It’s an ordinary day at the plasma center. Folks hurrying in seeking shelter from the cold, lining up for screening. Skeleton crew of workers working diligently, sticking and adjusting, sampling and freezing. With our main cog wound up, the center runs as smoothly as the finest Swiss clockwork. We churn out liter after liter of the liquid gold, like Rumplestiltskin with straw, and price paid happily into the pockets of donors.
On days like this, I make myself as readily available as possible for everyone. It’s not the job I signed up for, but rather the one I enjoy best, which is helping and giving to others with my time and energy. I chat with folks in line, crack jokes, provide insight and training, take copious mental notes of items to address before our pending audit, and observe everything, everywhere, all at once.
“Mother Fucking Shit” he yells, and it echoes not only to the rear of the center, but to the recesses of repressed memories of times past.
Breathe, says the Sliph.
In front of me is a regular. Big K. And at 6’6” and 260, I mean big. Usually friendly and chattery and flirty, today there is a different air about him. “Please, not in the center” I say. This is not the first time I have had to correct Big K on his vernacular, and while I also can have a mouth foul enough to embarrass a seasoned sailor, I don’t bring it to public establishments. Big K knows the rules, and immediately apologizes. I say, “no worries, just know for next time” and bustle off to respond to a need on the donor floor. As I finish, I see that Big K has followed me. I pass and say, “have you been screened?”, thinking that he was looking for a waiting seat. No, he says, “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. “ I reassure him it’s okay, but feel something otherwise as butterflies begin beating against the lining of my stomach. Growing up, I was always under the impression that butterflies in the stomach in the presence of someone of the opposite sex meant chemistry. Having unlearned this through years of therapy, I now understand this as my body-brain telling me that danger is afoot and to take caution. So I walk away from Big K, busying myself with stocking supplies and cleaning beds.
“You’re so busy now”. Big K’s voice calls over music and conversations and the hum of pheresis, and there is a change in my body. Hairs are standing up. Pupils open so wide it feels they are being stretched. Heart rate and breath increase, and I’m so uncomfortable that I need to get out of the public eye. As I’m leaving the floor, I’m called by another donor regarding a woman who has been the bathroom for over an hour, and spend the next 20 minutes with the security guard ensuring her safety. Having this purpose helps calm my nerves. Until it happens.
I’m finishing up with the guard, and suddenly I see Big K. He’s feet away from me and says my name. He takes a few steps and before I know it he is mere inches away, in a posture that I have only ever previously experienced from an intimate partner. My 63 inches looking up to his 78, and his tower starts to bend his head over me- Look, I’m sorry okay..
And this is where the training kicks in.
I immediately take two large steps and back away, finding my maai. With a strong kiai, I raise my invisible shinnai. “I find your behavior intimidating and threatening. Stay away. “ I see the look in his eyes. He knows he has gone about this the wrong way. “You need to get out of here.”And then to my utter surprise, he bows his head and walks away leaving the building. Not that his exit was a surprise, but that I was in a situation where I felt vulnerable and threatened, and instead of melting into a puddle, I stood my ground and took control of my safety. That it was effortless and second nature.
In my early days of Kendo, I was taught to trust my armor, and learned to put it on so that the shinnai that were repeatedly split over my men did not hurt my head. I spent countless hours studying the safe distance to keep from my opponent. I’ve learned that maai also translates to establishing clear boundaries and that I don’t have to make myself smaller than I already am. I’ve also learned that establishing maai also involves vulnerability, and trusting my emotional armor.
I hope Big K comes back. I want to talk with him. I know he was trying to make amends, and hopefully he learned something about personal space. And I want to thank him, for practicing with me.
After a year of downward dogs and asana flow, cat/cows and bridges and the holy trinity of warriors, it was time for something completely different. My right ankle has been a tad tender, making it impossible to press into the knife’s edge of my rear foot in any Virabhadrasana. My lower back has also been tight, which a trip or four from here to Philly will do that. In line with being gentle with myself, I set about finding a yin class with a different instructor.
The first result in my youtube search was a male instructor. Given past events, having a man in a position of trust and instruction has been challenging, if not downright terrifying. “So was going to karaoke last week by yourself,” I heard a little voice say. “And you did THAT. Why not this!”
“Why not,” I ask myself again. The myriad of reasons avalanched, from he’s going to manipulate you, lie to you, deceive you, play you, strike you when you are down, and play you like you play that fiddle. You are a violin shaped woman after all.
“More like a cello,” I respond, to no one in particular. ” and if you’re wrong about that, then who is to say you’re right about anything else.”
My apartment is cold today. At ten below zero Fahrenheit and wind whipping like a cat o nine tails, the weather beating this triple decker is hard to fend off. Begrudgingly, I crank the heat to 71° (how old AM I?), grab a few pillows off of my bed, and a foam block, and set onto my mat.
