn't so bad; I enjoy the quiet to read, or watch movies, or take a bath. I stop at the mall on my way home from school to sit near the ice rink a couple days out of the week, and I watch people interact. I visit people every now and then or have them visit me.
But I still feel as though I've been scooped out, somehow. Like I made a few too many hasty decisions and they left me hollowed... it's the same sensation you get after a shot or two of tequila.
I'm distracted. Foggy.
It was nice to hold someone.
Just having that warmth, the feeling of a body inhaling and exhaling on the pillow next to mine... God, I miss that intimacy. I miss the knowledge that there will be someone there when I wake up in the morning.
She and I talked earlier this afternoon about pets. I thought briefly about getting a dog, some little furry thing to wrestle with and care for and take with me on my walks. It would be nice to have a doggy roommate. I never thought I'd ever be this lonely; I was always the social butterfly, never without a friend or partner nearby. It's strange. Much of the time it isn't so bad; I enjoy the quiet to read, or watch movies, or take a bath. I stop at the mall on my way home from school to sit near the ice rink a couple days out of the week, and I watch people interact. I visit people every now and then or have them visit me.
But I still feel as though I've been scooped out, somehow. Like I made a few too many hasty decisions and they left me hollowed... it's the same sensation you get after a shot or two of tequila.
I'm distracted. Foggy.
It was nice to hold someone.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread
Me: You know, though, I'm actually having the first good day I've had in a while. Besides the weekend, seeing all of you.
Cassie: Well, because you have some clore.
Me: "closure?" Yes.
Cassie: Oh yeah--
Me: I have some Clore!
Cassie: Sometimes I type too fast for the keyboard.
Me: Good old Clore.
Cassie: Hahahahaha! Clore is good for the soul!
Me: Delicious, nutritious, chocolate-covered Clore!
Cassie: It's like "folklore" without the "folk."
Me: Great for cleaning the bathtub and brushing your cat. And snuggling with at night.
Cassie: And decapitations!
Me: And foreign policy! Not to mention keeping your fridge smelling fresh--
Cassie: Clore IS McCain's vp.
Me: But that's okay, 'cause Clore will feed the homeless and provide free healthcare for all. AND polish your doorknobs to a high mirror shine!
Cassie: Tee hee! You should see the stains I had on my teeth before Clore.
Me: It's a whitener, too? Wow, Clore sure is the best thing a gal could have. Super absorption Clore with wings.
Cassie: Sure is. Throw away all your old [lovers]. We now have Clore!
Me: Word! Clore: It's What's for Dinner.
Clore, for a Better Tomorrow!
Cassie: Ooooooo- and a Better Yesterday!
Cassie: Well, because you have some clore.
Me: "closure?" Yes.
Cassie: Oh yeah--
Me: I have some Clore!
Cassie: Sometimes I type too fast for the keyboard.
Me: Good old Clore.
Cassie: Hahahahaha! Clore is good for the soul!
Me: Delicious, nutritious, chocolate-covered Clore!
Cassie: It's like "folklore" without the "folk."
Me: Great for cleaning the bathtub and brushing your cat. And snuggling with at night.
Cassie: And decapitations!
Me: And foreign policy! Not to mention keeping your fridge smelling fresh--
Cassie: Clore IS McCain's vp.
Me: But that's okay, 'cause Clore will feed the homeless and provide free healthcare for all. AND polish your doorknobs to a high mirror shine!
Cassie: Tee hee! You should see the stains I had on my teeth before Clore.
Me: It's a whitener, too? Wow, Clore sure is the best thing a gal could have. Super absorption Clore with wings.
Cassie: Sure is. Throw away all your old [lovers]. We now have Clore!
Me: Word! Clore: It's What's for Dinner.
Clore, for a Better Tomorrow!
Cassie: Ooooooo- and a Better Yesterday!
One Good Assertive Rant Later...
Unexpected peace today. Had a long phone conversation last night that allowed me to express a lot of frustration and anger I've had pent up. Although the result was very little sleep and more than one nightmare jolting me awake, I was surprisingly calm eating my breakfast. Surprisingly cheerful during my walk to school. Surprisingly giddy leading a friend in tango during break. Surprisingly focused during my business class, surprisingly filled with sudden bursts of creativity regarding future marketing ideas. My coffee on the walk home was surprisingly tasty. The little kids ice-skating in the mall were surprisingly talented.
And, though very hurt and sad and more than a little confused, I am surprisingly okay.
I hope it lasts... beyond, you know, today. 'Cause that'd be helpful.
And, though very hurt and sad and more than a little confused, I am surprisingly okay.
I hope it lasts... beyond, you know, today. 'Cause that'd be helpful.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Strikethrough
They say scribbling is unprofessional,
that a single line, blue
or black ink to obliterate
an unfitting word or phrase shows
to the trained eye
your unwillingness to hide. Problem
is you can still see that thought,
struck-through as if shot, bleeding,
crying out a right to be known,
stapled to the paper.
It feels like you fit. Long fingers
braided like honey rope in mine, sweetly
stale breath, the rumble and hiss
through each nostril, the cool tang
of cucumber hair. To slice through this-- blue
or black ink, professional, the traditional
description of bruised-- how will I hide
you now? Reading forward you are still
there: no scribbling, your thought,
the thought of you, fixed always
under a single line, blue
or black ink, bleeding through the blotter.
that a single line, blue
or black ink to obliterate
an unfitting word or phrase shows
to the trained eye
your unwillingness to hide. Problem
is you can still see that thought,
struck-through as if shot, bleeding,
crying out a right to be known,
stapled to the paper.
It feels like you fit. Long fingers
braided like honey rope in mine, sweetly
stale breath, the rumble and hiss
through each nostril, the cool tang
of cucumber hair. To slice through this-- blue
or black ink, professional, the traditional
description of bruised-- how will I hide
you now? Reading forward you are still
there: no scribbling, your thought,
the thought of you, fixed always
under a single line, blue
or black ink, bleeding through the blotter.
And We'll All Float on Okay
Trying desperately to distract myself, I went home to Bellevue on Friday for a visit. Spent the whole weekend with people I love --beautiful, silly, wonderfully genuine people-- talking about personal growth. And what better way to work through emotionally trying circumstances than to have people not be afraid to remind you how human you are?
Recently I came to the realization that I'm terrified of letting people see me fail-- I create any kind of facade possible to keep those I respect thinking that I am flawless. Of course, it doesn't work; the people I respect are highly intelligent and naturally intuitive, and that's why I respect them in the first place. Everyone knows my mistakes. Despite my frantic efforts to cover them up, I do tend to wear my emotions splattered all over my face, clothes, and the surrounding room... so it's finally occurred to me that there's no real point in hiding anymore.
