plurality

"home"
has become
wherever he is.

prejudice

There's enough ugly
in the world. I do not need
to be friends with it.

white

The meditations in last night's yoga class were from The Dao of Pooh.

One of the thoughts triggered memories of the below poem. 

I hope for an end to ignorant armies clashing by night.

Sea of Faith

by John Brehm

Once when I was teaching "Dover Beach"

to a class of freshmen, a young woman

raised her hand and said, "I'm confused

about this 'Sea of Faith.'" "Well," I said,

"let's talk about it. We probably need

to talk a bit about figurative language.

What confuses you about it?"

"I mean, is it a real sea?" she asked.

"You mean, is it a real body of water

that you could point to on a map

or visit on a vacation?"

"Yes," she said. "Is it a real sea?"

Oh Christ, I thought, is this where we are?

Next year I'll be teaching them the alphabet

and how to sound words out.

I'll have to teach them geography, apparently,

before we can move on to poetry.

I'll have to teach them history, too-

a few weeks on the Dark Ages might be instructive.

"Yes," I wanted to say, "it is.

It is a real sea. In fact it flows

right into the Sea of Ignorance

IN WHICH YOU ARE DROWNING

Let me throw you a Rope of Salvation

before the Sharks of Desire gobble you up.

Let me hoist you back up onto this Ship of Fools

so that we might continue our search

for the Fountain of Youth. Here, take a drink

of this. It's fresh from the River of Forgetfulness."

But of course I didn't say any of that.

I tried to explain in such a way

as to protect her from humiliation,

tried to explain that poets

often speak of things that don't exist.

It was only much later that I wished

I could have answered differently,

only after I'd betrayed myself

and been betrayed that I wished

it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith

that you could wade out into,

dive under its blue and magic waters,

hold your breath, swim like a fish

down to the bottom, and then emerge again

able to believe in everything, faithful

and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,

happy to have them simply answered.

2005

The History of Love is one of my favorite books. The author wrote it concurrently to her husband writing Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and if you read them back-to-back, your life will change.

I mean, your life will change by reading either, but the both of them together--in either order--will haunt you.

You're welcome in advance.

*

This boy I like asked me last month if he could take me somewhere all I needed was a passport and bikini bottoms. I accepted. Next week, we travel to St. Martin.

Tonight, he announced that his beach read is The History of Love. We've never discussed it. He explained to me, not knowing anything about my history with it (one of the only books I have read thrice): "Yeah, so. I read the reviews, and everyone said that it was this beautifully haunting and intricately woven story with complicated timelines..."

I said, "I know."

He said, "Wait. Have you read it?"

According to interviews, Jonathan Safron Foer and Nicole Krauss were not familiar with the parallels in their stories or storytellings. I don't really care if that's true. They both wrote masterful, honest depictions of super difficult topics.

*

History of love:
spaces delineated,
misunderstood, blurred.

*

"Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend  his whole life answering." --Nicole Krauss

May we all be so blessed.

catharsis

My best guy friend from high school bought me Frances Driscoll's The Rape Poems in college. Driscoll journaled her way into healing, and I think Bryan had the same hopes for me, too.

In the thirteen and a half years of therapy and yoga sessions since then, I am often asked to describe or to go to my safe place. Sometimes one comes easily: a hot tub under a black sky of diamond-like stars, a hammock strung between trees on a beach, Saturday morning cuddles while sunlight streams over crisp linen.

But, always, I think of this poem (Driscoll's) first.

*

Market Research

My thermal carafe coffeemaker comes

with a 16 page instructional manual and a survey.

Do you or anyone in your household

own or plan to purchase:

a cordless handheld vacuum, a smoke alarm, a rechargeable light.

To help us understand our customers' lifestyles

please indicate the interests and activities

in which you or your partner enjoy participating

on a regular basis:

vegetable gardening, fashion clothing, casino gambling, group therapy.

Please check all that apply to your household:

support health charities, purchase items through the mail, train dogs.

My answers will be used anonymously in market research.

My answers will allow me to receive mailings and special offers

that relate directly to my specific interests.

The survey doesn't ask:

Do you have difficulty retaining domestic help.

Do you believe the following are your fault:

your son’s math grades, the dog’s skin condition, failure of the ERA.