The practice cycles through various chest and heart openers, then focuses on thighs and hips, starting with saddle pose. Supta Virasana is a giant chakra opener and aligner, and as such, it is a pose that requires the practitioner to develop great trust for themselves and anyone else involved.
The instructor directs from a spread kneed kneeling position, to recline backwards onto the forearms, or alternatively to let oneself float and stretch down to the ground behind. Given the state if my lower back, once I lowered to my forearms I knew a little support would be necessary. So pillow and block behind me transformed this
Unsupported Supta Virasana
To this
Supported Supta Virasana
As I was breathing low into my belly, a fear came welling up inside of me, and instead of crying, I questioned it. Why? What is it that you are frightened of? I’m vulnerable, I answered. Helpess. Defenseless.
Yes. Yes you are defenseless. Yes, you are completely vulnerable. What is it that scares you about being vulnerable? That it will be used against me.
The guru stepped in here, a vision in blue, dripping with crisp ocean water and trailing his trident through the waves. And if it is used against you, then what? I could die. And how do you feel about that? Well, I will die anyways someday, I just don’t want it to be today. So the threat of death in vulnerability is causing you to not to live?
I opened my eyes at this. The block had slid out from under me, and my lumbar spine was screeching like a felled tree. Pushing myself back up, I check in on my instructor, who is peacefully splayed on his mat. With any deep back bend it is important to practice flexion in all directions, so I slide my palms forward into extended child’s pose, breathing.
Extended balasana
Are you still vulnerable here? I hear. Yes, though my heart isn’t so exposed and my feet are not bound, so it’s quite manageable.
We shift through bilateral deer poses, and then sink into caterpillar. Hearing the name reminds me of St Thomas, and I smile at the synchronicity. Then back to the breath, inflating my lower abdomen and hip socket, then upper chest, to release in a shwoosh, then again, then again, and again. As I release the fifth, I feel my hip socket open, muscles I did not know I had that were tight, were suddenly warm and loose, and I wept laying there, folded over my own legs with my head betwixt my knees, releasing the Atlantic from my eyes onto the mat.
I didn’t have to hold that saddle. I could just let it go and be free of it’s demands. Much like the fear I have held onto thinking that it would keep me safe as it had in the past, I no longer needed it.
I don’t need to hold on, I can just ride. And at any time I want to, I can get off.
There was once a young monk who complained to his zen master how difficult it was to let go. The zen master invited the young monk to tea, and proceeded to hand him a hot steaming cup. The zen master directed that he not put the cup down, however the ceramic became too hot to hold, and the young monk dropped the cup, shattering it to pieces. “There,” the master says, “letting go isn’t so difficult after all.”
Tethered with tears in their eyes May no man’s touch ever tame May no man’s reigns ever chain you And may no man’s weight ever defrayed your soul
And as for the clouds Just let them roll Roll away, roll away
Yesterday I was balanced. I nailed dancer balanced left, nearly nailed it right. Both sides of my wheel were stable and secure. Pressing as though I would tear the mat in half, Virabhadrasana foundation was both deep and lifted, squeezing thighs together and lifting up through my front body and grounding through my back. No shaking transitions. Graceful reversal of sequence. I felt solid and grounded.
Today’s tumbles began in tree, where I normally rest comfortably, my back twinged, my legs wobbled, and the room toppled up and to the left as I fell to the right, tripping over my furry mat mate and startling the downstairs neighbor. Next came warrior one, with Luna snuffling my navel and collapsing in laughter. By this point she’s calling from downstairs, “you ok up there?“ and lastly, bridge, or shall we say London Bridge as I was down briefly after lifting the draw.
The Chitta Vritti that normally pervades my thoughts when things don’t go as planned was quiet. In fact, I waited for her to show up and lead the peanut gallery in a deluge of self criticism and doubt. Instead there was a quiet awareness that the voice was not there. Not in that moment.
I recognized that I was waiting for it, and had a laugh about how I could disassociate twice removed to watch myself watching for myself. The three are one, and for all of my Catholic upbringing this one truth resounds to me – father, son, and ghost; head over heart over pelvis; maiden, mother, crone; mind, sword, and intent- and in so many traditions and not so many words is a universal truth. Everything is connected. Everything has a purpose, even our self doubts and fears, and occasional tumbles on the mat. The fall teaches us to rise.
And for all of the years I beat myself up and pushed myself to be perfect, I had a moment of silence. Respect for all of the years I pushed myself to be perfect to please others to feel loved and accepted. Respect for the decisions I made to survive. Respect for the girl who lived with her whole heart and only wanted that in return.
I’m okay with falling. I no longer fear it. I no longer think it’s good or that it’s bad. I no longer need to be perfect. I trust the process. Today. Tomorrow may be different. And that’s okay too.