The funny part is that I'm figuring out that people actually seem to love me more for airing my errors. I am respected more for having messed up a few times than I am for keeping them quiet. And, honestly, when I think about it, I also trust and think more highly of people who have stumbled a lot and kept going than I do of people who seem to have it all together.
So I'm trying my best to simply be honest with people, let them see my whole naked self, blemishes and all. It's difficult for those with whom I've already trained myself to censor my actions, but those loved ones who are fairly new in my life have the benefit of knowing me from the start of this process, and I'm so excited to discover the quality of friendships I'll develop.
I've made an appointment with my first-ever therapist for midway through next week. It'll be interesting to see how I react... from what I've gathered, the idea is to have a facilitated conversation with yourself, about yourself. I'm nervous. I "converse" with myself often, but I'm starting to think that I turn a blind eye to a lot of my own negative behavior, just because I'm not sure how to deal with it.
I sincerely hope I someday manage to fix the relationships in my life that have been poorly handled, that I create and maintain new and cohesive ones, and that I have the courage to let the ones that aren't worth my time go.
Recently I came to the realization that I'm terrified of letting people see me fail-- I create any kind of facade possible to keep those I respect thinking that I am flawless. Of course, it doesn't work; the people I respect are highly intelligent and naturally intuitive, and that's why I respect them in the first place. Everyone knows my mistakes. Despite my frantic efforts to cover them up, I do tend to wear my emotions splattered all over my face, clothes, and the surrounding room... so it's finally occurred to me that there's no real point in hiding anymore.
The funny part is that I'm figuring out that people actually seem to love me more for airing my errors. I am respected more for having messed up a few times than I am for keeping them quiet. And, honestly, when I think about it, I also trust and think more highly of people who have stumbled a lot and kept going than I do of people who seem to have it all together.
So I'm trying my best to simply be honest with people, let them see my whole naked self, blemishes and all. It's difficult for those with whom I've already trained myself to censor my actions, but those loved ones who are fairly new in my life have the benefit of knowing me from the start of this process, and I'm so excited to discover the quality of friendships I'll develop.
I've made an appointment with my first-ever therapist for midway through next week. It'll be interesting to see how I react... from what I've gathered, the idea is to have a facilitated conversation with yourself, about yourself. I'm nervous. I "converse" with myself often, but I'm starting to think that I turn a blind eye to a lot of my own negative behavior, just because I'm not sure how to deal with it.
I sincerely hope I someday manage to fix the relationships in my life that have been poorly handled, that I create and maintain new and cohesive ones, and that I have the courage to let the ones that aren't worth my time go.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
On Hurt
The problem with pain is that we choke ourselves on it.
It is not enough to simply feel the pain, accept it, and move on; no, we have to gorge it with reminders, stuff as many memories and associations and whatnot into its mouth until it's ready to burst. A big, slobbering behemoth of pain, crouching in our chests.
And we stroke it, too-- every self-deprecating thought we let slip past the rationality barriers in our brains is just another caress to Pain's thorny hide. What's the point? We know it doesn't help, and yet we can't stop. It's like sex, or drugs, or popping bubble-wrap. Popping the bubble-wrap makes it useless for packaging, does it not? You know this. But do you ever really want to stop once you start? Of course not! It's delicious destruction.
I keep telling myself to propel forward, keep kicking, hold my breath. But it's hard when all you want to do is sink... let that beast in your ribcage pull you to the bottom and just sleep there for the next hundred years.
Obviously, I am unbelievably frustrated right now. I wish I could just get angry. Seems like it would be a heck of a lot easier to be angry than to be understanding.
It is not enough to simply feel the pain, accept it, and move on; no, we have to gorge it with reminders, stuff as many memories and associations and whatnot into its mouth until it's ready to burst. A big, slobbering behemoth of pain, crouching in our chests.
And we stroke it, too-- every self-deprecating thought we let slip past the rationality barriers in our brains is just another caress to Pain's thorny hide. What's the point? We know it doesn't help, and yet we can't stop. It's like sex, or drugs, or popping bubble-wrap. Popping the bubble-wrap makes it useless for packaging, does it not? You know this. But do you ever really want to stop once you start? Of course not! It's delicious destruction.
I keep telling myself to propel forward, keep kicking, hold my breath. But it's hard when all you want to do is sink... let that beast in your ribcage pull you to the bottom and just sleep there for the next hundred years.
Obviously, I am unbelievably frustrated right now. I wish I could just get angry. Seems like it would be a heck of a lot easier to be angry than to be understanding.
Monday, August 18, 2008
I'm in Way Too Deep.
All I need is a little time,
To get behind this sun and cast my weight;
All I need is a peace of this mind--
Then I can celebrate.
All in all there's something to give,
All in all there's something to do,
All in all there's something to live,
With you ...
All I need is a little sign,
To get behind this sun and cast this weight of mine;
All I need is the place to find,
And there I'll celebrate.
All in all there's something to give,
All in all there's something to do,
All in all there's something to live,
With you ...
-- Air, "All I Need"
from Moon Safari, 1998
To get behind this sun and cast my weight;
All I need is a peace of this mind--
Then I can celebrate.
All in all there's something to give,
All in all there's something to do,
All in all there's something to live,
With you ...
All I need is a little sign,
To get behind this sun and cast this weight of mine;
All I need is the place to find,
And there I'll celebrate.
All in all there's something to give,
All in all there's something to do,
All in all there's something to live,
With you ...
-- Air, "All I Need"
from Moon Safari, 1998
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Anticipation is Killing Me...
... dear God, PLEASE just let it rain. It wants to so badly, and doesn't seem to be able to, and everything is holding its breath as a result.
We're all turning blue in this space.
We're all turning blue in this space.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Worth Fainting Over:
Man oh man oh man...
I just had the best dinner.
Olive oil-poached Alaskan halibut with crushed potatoes, green beans, lemon vinaigrette and roasted garlic... and lavender ice cream for dessert, with Stumptown coffee.
I could die happy right now.
I just had the best dinner.
Olive oil-poached Alaskan halibut with crushed potatoes, green beans, lemon vinaigrette and roasted garlic... and lavender ice cream for dessert, with Stumptown coffee.
I could die happy right now.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Don't Worry... You Will Someday
I saw someone I've missed today. She had news --good news, for herself-- that filled my heart up; it felt like eating bread after days of chewing dust. And suddenly I realized that all this sadness that's welled in my chest the past few years is of no real consequence when compared to the enormity of the world, of my life. There's still so much life coming up.
When I was little I wanted a magic mirror that would show me as an adult; yet now that I'm in the beginning of adulthood I still feel like I'm little. I get the feeling this isn't going to change.