Do you open your windows.

When someone knocks, do you open your door.

The survey doesn't ask:

Do you ever anywhere anytime believe yourself safe.

The survey doesn't ask:

Are you in a woman in America.

*

We all have trigger points:

anniversaries pass

her scent wafts by

a noise startles us

nightmares awake

I sometimes wonder

if I will ever again feel safe

if love's comforting arms will ever stop feeling like they are about to collapse

if unconditional love exists

if any of us ever really heal from 

the worst moments of our lives

the worst people we ever were

the worst memories we have

and I have to believe so

because I have to believe in forgiveness.

solicitor

Last night, I met a friend from college for a drink. He was home (here) for a funeral. We hadn't seen each other in a decade (since I visited New Orleans in August 2003, a few lifetimes ago).

He introduced me to his best friend as "the girl who's responsible for me having taken the LSAT."

I can't remember ever talking anyone into going to law school. I try my damndest to prevent anyone from going to law school, for several good reasons:

1. I don't know anyone who enjoyed a minute of law school.
2. I don't know anyone who enjoys being a lawyer.
2. a. Most of the people I know who finished law school and passed bars no longer practice law.
3. It is six figures of debt. To pay this back, you will need to bill about 2200 hours/year, leaving you about 87 hours in your year to live.

Fortunately, Kevin dropped out of law school, Day 2. I guess trying to impress a pretty girl only goes so far.

It made me wonder about all of the other tiny moments or offhanded suggestions I've made throughout my life that have affected others. I often say something like, "take all my good advice, I'm not using it," because it's so much easier to tell someone "don't go to law school, leave the person you no longer want to love, move across the country" than to do it yourself.

Except. Wait. I have done all of those things. Um. Wear sunscreen? Damn. I do that, too. Hmmm.  I am not great about brushing my teeth. I am really terrible about flossing. But I'm not sure how important those things are, in the grand scheme, since I was born with great teeth, the way other people are born with a genetic predisposition to low blood pressure.

When I was in 8th grade, I was sitting on the plane next to someone who said, "You're from the South, right? Never lose your accent."

To me, it felt like he was saying "Never forget where you come from: a land full of amazing music, magnolias and live oaks and azaleas, an uncomfortable economic history, and fantastic literature. Never lose the flavor of your life. Love your parents, your brother, and all of the other people who made you into you, meal by meal. Always remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Other advice has been haphazard or sincere: Don't marry the first boy who asks. Become a professor (I get this one all the time, still). Consume 10 fat grams or fewer each day (bless my 14-year-old self's heart). Have babies by the time you're 35. Wear a helmet when you bike. Read. Get __ minutes of exercise __ times a week. Don't kiss and tell. Drink coffee. Don't drink coffee. Drink 1 glass of red wine every day. Drink 8 glasses of water a day.

I guess we can all agree: peeing is good for you.

And law school is bad for you.

chardonnay

It's summertime, which means white or pink wine season for me.

And people around me these past few days have been drinking chardonnay.

*

     chardonnay

"do you prefer red or white?"

he asked politely

genuinely inquisitive

"either, as long as its light"

was my honest response

the waiter brought

an unfamiliar bottle

to our table

and as I swallowed

the thick, buttery tones

with hints of grapefruit

I guessed he knew his wines

about as well as he would know

my bed.

5 June 2003

zipline

Letting go is
the hardest part.

lauren

I waited for you.

I waited for other girls to pass through your life

to stop gloating about the flowers you send

to bore you.

I waited for all of our morning coffees

our afternoon laughter

our midnight conversations

to evolve into something

or someone

you recognized.

I waited for the right interlude

to lean in and kiss you

to lean in and assert my place beside you

to lean in

and feel you recognize

that I was different

that we could be different.

I waited.

And we were worth it.

--3 July 2013

chalk

This past weekend
while playing with sidewalk chalk
during the time of day when the heat index
hasn't yet reached ninety degrees

I ruminated on childhood
and wonder
and discovery

Sidewalk chalk is as fun as I remember it being
although since all of my artistic ability
came in the form of words
I started thinking of poems
song lyrics
quotes

and I as remembered
maggie and milly and molly and may

I thought to be grateful for playtime(even in the humidity)
and for you.

*

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

--e.e. cummings