“Falling’s just another way to fly” -Emilie Autumn
“Sometimes it takes a good fall to really know where you stand” Haley Williams
‘What if I fall?’, Tim cried. Marylyn Laughed. “Sooner or later, we all do.” -Stephen King, The Dark Tower
We are sitting at a 1950s style diner counter, and this time I know I am not dreaming. My gorgeous date is beside me, my beautiful daughter, looking famous in her brand-new burnt orange floral dress. We drool over the vegan menu, each item looking more tasty than the last, however there is nothing as delicious as the sweet smile and twinkle of delight that’s planted on this adorable woman’s face.
We are chatting about relationships and marriage. the patriarchy behind the institution, the curiousness of human nature and culture of needing a permit to have sex, share health insurance, and get royally fucked over when the inevitable end to said contract presents itself. And what else is it but a piece of paper that is truthy worth nothing? Having gone through the process twice myself, I can say that in either case it did not ensure love, fidelity, or longevity. What it did was put money in the pocket of some lawyers who were more than happy to process the request, and also make the process excessively arduous when I wanted to leave.
I mention that if anything, I might marry for money. That is, just money, nothing else. Leave me be to buy a little cabin, to live in with my dog, grow a garden around, and house my ever-burgeoning library. That both of the times I got married, I did so out of fear.
You know that moment when an epiphany happens? To me, it has a sound – like Mario stumbling on a mushroom or fire flower and >>ring-ring-ring<< it’s as though I’ve leveled up and am downloading information from the great beyond. Leading up to experiencing satori in the fall of 2018, I heard this sound seven different times, each one increasing my boldness as I awoke from my slumber. This was no different, although the effect was softer, and less jarring, something I knew deep inside and just never said aloud.
At this, I tell her, it was the first time I had ever had that realization. How insane that was. The first time I got married, I believed if I didn’t, I would have gotten kicked out of the house, earned my mother’s disapproval, and would have been a single mom with two kids. The second time, I believed there would be serious repercussions had I said no, regarding what might happen if I was alone and jobless in a state far away from my family, or that I would lose someone I was mercilessly in love with. And besides, we were already sharing a bookcase. And once your library is intermixed how can you possibly separate?
I was correct, of course. If I had said no in either situation, all of those things may have come to pass. In fact, everything I feared ended up happening, in one manner or another. When we are trying to control a situation we are in, it never can last. When we believe something, we either want it to be true or are afraid it is true. I was acting in out of fear both times instead of living in my truth.
I’ve developed a new truth. I love myself enough now to know that marriage is a road I no longer want to travel down, unless the price is right, they leave me alone, and it comes with a pre-nup. There’s a lot of things I’ll happily share with the right certain someone, but the last thing I will ever share again is my bookcase.
A few years ago, I was a beginner iaido student, and had been training with a wooden bokken and plastic saya, and on occasion, practicing with Dragonfly. Dragonfly was absolutely gorgeous. It had all of the regal stature of a true Samurai sword. Dragonfly had been loaned to me by the Steel, and while a very kind gesture, it was truly too heavy and long for me to perform saya biki, or practice for any length of time. As we are just about to head to Iaido conference, the Steel presents a lighter iaito of shorter length, and at 2.25 shaku it was more suited to my 5’2″ frame than the 2.6 of Dragonfly.
This is a story of Shorty. There are many stories about Shorty. This is just one.
The first time that Shorty and I practice together is at the iaido conference. It is early spring. We are with 120 odd iaido students, and as I am no kyu, am placed with other beginners while the Steel is practicing with those of 1st kyu and above. My excitement level is through the roof. Here I am surrounded by modern day warriors, aligned in army like grid, all dressed our best in our hippity hot hop hakama, and under the care and direction of 7th and 8th dan instructors from the US and Japan. I make sure to claim a space in the front, as I am one of the shorter ranks, and want to see and hear everything that was happening. It is important that I learn something, that I grow. Practicing and improving my kata have always been very serious business to me, as this was part of the agreement that was made with the Steel – I would learn swordsmanship, and he would learn music, and in learning we would grow together and hopefully as one. Because, it was just us. Right? Because, that was justice.
We begin the first five kata after a brief greeting from the visiting Sensei. Ipponme – Mae, from the front. I’ve got this. I’ve been practicing this one especially over and over in the past months. Mae is a foundational kata, and if I can perform this correctly, the lessons will translate to all of my other kata.
Hajime.
Seiza. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in and rise, toes curl under, step out with the right foot and cut. Shuffle up, bring sword above the head step and cut. O-chiburi, and rise like smoke into a deep iaido stance. Switch legs. Noto, and settle like fog onto left knee. Rise, feet together. Hands off, eyes come up. Back up left, right left ending with feet together.
Shorty feels awkward at my side. She much lighter than Dragonfly, and of a different length. It feels as though I can not reach my imaginary opponent, and I find myself stretching and straining. There is no elegance here. I need to relax. My mind is racing. I had never performed in front of others, separated from the Steel. I feel out of my element, awkward in my too tight obi, and the adrenaline will not quit. Is anyone laughing at me? Am I making mistakes? Doubt. Fear of failure. Embarrassment. Eagerness to please – sure, myself, but I want to make the Steel proud. I am his first student, after all. My efforts and performance reflect on him, and the last thing I want is to feel was his disappointment on top of my own anxiety and self doubt.