There will come a point at which all these puzzle pieces I've collected will become painfully obvious, and I'll be able to slide them right into place without hesitation. Instead of constantly waiting for that day to come, staring at the phone, at the door, at the city... I'll just continue collecting puzzle pieces.
It's the best I can do, right?
It made me think, as things often do, of a quote. Something Kevin Spacey's character says at the end of American Beauty:
"...And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday."
When I was little I wanted a magic mirror that would show me as an adult; yet now that I'm in the beginning of adulthood I still feel like I'm little. I get the feeling this isn't going to change.
There will come a point at which all these puzzle pieces I've collected will become painfully obvious, and I'll be able to slide them right into place without hesitation. Instead of constantly waiting for that day to come, staring at the phone, at the door, at the city... I'll just continue collecting puzzle pieces.
It's the best I can do, right?
It made me think, as things often do, of a quote. Something Kevin Spacey's character says at the end of American Beauty:
"...And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday."
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
There will be Motion
For now, we stay still.
In two or three months
the farms will shut down
and every silo will be
empty, waiting for us.
He moves with me
for comfort, sleeps inside
the crease of my arm and
moans when he dreams,
dreaming moaning
when he moves with me,
sleeps inside. I cannot
wake up. I cannot wake
up. Every silo is empty,
the rotting farms sigh and send
up clouds of hay dust, gold,
gold against the green.
Stay still for now, stay
still so I can wake up.
In two or three months
the farms will shut down
and every silo will be
empty, waiting for us.
He moves with me
for comfort, sleeps inside
the crease of my arm and
moans when he dreams,
dreaming moaning
when he moves with me,
sleeps inside. I cannot
wake up. I cannot wake
up. Every silo is empty,
the rotting farms sigh and send
up clouds of hay dust, gold,
gold against the green.
Stay still for now, stay
still so I can wake up.
Monday, August 11, 2008
On Matters of Romance
Yeah, I really don't know anymore. I just don't know. I can dispense all the good advice I want, and follow some of it myself, but really... I'm not sure how people handle falling in love so well. I end up feeling alone, somehow.
I have to keep reminding myself of that Bjork song:
You’ll be given love
You’ll be taken care of
You’ll be given love
You have to trust it
Maybe not from the sources
You’ve poured yours into
Maybe not from the directions
You are staring at
Twist your head around
It’s all around you
All is full of love
All around you
(All is full of love)
You just ain’t receiving
(All is full of love)
Your phone is off the hook
(All is full of love)
Your doors are all shut
(All is full of love)
In any language
All is full of love
I have to keep reminding myself of that Bjork song:
You’ll be given love
You’ll be taken care of
You’ll be given love
You have to trust it
Maybe not from the sources
You’ve poured yours into
Maybe not from the directions
You are staring at
Twist your head around
It’s all around you
All is full of love
All around you
(All is full of love)
You just ain’t receiving
(All is full of love)
Your phone is off the hook
(All is full of love)
Your doors are all shut
(All is full of love)
In any language
All is full of love
Thursday, August 7, 2008
A Conversation Regarding my Career:
Chris: You're gonna look like Popeye soon you know. You might as well get an anchor tattoo on your forearms now, before they balloon up.
Me: OH. Yeah. Seriously: I gotta watch them, take super good care of 'em.
Chris: And your fingers & joints-- I'm concerned about those. Rub butt smart! So you can do it for a lonnnnng time.
Me: That's my slogan. Sarah Silliman: Rub Butt Smart
Chris: Good girl.
Me: When I run for mayor.
Chris: Mayor of Butt Rubbing.
Me: OH. Yeah. Seriously: I gotta watch them, take super good care of 'em.
Chris: And your fingers & joints-- I'm concerned about those. Rub butt smart! So you can do it for a lonnnnng time.
Me: That's my slogan. Sarah Silliman: Rub Butt Smart
Chris: Good girl.
Me: When I run for mayor.
Chris: Mayor of Butt Rubbing.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Regarding the Laying on of Hands
I feel the need to share an experience.
A licensed massage therapist is often referred to as a "soft tissue specialist." We manually manipulate muscle and adipose tissue to stimulate blood and lymph flow in the body. It's rewarding and very physical work. I am often lifting, shaking and stretching limbs, jamming my elbow into shoulders, butts or legs, or scrubbing scar tissue like a dirty bathroom floor. My clients get off the table looking stoned. Good stuff.
However, a day like yesterday, in which I saw ten patients at the clinic (amounting to about five straight hours of all of the above), leaves me exhausted. By dinnertime, I could barely stand up straight. My forearms were killing me, my brain was completely finished with processing any sort of logic. Everything ached. I thought, "Geeze, I'm planning on making this my career? How the hell am I going to build up the chops to do this amount of work all the time?"
Today in one of my classes we decided to do some polarity work. Messing with the body's energy. Life force. Qi. Prana. Charge. Whatever you call it, I've never really put much faith into it, so I wasn't all that interested. I partnered up with my buddy Jen, who obviously wasn't feeling good... she was pale and slumped over, with no shine to her eyes or hair. Said she felt sick. Asked if it was okay if I just worked on her, so she could lay down a bit and zone out. I said that was fine.
Energy stuff involves, like, ZERO pushing or prodding or lifting. It's great for people with conditions involving the circulatory system, because you aren't moving blood around at all... in fact, much of the time you're barely touching your client. I put my hands on Jen simply with the intention to help her relax; touching her forehead, gently rocking her hips, holding her feet.
So here's the woo-woo-shaking-a-chicken-bone-and-hopping-on-one-leg stuff:
The minute I got my hands close to her and slowed my breathing down I could feel her. I could feel the hot and cold spots on her body, the tingle of her energy, or qi, or whatever-- it was all concentrated in certain spots, and missing from others. I could sense it pulsing into my fingertips, mingling with my own, swirling around and over my hands. It felt gunky, muddled in areas --like right over her abdomen-- so I just brushed it away, pushed on it, smoothed it out. I can't quite explain what this felt like to me-- I was soaring, far away in my own body and yet deeply rooted inside hers. Everything else surrounding us disappeared. It was incredibly intimate.
About halfway through, I suddenly felt awful. My whole body hurt. My head was pounding, my stomach started gurgling violently. I was overwhelmed with sleepiness. I mentally ran through my sleep patterns the night before, what'd I'd eaten for breakfast, whether or not I'd taken my vitamins or had enough water. Everything looked normal. My brain started to panic: what's wrong with me? And a split second later, I knew: This isn't mine. It's hers. This is all coming from her.