Nihonme – Ushiro, from behind. A kata very similar to Mae, in mirror reverse for the cuts, with a special corkscrew on the right knee. Nervous, I engage with the gross of samurai.
Left foot in a right angle to right, right foot turns to face rear, left becomes parallel to right. Seiza. Breathe in. Breathe out. A quarter breath in, raise to knees, corkscrew, left foot step and cut. Sword above head, shuffle and cut. O-chiburi and rise like smoke. Switch legs. Noto, and sink like fog. Stand, feet together. Hands come off, eyes come up. Back up, left, right, left.
Well, sort of. Drawing the blade and performing half decent saya biki is a challenge, even with a more appropriately sized katana. My technique still not correct or developed, Shorty clumsily tumbles out of the saya, evidence of this shows in blade chasms and wood dust that empties out of my saya after each practice. Even as my strength is developing I do not have control of the tip, and it wobbles with my feeble tenouchi.
I feel awkward, uncomfortable, hazardous, like a thrice broken pinky toe hanging out of the side of a flip flop. “This is just warming up, girl, you’ve got eight more hours of this,” I hear Shorty calling, and little good it does other than encouraging the life muscle from beneath my ribs to pound a deafening and quickening rhythm into my ears. She says, “Ride on top of the pain.”
I can do this.
Sanbonme – Ukenagashi. Receive, parry, and cut. Which side do I turn to? Just breathe, watch the man next to you out of the corner of your eye, and follow. You’ve got this. Left foot 90 degrees with heel to left, right foot steps parallel. Seiza. My kneepad is sliding. Breathe in. Shit-shit-shit-shit this hurts today. Breathe out. Breathe in part way. Eyes then head follows turning to the left as I rise and draw. Stand, right foot at 90 degrees and knees in that ukenegashi feeling (whoa, that ukenagashi feeling, I’ve lost that ukenegashi feeling), Shorty raised above head with strong edge facing opponent, tip down to make a roof over my head. Step back with left foot and cut. Tip of sword to knee, change hand position, weird upside chiburi, noto and settle like fog. Rise like smoke. Smoke. Damn, I could use a big fat bowl right now. I’m settling like a deflated souffle and rising like overproofed dough. Hands come off, eyes up. Small step back to starting position.
I want to puke. All of the tears are held back by a tenuous damn. Shit, I am just no good at this. Even though one of the lessons I’ve learned is that being a beginner is okay, I feel like I need to be more than what I am at the current moment. That there is something wrong with me. I am having trouble remembering the movements. The names of the kata. The parts of the sword. All of these spinning in a tornado that is threatening to rip apart my mind like an abandoned house in the countryside. This is all supposed to make me into a better person. Wait, what is wrong with the person I am right now? Aren’t I a good person? I’m by no means perfect, and I always do my best. Fuck, just try harder, woman.
“You can do this,” says Shorty. Breathe.
Yonhonme – Tsuka-ate. Oh, how the Steel cannot stand sitting in tatehiza, however I find it rather comfortable. I always feel bad for him as I can see the discomfort in his eyes, jaw, and tight shoulders about his ears. We do so much already but I bet the cobra stretch would work wonders for him. That’s for later, what are you doing? Tsuka-ate. Chuck saw? I always giggle when I hear this as I have never seen the word written. I imagine my brother holding a classic wood saw, smiling maniacally. A little levity now and then never hurts, and laughing inside without showing the smile is proving to become a useful skill. Rise from tatehiza and jab to solar plexus with sword still in scabbard. Slide saya off, turn, and thrust into forearm. Blood. Blood? Blood. Wait, blood is not part of this kata! No, neither is sticking yourself with the pointy end. Sure enough, a good inch of the tip of my brand new sword has created a new opening in my left forearm by the elbow. Thank goodness it is just the tip, and I haven’t gone hilt deep. Um, I need help. I wipe the tip of my blade and resheath it. Covering my wound with my hand, I start navigating the side of the mass of samurai in motion, searching for the Steel. I find a few kind souls to assist, and the Steel comes running, horrified and embarrassed. I am bandaged. Admonished. Congratulated. Encouraged. My head is spinning and light, and I cannot hear words that are said. I instead remember feelings.
The Steel said years later that I would be remembered. That because I continued for the entire day with a damaged arm, that I carry myself with dignity even when I am in immense pain, and that important people would remember me.
He was right.
I tell the lesson of the scar on my arm to anyone who asks. How I was not paying enough attention to what I was doing, and how I was naive to my blade’s length, and I was overexcited and zealous and it caused me to get into some trouble. And that if anyone tells you that size matters not, this is true. We are all the same size, inside. When engaged, though, some feel the need to seem bigger. Whatever. It’s just so childish, gambino.