When I finished, and sat Jen up, she looked amazing. She was glowing-- there was all this color in her cheeks. She said, "I feel fantastic. Your hands... my stomach doesn't hurt a bit anymore." And she gave me the warmest, most loving hug I've ever gotten from her. Thanked me over and over. Practically skipped out of the room.
I went to my teacher, still buzzing with the duality of the filmy sickness clinging to my insides and the intense HIGH I felt from connecting so deeply with someone's body, and questioned him as to why I picked up all of Jen's gunk. He smiled (obviously he had planned this) and told me, "You haven't learned how to ground yourself yet. You let yourself float off too quickly; you need to remind yourself frequently of where your hands end and her body begins. But you can't do that too much, or you won't be able to have the healing effect you're going for in the first place. I didn't tell you to do it because I wanted you to experience what it's like."
Cheeky bastard. Got me hooked.
A licensed massage therapist is often referred to as a "soft tissue specialist." We manually manipulate muscle and adipose tissue to stimulate blood and lymph flow in the body. It's rewarding and very physical work. I am often lifting, shaking and stretching limbs, jamming my elbow into shoulders, butts or legs, or scrubbing scar tissue like a dirty bathroom floor. My clients get off the table looking stoned. Good stuff.
However, a day like yesterday, in which I saw ten patients at the clinic (amounting to about five straight hours of all of the above), leaves me exhausted. By dinnertime, I could barely stand up straight. My forearms were killing me, my brain was completely finished with processing any sort of logic. Everything ached. I thought, "Geeze, I'm planning on making this my career? How the hell am I going to build up the chops to do this amount of work all the time?"
Today in one of my classes we decided to do some polarity work. Messing with the body's energy. Life force. Qi. Prana. Charge. Whatever you call it, I've never really put much faith into it, so I wasn't all that interested. I partnered up with my buddy Jen, who obviously wasn't feeling good... she was pale and slumped over, with no shine to her eyes or hair. Said she felt sick. Asked if it was okay if I just worked on her, so she could lay down a bit and zone out. I said that was fine.
Energy stuff involves, like, ZERO pushing or prodding or lifting. It's great for people with conditions involving the circulatory system, because you aren't moving blood around at all... in fact, much of the time you're barely touching your client. I put my hands on Jen simply with the intention to help her relax; touching her forehead, gently rocking her hips, holding her feet.
So here's the woo-woo-shaking-a-chicken-bone-and-hopping-on-one-leg stuff:
The minute I got my hands close to her and slowed my breathing down I could feel her. I could feel the hot and cold spots on her body, the tingle of her energy, or qi, or whatever-- it was all concentrated in certain spots, and missing from others. I could sense it pulsing into my fingertips, mingling with my own, swirling around and over my hands. It felt gunky, muddled in areas --like right over her abdomen-- so I just brushed it away, pushed on it, smoothed it out. I can't quite explain what this felt like to me-- I was soaring, far away in my own body and yet deeply rooted inside hers. Everything else surrounding us disappeared. It was incredibly intimate.
About halfway through, I suddenly felt awful. My whole body hurt. My head was pounding, my stomach started gurgling violently. I was overwhelmed with sleepiness. I mentally ran through my sleep patterns the night before, what'd I'd eaten for breakfast, whether or not I'd taken my vitamins or had enough water. Everything looked normal. My brain started to panic: what's wrong with me? And a split second later, I knew: This isn't mine. It's hers. This is all coming from her.
When I finished, and sat Jen up, she looked amazing. She was glowing-- there was all this color in her cheeks. She said, "I feel fantastic. Your hands... my stomach doesn't hurt a bit anymore." And she gave me the warmest, most loving hug I've ever gotten from her. Thanked me over and over. Practically skipped out of the room.
I went to my teacher, still buzzing with the duality of the filmy sickness clinging to my insides and the intense HIGH I felt from connecting so deeply with someone's body, and questioned him as to why I picked up all of Jen's gunk. He smiled (obviously he had planned this) and told me, "You haven't learned how to ground yourself yet. You let yourself float off too quickly; you need to remind yourself frequently of where your hands end and her body begins. But you can't do that too much, or you won't be able to have the healing effect you're going for in the first place. I didn't tell you to do it because I wanted you to experience what it's like."
Cheeky bastard. Got me hooked.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Let's see...
Complete my paperwork due tomorrow?
OR:
Read comic books in the bathtub until I get sleepy?
I mean, really, what would you do after a ten-hour workday?
OR:
Read comic books in the bathtub until I get sleepy?
I mean, really, what would you do after a ten-hour workday?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
A Mirror Not Quite Firmly Fastened
I am learning how to be lonely. It is a difficult process, and for the most part I've never really had to go through it before.
Not to say that spending so much time alone is a bad thing; on the contrary, I've been teaching myself to rely on myself for amusement, support, and strength. If I can't enjoy being by myself, I'll never enjoy being with others.
But it's strange, living alone, sleeping alone, spending my afternoons alone. My weekends. And, for the first time in my life, I'm lonely-- and it's not the panicked, spontaneous bursts of "loneliness" I'd experience when left on my own for a few hours back when I was living with or dating someone. It's a quieter, deeper and more chronic ache... like that feeling you get at the base of your skull right before you know a big headache is about to hit.
I'm reading a lot, cleaning. Cooking. Taking walks. Listening to music, writing, working out at the gym. Most of all and behind all of that, however, I have a sense that I'm waiting for something. I can't really say what it is. It's a nagging feeling somewhere in the back of my brain that something will come through my door and change my life. Like I'm teetering on the edge of some giant alteration: security of habit is missing now, and I am on my own.
I want to be fascinating. The great narcissist in me rears its ugly head and claims my right to be worshiped, but other than instant gratification I see no merit in the idea; it is not genuine to be loved in such a way. But I am unsatisfied with anything less. If someone were to find me fascinating, to be interested in all aspects of me, to show it on a regular basis (important) --but not to make me the last possible answer (just as important)-- I think I should be happy. I don't know how to seek these people out. It is a balance I do not find in myself or others. It seems we are either all or nothing, always. So I am lonely.
I am tired, and rambling, and have put myself in a bad mood as a result. Not sure that any of this makes any sense. I'll read it in the morning, most likely, and laugh at myself.
"Everyone carries a room about inside them. This fact can be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say at night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall." -Max Richter
Not to say that spending so much time alone is a bad thing; on the contrary, I've been teaching myself to rely on myself for amusement, support, and strength. If I can't enjoy being by myself, I'll never enjoy being with others.
But it's strange, living alone, sleeping alone, spending my afternoons alone. My weekends. And, for the first time in my life, I'm lonely-- and it's not the panicked, spontaneous bursts of "loneliness" I'd experience when left on my own for a few hours back when I was living with or dating someone. It's a quieter, deeper and more chronic ache... like that feeling you get at the base of your skull right before you know a big headache is about to hit.
I'm reading a lot, cleaning. Cooking. Taking walks. Listening to music, writing, working out at the gym. Most of all and behind all of that, however, I have a sense that I'm waiting for something. I can't really say what it is. It's a nagging feeling somewhere in the back of my brain that something will come through my door and change my life. Like I'm teetering on the edge of some giant alteration: security of habit is missing now, and I am on my own.
I want to be fascinating. The great narcissist in me rears its ugly head and claims my right to be worshiped, but other than instant gratification I see no merit in the idea; it is not genuine to be loved in such a way. But I am unsatisfied with anything less. If someone were to find me fascinating, to be interested in all aspects of me, to show it on a regular basis (important) --but not to make me the last possible answer (just as important)-- I think I should be happy. I don't know how to seek these people out. It is a balance I do not find in myself or others. It seems we are either all or nothing, always. So I am lonely.
I am tired, and rambling, and have put myself in a bad mood as a result. Not sure that any of this makes any sense. I'll read it in the morning, most likely, and laugh at myself.
"Everyone carries a room about inside them. This fact can be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say at night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall." -Max Richter
Friday, July 18, 2008
Armadillidium
Sudden black across the carpet
A spot, a stain, and I go
To fetch a towel, but
Upon closer inspection
She is a woodlouse, pill-bug,
Tiny isopod mountaineering
In the fantastic fibers
Of the floor. I ask
Where she is headed
But receive no reply except
A vague wave of her feelers;
She is far too busy navigating
To pause for conversation.
With just cause, too-- I imagine
My feet as she would see them:
Gigantic, grotesque, monstrous pink
Cliffs in the distance. She curls
Into a ball when she notices them,
And I am hurt: I always thought
My feet rather lovely.
A spot, a stain, and I go
To fetch a towel, but
Upon closer inspection
She is a woodlouse, pill-bug,
Tiny isopod mountaineering
In the fantastic fibers
Of the floor. I ask
Where she is headed
But receive no reply except
A vague wave of her feelers;
She is far too busy navigating
To pause for conversation.
With just cause, too-- I imagine
My feet as she would see them:
Gigantic, grotesque, monstrous pink
Cliffs in the distance. She curls
Into a ball when she notices them,
And I am hurt: I always thought
My feet rather lovely.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
I find that in times of desperation, when I am struggling with my own humanity, I always come back to T.S. Eliot. I've never thought to question why.
And indeed there will be a time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
[...]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoon,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
-"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
T.S. Eliot, excerpt
And indeed there will be a time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
[...]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoon,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
-"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
T.S. Eliot, excerpt
Monday, July 14, 2008
How true.
Arguments are won intellectually, Sarah; not love.
Tallyho,
The Universe
Love is won, Sarah, with a dash of trust, a smidge of fear, and a pinch of letting go.
Tallyho,
The Universe
Love is won, Sarah, with a dash of trust, a smidge of fear, and a pinch of letting go.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A Note to the Universe
I'm not a particularly religious person. I'm very spiritual, however, and it helps me cut through the muck and focus on the bright things. Not saying my life is like a magpie in a garbage heap, but I'm realizing that every time I run back through my posts I can feel the frustration seeping out of them. I rarely write about my happy moments because I'm out living them. And believe me, there are far more of those than the negative ones.
I remind myself a lot that I'm in good hands. Something's out there holding me up. I've never messed up too badly to truly ruin something. I've never gotten myself into a situation that was impossible to get out of. I am meticulous with my work and sloppy with my emotions, and that's okay-- it's me. I wouldn't feel right being any other way.
So thank you, Something. I owe you one.
I remind myself a lot that I'm in good hands. Something's out there holding me up. I've never messed up too badly to truly ruin something. I've never gotten myself into a situation that was impossible to get out of. I am meticulous with my work and sloppy with my emotions, and that's okay-- it's me. I wouldn't feel right being any other way.
So thank you, Something. I owe you one.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Rosemary for Remembrance
As I was leaving
my father picked a sprig
and hesitated a moment
before placing it on my dashboard.
"Rosemary," he said,
"for remembrance."
The resin prickle slid its arms
around my neck
and cuddled my head
with every gust of the air vents.
And so I drove, and remembered.
The bunch and strain of the horse's muscles
beneath my legs as she threw me, the wind
in my eyes and blood in my nose,
the way she looked so proud
to have rid of me.
The green-eyed girl slumped, exhausted
over her guitar, wheat curls tangling
the strings, her shy mouth
as I kissed it. Stringing popcorn.
The rust stain on my cotton panties.
Learning to parallel park.
The winter we tramped through snow
what seemed like miles to fill our
knapsacks with groceries, how blissful
the baked goods section felt with heat
seeping through my boots.
The sweeping grey-blue of the Sound.
An old green quilt. The robin's egg
I crushed in my chubby toddler's palm
and my tears over the murder of
something so perfect. My grandmother's
paper hands as she died. The moon off
my legs floating in the lake. Skin
that smelled like warm towels
and corn husks, like sky.
My greatest loves, every painful turn
in the gut, each delicious shudder
of hope, every lie, every tingle of contact,
I remembered. I remembered.
The wall of green gave way on the road
at my right, petering out to sand.
I switched lanes to watch the sun melt
in peripheral, buttery,
over the curve of my shoulder.
I remembered.
my father picked a sprig
and hesitated a moment
before placing it on my dashboard.
"Rosemary," he said,
"for remembrance."
The resin prickle slid its arms
around my neck
and cuddled my head
with every gust of the air vents.
And so I drove, and remembered.
The bunch and strain of the horse's muscles
beneath my legs as she threw me, the wind
in my eyes and blood in my nose,
the way she looked so proud
to have rid of me.
The green-eyed girl slumped, exhausted
over her guitar, wheat curls tangling
the strings, her shy mouth
as I kissed it. Stringing popcorn.
The rust stain on my cotton panties.
Learning to parallel park.
The winter we tramped through snow
what seemed like miles to fill our
knapsacks with groceries, how blissful
the baked goods section felt with heat
seeping through my boots.
The sweeping grey-blue of the Sound.
An old green quilt. The robin's egg
I crushed in my chubby toddler's palm
and my tears over the murder of
something so perfect. My grandmother's
paper hands as she died. The moon off
my legs floating in the lake. Skin
that smelled like warm towels
and corn husks, like sky.
My greatest loves, every painful turn
in the gut, each delicious shudder
of hope, every lie, every tingle of contact,
I remembered. I remembered.
The wall of green gave way on the road
at my right, petering out to sand.