So, what are some of the lessons from Shorty? I learned that when you have a new blade, it is best to take your time to get to know it really well. You should test your steel in various kata to see how it performs, and while doing so, ask it lots of questions. Where was this blade made? Has it been used before? What do other practitioners think of this blade? Is it like others that I have held? How so? How is it different? Is it balanced? Is it of the correct proportion? Is it hindering or helping my progress? Is it a pleasure or a pain? Is it a tool that I can work with? Can I perform all of the necessary parts of the kata with this blade? Is the blade responding to my actions correctly? Can I perform correct saya biki? Am I allowing my blade to cut the inside of my saya each time I draw/sheathe it? Can I protect the tender parts? Does its furniture fit, or is it loose and wobbly? Where is the tip? And, do I love it? Can I learn to love it? Or, am I settling?
Good questions, Shorty. Good questions.
“Thirty spokes share the wheel’s hub;
It is the center hole that makes it useful.
Shape clay into a vessel;
It is the space within that makes it useful.
Cut doors and windows for a room;
It is the holes which make it useful.
Therefore benefit comes from what is there;
Usefulness from what is not there.”
“Who needs sleep?
well you’re never gonna get it
Who needs sleep?
tell me what’s that for
Who needs sleep?
be happy with what you’re getting
There’s a guy who’s been awake
since the Second World War”
-Who Needs Sleep, BNL
What is another sleepless night? Wrapped in my fluffy cocoon at La Villa Strangiato, I am as snug as a doodlebug in a rug. The Landlord still prefers to keep the thermostat down, of which I am most appreciative. A hot room leads always to discomfort, and around here there is always a moose blanket or down comforter or a soft, warm, little ball of fur to snug up against. Cetri Zine and Ben Adryl, I thank you. Going with the flow means to accept all situations you can do absolutely nothing about, and this includes The Reynolds genome – small amount of sleep, early riser. The only remedy for this I have ever found was inhaling massive amounts of what my buddy from SC would refer to as “pine tree”, and such as it is, there is none to be discovered here.
I lay on my back, without pillow, arms by my sides and heels shoulder width apart. At times, I am laughing and crying with Mrs Maisel, and at others with the Outlander. Midge understands, and Jamie is the perfect human known to man. Even amidst the Carolina Cherokees and the unforgiving landscape he manages to find gratitude in the smallest things – a fish caught, the moonshine ripening, the daily battle for life, the daughter that he had never met traveling 200 years into the past to join him and her mother and welcoming her with open arms, and joyfully pulverizing her would-be aggressor. You know, the small stuff.
What I have come to understand is the truth in the small stuff. Exactly what it is in this life I appreciate and find value in.
A visit from one of my children.
Sunrises and sunsets.
The taste of a tart clementine.
Kisses from a beloved pet.
Unconditional love from my family.
A little job.
Safety.
For the snow to shovel in the morning.
For chances to spread kindness.
Playing my violin as often as I like and learning a new little song.
Morning yoga basking the beauty of the Shire.
True, loyal, lifelong friends.
For all I have loved and then lost.
For my imperfections.
Life. Breathing. In. Out. Weaving consciousness through every cell of my body.
Gratitude readily pours out of my eyes. As I have taken to wearing mascara again and not wiping tears, my face is morosely marked with the streams of release. Gratitude for these lovely things. Gratitude for lessons learned. Gratitude for the alchemy of the heart. Gratitude for the pain and suffering, welcoming it with open arms. Opportunities of being regularly challenge, with my response of “take me, and let me get swept away”. I feel every need for forgiveness and every transgression as the day it occurred.
It is through this divine forgiveness that I feel comfort. There are those who are no longer around me whose forgiveness I ask of and extend to, to the best of my ability every day. Time makes this easier, and laying in the complete vulnerability of Shavasana offers my being to experience this healing to its most intense capacity.
So on death? This is a process of letting go, as forgiveness in and of itself is a death, is it not? Of righteousness? Of vindication? Of shame. My dragonflies in amber are a reminder of the beauty in change, and of the hope of what remains to be seen. It is only through acceptance and understanding of death can we fully appreciate life.
So to sleep, perchance to dream. Or, not. Maybe someday.
Tonight, dolce far niente.
“I know it’s not my fault I did my best
God knows this heart of mine could use a rest
What more and more I find the dreams I left behind
Are somehow too real to replace
Last night I didn’t get to sleep at all
The sleeping pill I took was just a waste of time”
I couldn’t close my eyes ’cause you were on my mind”
-(Last Night) I Didn’t Get Any Sleep At All, The 5th Dimension
Snow has a way of changing in quality though the winter months. As the season progresses and more salt, sand, and brigid-knows-what is churned into the texture of cookie dough batter, before the eggs and flour. What December lacked in flakes, January delivered with renewed ferocity, with February in the running for close second. Miniature mountain ranges are heaped heavily on the sides of the vehicle paths, which grow smaller with each storm, with plow drivers who either seem to forget that our latitude is farther north than the Mason-Dixon line, or else live in fear of the Landlord’s scathing reports when his mailbox is pulverized yet another time.