I switched lanes to watch the sun melt
in peripheral, buttery,
over the curve of my shoulder.
I remembered.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
All of the Side-Effects with None of the Catholicism
I struggle so hard to be perfect on the outside that I end up killing myself on the inside. For what? I can't make everyone happy, and on a surface level I recognize that. But disappointment in me is something I apparently can't handle from other people-- I crumble under the weight of it. And no matter what, I always disappoint.
I don't really understand where things started to go wrong for me. I'm a happy person. I love openly, with my full heart. I try my absolute hardest to take care of the people I've brought into my life. I always pick myself back up when I fall down, I always push through hurt and give it my all anyway. But somehow these things don't make me a good person inside. There's something else I'm not grasping, something that other people have that allows them to move mistake-free. Either that or my mistakes are so giant and obvious that other people's life-errors are insignificant in comparison.
Or it's all in my head, and I've driven myself crazy with guilt for all the years of not being the perfect friend, the perfect lover, the perfect daughter.
I just don't know. I'm tired of the roller coaster of emotion inside me. Am I worth all of this? It seems like at such a young age things should just be rolling off my back, but they don't. I cling to every little worry. I rip each one apart and open them up and stare at all those guts and I can't for the LIFE of me bring myself to throw them away. I consistently make myself physically ill over my guilt. The mind-numbing, never-ending guilt.
And I thought I was doing so well.
I don't really understand where things started to go wrong for me. I'm a happy person. I love openly, with my full heart. I try my absolute hardest to take care of the people I've brought into my life. I always pick myself back up when I fall down, I always push through hurt and give it my all anyway. But somehow these things don't make me a good person inside. There's something else I'm not grasping, something that other people have that allows them to move mistake-free. Either that or my mistakes are so giant and obvious that other people's life-errors are insignificant in comparison.
Or it's all in my head, and I've driven myself crazy with guilt for all the years of not being the perfect friend, the perfect lover, the perfect daughter.
I just don't know. I'm tired of the roller coaster of emotion inside me. Am I worth all of this? It seems like at such a young age things should just be rolling off my back, but they don't. I cling to every little worry. I rip each one apart and open them up and stare at all those guts and I can't for the LIFE of me bring myself to throw them away. I consistently make myself physically ill over my guilt. The mind-numbing, never-ending guilt.
And I thought I was doing so well.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Ye Olde Chiropractic Assistant
Oh, the romance-related messes I get myself into. I'm amazed at my inherent ability to turn something good into something complicated at the drop of a hat. I would say I miss the old days where everything was simple, but those never actually happened. =) I give up. No more love for me.
On the plus side, training at the clinic has been a blast. My coworkers are all fantastic, our patients are lovely, the doctors are helpful, everything's beautiful and organized and easily accessible. Yesterday I developed a bunch of X-rays (which meant I got to peak at a woman's particularly nasty cervical subluxation-- yeowch!) and sat in on a few sessions just to take notes. I'm pledged for a year at least, but I don't think that'll be the least bit difficult to take; I'm so excited when I'm there I can barely stand still.
On the plus side, training at the clinic has been a blast. My coworkers are all fantastic, our patients are lovely, the doctors are helpful, everything's beautiful and organized and easily accessible. Yesterday I developed a bunch of X-rays (which meant I got to peak at a woman's particularly nasty cervical subluxation-- yeowch!) and sat in on a few sessions just to take notes. I'm pledged for a year at least, but I don't think that'll be the least bit difficult to take; I'm so excited when I'm there I can barely stand still.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
So Sayeth the Stars!
After funerals and finals and a week's worth of manual labor, I finally hit the day on which I'm supposed to drive back down to Portland and start my actual vacation... and this is the horoscope I get in my inbox:
Relax; the tough part is over now. It will be a boring afternoon, but it is better to just kick up your feet and let the last few weeks of work get resolved automatically.
...Thank God.
Relax; the tough part is over now. It will be a boring afternoon, but it is better to just kick up your feet and let the last few weeks of work get resolved automatically.
...Thank God.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Upon Meeting a Dear Old Stranger:
I started with a cadenza.
Slow at first, complicated, filling
up space and rolling through my chest
and over the tips of your fingers, green,
blanketing us with familiarity of "we"
and the strangeness of "new."
And then there were notes that slunk
through tunnels in the brain,
melodies that slipped and twisted and wriggled
and wouldn't let up their nipping; electrical
synapses lined up in a squad with you
in their sights.
I got in my car and drove away from you
and the crippling knowledge
that my poker face was a mess of tells,
that each and every well-formulated equation
was suddenly filled with errors,
and I would never understand the pump and flow
of my own red heart
despite its monotonous rhythm.
Slow at first, complicated, filling
up space and rolling through my chest
and over the tips of your fingers, green,
blanketing us with familiarity of "we"
and the strangeness of "new."
And then there were notes that slunk
through tunnels in the brain,
melodies that slipped and twisted and wriggled
and wouldn't let up their nipping; electrical
synapses lined up in a squad with you
in their sights.
I got in my car and drove away from you
and the crippling knowledge
that my poker face was a mess of tells,
that each and every well-formulated equation
was suddenly filled with errors,
and I would never understand the pump and flow
of my own red heart
despite its monotonous rhythm.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
There's a Comfort:
Always keep in mind, Sarah, that no matter what has happened, you did the very best you could.
And so did those who may have let you down.
Love,
The Universe
And so did those who may have let you down.
Love,
The Universe
Thursday, June 19, 2008
However...
...the sun is shining, I've put in my two weeks notice at the awful job, started training for the fantastic one, and generally am feelin' purdy-fine.
I guess that fairy godmother showed up after all.
I guess that fairy godmother showed up after all.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Another Death, Another Little Drain.
It has occurred to me as of late that if I want things to happen in my life, I'm the one that will make them happen. Nobody is going to take care of me but me. It's a scary thought, really. Perhaps I should marry rich?
I need to surround myself with ambitious people. I need to learn that it's okay for me to make mistakes, and conversely I need to learn to not always be so accepting of everyone else's mistakes.
But I'm tired, and lonely, and sometimes it just sounds so much easier to give up. Lay down, close my eyes. Let it all rain down.
Where is a fairy godmother when you need one?
I need to surround myself with ambitious people. I need to learn that it's okay for me to make mistakes, and conversely I need to learn to not always be so accepting of everyone else's mistakes.
But I'm tired, and lonely, and sometimes it just sounds so much easier to give up. Lay down, close my eyes. Let it all rain down.
Where is a fairy godmother when you need one?