It is past Imbolg, and the bi-polar weather of the northeast has become more manic than depressive. Days like today (above 10 degrees Fahrenheit) feel like spring, and I don not more than my bright pink shell and woolly Fäustlinge to join the out-of-doors. There are but few in the neighborhood who share in this cold weather delight: Happy Adams with the most lovely red haystack, waving hello from atop his Polaris, and oh what fun it would be to ride the haystack or the Polaris, I care not which; The Walking Woman, bundled from head to toe in so much an effort to keep warm as to not be carried off by the ferocious wind; and of course, Annie, with her long chapped cheeks and icicles clinging to her horse beard.
Any excuse to get out of La Villa Strangiato these days has me jumping behind the wheel of the aka shibikku and pressing the pedal to the metal. There is a certain sense of pride and pleasure derived from driving a standard transmission out of principle. There will never be a vehicle that I cannot hop behind the wheel and take control over, which means when the Rapture finally takes place I will have my pick of vehicles to drive around in. Won’t the Neighbors next door be dispirited to sacrifice their beautiful virgin M3 to us pagans? The Nimbus 2000 can stay in the garage.
“Wind
In my hair
Shifting and drifting
Mechanical music
Adrenaline surge”
While I have found beauty everywhere life has brought me, the charm of the Northeast never fails to draw me back. The trees. The rolling hillsides. The clusters of antique houses and architecture. The ocean, rivers, and lakes. It is the most beautiful place I have found to just take a drive to nowhere, although you are never far from anywhere. Lately I have spent a lot of time remembering who I was before I started batting at the major curve balls. I was a hippie. I smoked Camel lights. I skipped school and made out with boys in parked cars and a beautiful girl in a basement bedroom. I was an accomplished musician and respected among my peers. I was a vegetarian and humanitarian. I loved art and music, and foreign language, and reading between four to eight books per week. I despised traditional schooling. And, I loved driving. How fortunate I was to be allowed to drive the Silver Bullet, an ’88 Mazda 323, 5 speed. This car cranked, a challenge to drive not only for the transmission but also for the lack of power assisted steering. The scent inside was of Simple Green, as that was the only way to properly clean the ash tray and conceal my indulgence lest someone catch another reason to ground me for a month or two. Cradled by the driver’s seat, I took to the main streets and back roads like Dale Earnhardt on a bender, seat belt fastened, Rock 101 or 100.7 blaring, windows rolled down (and I mean, actually rolled), the wind tangling my shoulder length permed hair. Rather than watch the tachometer, I listened to the engine’s whine to inform me when to switch gears. I picked up my girl several times and took her on these rides, and as an adult now wonder if that on these times she was frightened to death. I felt powerful, in control, and manifesting my own destiny.
With recent cause to celebrate, I fire up that willing engine, awaiting the roar. Nothing. I scream, “Vroooom!” and back the little red devil out of the driveway. Today, I set off to just drive, breathing in the cold country air, feeling alive and free and one with all 180 horses carrying the sleigh, navigating the ice and snowbanks as obstacles to my course. I flow with every curve, listening for the cue from the engine when to change from one gear to the next. The local classic rock station starts pumping feel good tunes, and I start singing along.
Keep on whispering in my ear, tell me all the things that I want to hear, ’cause it’s true. That’s what I like about you.
This song suddenly seems fucked up, as if the band name “Romantics” was just a con to lure in unsuspecting hopefuls with the insinuation of fairy-tale like love and candlelit dinners. You like it when I tell you all the things you want to hear? You like that I promise you are the only one for me? And where is that in return? I feel my emotion transferring through the stick and gas pedal into the transmission, and the engine is willingly responding, save this time it is roaring in harmony with rage to the misogyny and disrespect and suppression of rights that is quickly becoming the example in this country. I definitely would have appreciated the sincerity, fidelity, and guardianship of my heart that I have promised over and over and never have received in return. Taking a sharp left, Red and I climb a steep winding hill, which empties out on another high meadow that overlooks the shire-side. It’s just another fucked up love song. It’s time to pull a lazy Susan, turn things around and head home, as I’ve come to yet another dead end.
And that’s it.
What you liked about me? I held you tight.
I told you you were the only one, and I wanted to come over tonight.
What you liked about me? I really know how to dance.
When I go up, down, jump around, I’m thinking about true romance.
What you liked about me, I kept you warm at night
Never wanted to let me go, you know I made you feel alright.
I kept on whispering in your ear, and told you all the things you wanted to hear
It’s true. That’s what you liked about me.
I have been valued not because someone wanted to show me how much they loved me, but for what I could do for them. I’ve allowed this to happen over and over and over again. This is not love. This is slavery. I will not be owned. I will not be controlled. I will not be lied to and manipulated. I will not obey. I will not be the little bird kept in a cage.
I let up on the civic, and pull to the side of the road amidst the trees. Breathe, says the Sliph. Jumping out, I run through the nearby field, snow gracing the tops of my boots with the fur, and tears running icicles down my cheeks. Everything is tinged red, those rose colored glasses stained with the crimson of my rage. “Where is the justice?” I ask, falling to my hands and knees, planting my face to cool in the snow. The shock clears my vision, and I sit back on my heels in seiza to find a beautiful woman standing before me.
She is white, with soft eyes and peaceful mouth. I grew up knowing her as Mary, although I understand her now as mother to us all and peace incarnate. Someone who understood and accepted with grace the presence of God growing within her. Breathe, I hear again, though this time it is the voice of Lucy calling. Inhaling to four, holding for four, exhaling for four, rest at the bottom for four. The rhythm is soothing, and the landscape regains its upside-right orientation. She is looking upon me with love and compassion, treasuring the moment.
I am already honored, loved, respected, and treated with dignity and compassion. I am cherished by my friends and family. I am worthy of being the only one and worthy of trust. Anyone who thinks otherwise can fuck off.
Thanking her, I return to La Villa much more gently than I had set out. These modern four cylinders were never meant to work so hard, anyways. The Landlord has the garage set up with tennis balls on strings, to provide the perfect stopping point for the vehicle, and listening for the gentle boop on the windshield, bid my ride a rest for the evening. The birches are swaying and paper bark flapping in the icy breeze this evening, with another storm threatening to call out the plows, shovels, and snowblower. It’s okay, ladies, I announce. Spring is coming. For now, let’s not just feel the cold, let’s revel in it.
“You know it gets to us all
The pain that is learning
And the rain that is burning”
When I explain to friends my love of Kendo, most typically respond with incredulity, skepticism, or at the very least mild bemusement. The reason for this response still eludes me, however I have learned to smile and accept that some are just not ready to listen or understand how this art has contributed to the change that has happened inside of me. Kendo is The Way “Do” of the Sword “Ken”. The way? The way to what? The way to love, naturally. Ko Ken Chi Ai means Knowing Love/Friendship by Crossing Swords.
To master the art of Kendo, we must master Shikai – “Shi” meaning “four”, and “Kai” meaning “prohibition”, so the four prohibitions of the way. Shikai is also known as the four sicknesses of Kendo. These sicknesses or prohibitions are those that we impose on ourselves that limit our growth not only in the art and practice of Kendo, but also in our daily lives living by the way of loving kindness. These four sicknesses are known as kyo-ku-gi-waku.
“Kyo” is surprise. What happens when I am surprised? Physically, I tense up, usually my pectorals, biceps, trapesius, rhomboid and other smaller neck muscles, protection of my vital organs. I inhale sharply for maximum oxygenation. My eyes widen to take in more light. Surprise is the state of being taken unaware. In Kendo, we need to understand that our partner can and may use all methods of technique to break our kamae (guard) or seme (pressure) to enter a strike. I should not be surprised when my partner’s eyes graze kote (the wrist), and they instead strike men (the head), or do (the gut). I should not be surprised when my shinnai is pushed to the side to create an opening. If my kamae and seme are strong, if I am using my entire field of vision to recognize a tightening of a particular muscle or look in the eyes to understand the whole picture, I will not be surprised when the strike comes. The same is true in loving yourself. It is important to not be taken by surprise. You have time. Wait for it. Are you feeling the need to defend yourself? Are you constantly under attack? Are you able to be relaxed, or do you feel the constant tensing of surprise and need to protect that which is vital? Perhaps you may rethink to whom you are sharing your love with. When my neck and back muscles are tight, and I am protecting my vitals, I get migraine headaches, the kind that induce paralysis, vomiting, lost days of work. Even the anticipation of a headache can bring one on, and has in the past developed a dependence on daily marijuana use or overuse of ibuprofin. As anticipation is the opposite of surprise, in kendo we must neither be in a state of anticipation or surprise. To rely on either is a crutch that inhibits our ability to take correct action when the opening occurs. In love, are we preparing for a blow, or are we reacting rather than responding to one? Herein lies the lesson of neither preparing for nor being surprised by anything. Love accepts all in stride, and does not anticipate being harmed. If either of these two are present, we are not ready to give or receive love, and we will have difficulty taking correct action.