Friday, June 13, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
The Concept of June-uary and Some Thoughts on Recall
It is blustery today, and cold, and somehow muggy. One of those days where you long to be outside (because inside makes you crazy) but you're uncomfortable in your own skin either way. I've been zipping and unzipping my sweater and zipping it again, caught in that not-so-pleasant realm between sweaty and chilled.
This afternoon I suddenly stopped in the middle of my walk home and thought of an old friend-- someone I haven't been in contact with for almost a decade. I stood for a moment next to a neighbor's blown-over rose bush and smiled at the memory of his face and his voice. Then, out of pure curiosity, I went and looked him up online. And, an hour later, we were talking. He looks and sounds exactly as I remember him. He writes the way I remember. He laughs just the same.
It's amazing how memory can be stored away silently for so long and then have no other trigger than a line from a song, or a certain smell, or a stranger's grin. But if you actually sit down and TRY to pull up particular memories or feelings, they melt. They shift around in your brain and take on new characteristics, and you question the validity of them. For instance, my oldest memory is of the sails of the old windmill on Cape Cod... and last time I was there, it was exactly as I'd always pictured it, only the setting was completely wrong. My mind had somehow picked up this entire windmill, perfect down to the last detail, and stuck it somewhere entirely different from where it belongs.
Take this man, for instance. Hearing the timbre of his voice on the phone brought back a flood of memory; I found myself closing my eyes at moments and just listening to the musical rise and fall of each sentence. I am suddenly filled to overflowing with nostalgia, even if our friendship only lasted a short time to begin with. Really, in the grand scheme of things, I barely knew him. But we shared a small piece of our young adulthood, and therefore he represents a connection for me... to me. The same me, a different me. By rekindling this originally short-lived amity I am able to resurface and preserve, for a time, a particular series of moments of my adolescence.
I can look at them from afar, from the now, and think, "Wow. I existed back then. That was me."
What a gift, memory: the talent of framing thoughts. Of adding and subtracting, like paintings that are never quite finished-- they can be erased, or embellished, or covered up, or stripped naked. They can burn you down or make you whole. They don't stay in one spot.
They change you, and you change them, and it never stops. And it is glorious.
This afternoon I suddenly stopped in the middle of my walk home and thought of an old friend-- someone I haven't been in contact with for almost a decade. I stood for a moment next to a neighbor's blown-over rose bush and smiled at the memory of his face and his voice. Then, out of pure curiosity, I went and looked him up online. And, an hour later, we were talking. He looks and sounds exactly as I remember him. He writes the way I remember. He laughs just the same.
It's amazing how memory can be stored away silently for so long and then have no other trigger than a line from a song, or a certain smell, or a stranger's grin. But if you actually sit down and TRY to pull up particular memories or feelings, they melt. They shift around in your brain and take on new characteristics, and you question the validity of them. For instance, my oldest memory is of the sails of the old windmill on Cape Cod... and last time I was there, it was exactly as I'd always pictured it, only the setting was completely wrong. My mind had somehow picked up this entire windmill, perfect down to the last detail, and stuck it somewhere entirely different from where it belongs.
Take this man, for instance. Hearing the timbre of his voice on the phone brought back a flood of memory; I found myself closing my eyes at moments and just listening to the musical rise and fall of each sentence. I am suddenly filled to overflowing with nostalgia, even if our friendship only lasted a short time to begin with. Really, in the grand scheme of things, I barely knew him. But we shared a small piece of our young adulthood, and therefore he represents a connection for me... to me. The same me, a different me. By rekindling this originally short-lived amity I am able to resurface and preserve, for a time, a particular series of moments of my adolescence.
I can look at them from afar, from the now, and think, "Wow. I existed back then. That was me."
What a gift, memory: the talent of framing thoughts. Of adding and subtracting, like paintings that are never quite finished-- they can be erased, or embellished, or covered up, or stripped naked. They can burn you down or make you whole. They don't stay in one spot.
They change you, and you change them, and it never stops. And it is glorious.
On Writing
"A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets make a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize."
-Oscar Wilde
-Oscar Wilde
Monday, June 2, 2008
Respiration is a 50-50 Thing
Today I feel as though my thoughts regarding my life have started to fall into a series of equations, all of which are following the same formula: "Yes, ______ sucks, but ______ is really great."
It's a relaxing way to look at the world. Instead of letting myself focus on all the minor negative things, or trying to force myself to ONLY look at the positive, I simply acknowledge a single bad issue and follow it up with a higher-in-value (but related) good issue. Some examples:
Yes, it's stressful moving my parents out of the house I grew up in. BUT they're moving to a really awesome house fifteen blocks away from me, so I'll get to see them more often. Yes, I'm working a dead-end job that pays dirt. BUT I potentially have a career-building position elsewhere in the field I'm studying. Yes, I'm having problems with a friend. BUT I've reconnected with a lot of other friends I thought I'd lost, and those friendships feel better than ever.
When applied like this to every upsetting thing that pops into my head, the formula works beautifully to make me breathe normally again, and smile, and brush it off my shoulders. Today I feel as though everything will work itself eventually, as long as I don't panic about it.
If I flail, I'll drown. If I relax, I'll float. Inhale, exhale.
It's a relaxing way to look at the world. Instead of letting myself focus on all the minor negative things, or trying to force myself to ONLY look at the positive, I simply acknowledge a single bad issue and follow it up with a higher-in-value (but related) good issue. Some examples:
Yes, it's stressful moving my parents out of the house I grew up in. BUT they're moving to a really awesome house fifteen blocks away from me, so I'll get to see them more often. Yes, I'm working a dead-end job that pays dirt. BUT I potentially have a career-building position elsewhere in the field I'm studying. Yes, I'm having problems with a friend. BUT I've reconnected with a lot of other friends I thought I'd lost, and those friendships feel better than ever.
When applied like this to every upsetting thing that pops into my head, the formula works beautifully to make me breathe normally again, and smile, and brush it off my shoulders. Today I feel as though everything will work itself eventually, as long as I don't panic about it.
If I flail, I'll drown. If I relax, I'll float. Inhale, exhale.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
On Women and Chemistry
Since getting my IUD, I'm experiencing intense hormonal changes for the first time in years. I'm having nights where I don't sleep at all, or days where I can't express my sudden, extreme anger or overwhelming loneliness in words. It's strange and unsettling. Overall, though, I'm trying to recognize it as a temporary change in my body and embrace it as a new way of living.
Today I crave love. Not romantic love or movie love, but the deep, earthy swaying love of mothers and babies, or the faithful and their God. The quiet understanding of long-time friends. No complications, no expectations.
For a long time I've been missing the feeling of the Unitarian conferences I frequented as a teenager. I miss the discussions and rituals and cooking, but most of all I miss the nights. I still dream about the nights. A sea of strangers entwined, breathing as one-- an ocean of sleeping bags and limbs heavy with the scent of sleep. You'd wake up halfway through the night with someone's head resting on your stomach, or cradling another person's foot. You'd move in and out of consciousness to the sensation of someone --you didn't even care whom-- stroking your hair. A crowd as a single unit. Kinship between strangers.
Especially now, it's occurred to me that I need to keep myself firmly in the company of women for the next few days. Women seem to possess a capability to cloak themselves and each other in this same sort of kinship without question or hesitation. The instinct leaps up to band together for survival. I am usually more comfortable in the company of men; the blunt, frank nature of them appeals to my more impatient side.
But now, with my hormones all out of whack, I want nothing more than to retreat into the world of mothers and daughters and sisters and friends, and talk, and not talk, and glut on the enormity of that love. I want to wrap my arms around someone soft and cry, and then sleep forever.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Desire
If you were to crush it between your teeth
it would be astringent, green on the tongue
like chewing rose petals--
something you can't not do; they smell
so sweet. Unpleasant
and unanticipated, the taste would roll
through your mouth and you'd savor that disgust,
the scent moving in your blood,
the anger, the heat,
the nausea, the longing so great it pounds
in your sinuses and makes your fingernails ache.
You'll never spit it out.
it would be astringent, green on the tongue
like chewing rose petals--
something you can't not do; they smell
so sweet. Unpleasant
and unanticipated, the taste would roll
through your mouth and you'd savor that disgust,
the scent moving in your blood,
the anger, the heat,
the nausea, the longing so great it pounds
in your sinuses and makes your fingernails ache.
You'll never spit it out.
Notes from the Universe
For a long time now I've been receiving "Notes from the Universe" in my email inbox each morning. They're little (somewhat) personalized messages meant to give your day a boost, and most of them are funny and sweet. Every now and again, though, I'll find one that strikes me particularly profound, even if it's meant to be whimsical. Like today's:
To clarify, Sarah, the primary roles of LOVE are not to heal, fix, or mend. Not to soothe, cure, or ease. Not even to refresh, rejuvenate, or restore. Hardly.
The primary roles of LOVE, Sarah, are to "Yahoo!" "Yeehaa!" and "Whoohooo!"
Get your love on,
The Universe
You were born to love, Sarah, no matter the cost, no matter what someone else said, and no matter how the past once played out.
Ooh, I do like that last part. Something I should repeat to myself on a regular basis, yeah?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Rehearsal
Today I woke early
And stood with coffee at the kitchen window
To watch a single girl, hair wild
With wind and rain
Hurrying along with a violin bow tucked
Securely under one arm.
I thought, where is she going
That requires such rush, such
Determined strides through the wet,
Frown lines creasing her forehead
And drops of water filling the gaps
With no violin?
Perhaps the bow was forgotten, and,
Irritated, she carries it for a friend.
Her husband the musician, who always leaves behind
His keys, his glasses, the sheet music.
Perhaps she is thinking, "This is the last time
I will tell him. This is the last time."
Perhaps there is a rehearsal
And she is late-- five, ten minutes.
The other musicians will be waiting:
The reed without the saxophone,
The pick without the guitar,
The bell without the horn.
I will arrive tardy by an hour or more,
coming in on the damp air.
I will bring my pen
And a single piano key
And we will play the sound of clouds
Moving off toward the coast.
And stood with coffee at the kitchen window
To watch a single girl, hair wild
With wind and rain
Hurrying along with a violin bow tucked
Securely under one arm.
I thought, where is she going
That requires such rush, such
Determined strides through the wet,
Frown lines creasing her forehead
And drops of water filling the gaps
With no violin?
Perhaps the bow was forgotten, and,
Irritated, she carries it for a friend.
Her husband the musician, who always leaves behind
His keys, his glasses, the sheet music.
Perhaps she is thinking, "This is the last time
I will tell him. This is the last time."
Perhaps there is a rehearsal
And she is late-- five, ten minutes.
The other musicians will be waiting:
The reed without the saxophone,
The pick without the guitar,
The bell without the horn.
I will arrive tardy by an hour or more,
coming in on the damp air.
I will bring my pen
And a single piano key
And we will play the sound of clouds
Moving off toward the coast.
Monday, May 19, 2008
On Shrubs and Baking Ingredients
We seem to have skipped over spring entirely and entered an early summer. My weekend in Bend's high desert got up to 102, and all that good dry air made me feel as though I could shoot sparks from my fingers, even if the elevation wore me out. Back in Portland I spent last night stretched to my full length, naked, on top of the sheets with a fan pointed at me, and still I felt as though someone had replaced my blood with a vat of warm molasses.
There's something to be said about the sudden burst of sunlight, though; I've caught other people running their hands lovingly through close-cropped hedges, enjoying the tingle of new growth on their fingers. I'm glad I'm not the only one.
This is a time for things to run full circle. For young things to develop and change, and for old things to sigh and settle.
I like that I'm one of the young things again. I feel like I'm reaching a level of peace within myself that I haven't felt before. I'm happy where I am, and it's strange to discover that I'd forgotten how that felt.
Whooooo-hoooooo.
There's something to be said about the sudden burst of sunlight, though; I've caught other people running their hands lovingly through close-cropped hedges, enjoying the tingle of new growth on their fingers. I'm glad I'm not the only one.
This is a time for things to run full circle. For young things to develop and change, and for old things to sigh and settle.
I like that I'm one of the young things again. I feel like I'm reaching a level of peace within myself that I haven't felt before. I'm happy where I am, and it's strange to discover that I'd forgotten how that felt.
Whooooo-hoooooo.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Prologue: In Which the Writer is Introduced
I've spent years writing near-daily posts for my livejournal only to realize that I've ceased to write for the sake of writing. And that I'm at a point where people expect me to feel a certain way all the time, to mask my emotions in consideration of everyone's comfort. I've even been asked outright to delete posts or re-write certain passages. Before long, I stopped writing entirely, even down to my poetry; the most people ever got from me was a paragraph in an email. It hurts. It's not me. I never learned to bottle or hide my emotions until recently, and I feel like I learned it out of necessity to keep certain people around me.
So this is a journal by me, for me. Others may enjoy it as they will, but I will not let it become a simple communication tool or a place to collect friends. I need to get all of my thoughts down for my own sake. It is a place for personal reflection, for poetry, for hope.
I deserve to give myself this.
So this is a journal by me, for me. Others may enjoy it as they will, but I will not let it become a simple communication tool or a place to collect friends. I need to get all of my thoughts down for my own sake. It is a place for personal reflection, for poetry, for hope.
I deserve to give myself this.
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