“Ku” is fear. What happens to me when I am living in fear? My blood pressure rises, and my heart beats very fast. My breath becomes quick and shallow, limiting full oxygenation of the blood or expulsion of carbon dioxide. My vision narrows, quite often resulting in tunnel vision or hallucination. My temperature rises, and as I am not a particularly sweaty bastard, I tend to get overheated and have on occasion have become light headed and passed out from the experience. Fear is the aversion of discomfort. What is it that we typically fear? In Kendo, I was afraid of getting hurt physically. I understood the concept that if everyone was acting correctly, I would not get hurt, and I was reminded often to trust my armor. Armor in Kendo consists of a helmet (Men), gloves (Kote), Chestplate (do), tare (a skirt that while not valid for points does protect tender vitals), and a small plate at the base of the front of the Men that protects the throat (Tsuki). It did not matter that I was surrounded in what I lovingly referred to as my snowsuit. The strikes that I received regularly were hard enough that I would have a headache and trouble concentrating for days, or I would need to take a week off of playing violin to recover my wrist. There was one time where my teacher was demonstrating what it might be like to have someone very inexperienced and overzealous keiko with me, and it resulted in a shinnai being shoved forcefully up the right sleeve of my gi. The first time, I turned and cursed, and became very fearful. I took a second to calm myself, and tried to control my fear by taking a breath. I set my kamae once again, determined to finished the match despite the surge of adrenaline that consumed my body. When we began again, the same technique was used, resulting in a burn and enormous bruise on my arm, but worse, on my heart. I retreated backwards, and wanting to insist on distance, attempted to strike do. I fell, landing on my backside, all the while enduring the public humiliation from the reprimand from my teacher. I was shamed. I was so fearful of disappointing my teacher and my fellow classmates, yet was in enough pain from the injury to my arm that I could not control the flow of tears or the shaking of my body. I did my very best to gain my composure, and was told that my lesson for the day was completed. The old me might not have ever gone back to class, but I learned something. In order to not be in fear of something or someone, I needed to face them calmly, directly, and purposefully. I went back to class with a renewed vigor and determination to show my teacher and my fellow students that I was not afraid to get hurt, and I was not afraid of being shamed or reprimanded or corrected. This was the beginning of my practice of enshrouding myself with emotional armor. Before putting on my bogu, I mentally put on each piece of indigo by reciting this mantra:
Steady and strengthen and open my mind.
Steady and strengthen and open my spirit.
Steady and strengthen and open my heart.
Steady and strengthen and make true my sword.
The same is true in love. In order to proceed in love without fear, we must understand our own minds, know the shape of our heart, have confidence in the integrity of our spirit, and be confident in the truth our intent. We must love ourselves and have the mental armor so that we do not allow ourselves to be thrashed about, however be willing to create openings to allow our partner to come close. We must also allow ourselves to open to draw close to our partner. If we cannot do these things and love without fear, then we are not ready to share or experience the true joy of love. If there is a part of ourselves that we wish to keep armor over, perhaps we should ask ourselves what sort of strike we are preparing for, what is it that we are so unwilling to let go of that we need to be in emotional armor at all times.
“Gi” is doubt. What happens to me when I am feeling doubt? I experience anxiety. Anxiety typically manifests in my gut. I am either perpetually loose or tight, and have constant tummy troubles. It appears as a band around my diaphragm, and I cannot take a full belly breath as if I am wearing a tight belt or size too small jeans. In doubt, my mind is in a constant state of indecision and panic. I cannot focus on one thing for any amount of time. In Kendo, doubt leads to indecision and inaction. When coming out of sankyo, your body should flow fluidly, balanced, ready to assume correct kamae and seme. If you are in doubt, you will be off balanced and shaky, unable to take a proper deep belly breath. In doubt, you will view your partner instead as an opponent. In doubt, you will be unable to make a decision on a target and therefore unable to enter into a correct strike. What happens when we are in doubt in love? We cannot breathe. In music, it is important to be able to play the rests so that you stay in time with other musicians and so that the intent of the melody or harmony is expressed correctly. If in love, we cannot breathe or cannot play the rests, we become anxious of that which we may lose. We cannot trust in what the next step might be and it leads to grasping. We develop aversion to change, and cannot exhibit grace or dignity. In doubt, we cannot willingly accept any challenge that may come our way, for fear of failure. In doubt, we lose confidence in the ability for others to accept and love that which in ourselves is profane. In doubt, we are prone to aversion to the truth, so much so that it manifests itself in the flesh. In doubt, we accept the lies we tell ourselves as the truth, and learn to accept the lies of others as the truth as well. Love cannot be based on doubt. Love must be based on trust and truth. If I feel like I cannot tell my partner the truth about myself, it may be a combination of toxic shame and aversion of my own truth and fear of acceptance, or it may also be a fear of exploitation or having truths used as a weapon to flog your partner with. When it becomes the sum of all of these, it creates a toxicity that no seed of love can ever grow in. Doubt or trust is the seed in which love is sewn in.
“Waku” is confusion, or being disturbed. What happens to me when I am feeling confusion? My brow is constantly wrinkled. I cannot complete a thought or make a quick decision. The tiny muscles in my face tense. I have a hard time remembering details and sequence. I lose focus, and have to take a lot of time to ensure I have the facts straight. I question my own sanity when I am told one thing and then another, and then see actions of yet another. In Kendo, being confused leads to indecision. If I cannot come to a decision about what to do next, I can never do what comes next. Am I sitting there waiting for an opening, or am I creating one? Am I allowing my partner’s stance, gutterals, shinnai taps, or stern look to intimidate me? Or, am I taking them in no consequence to the matter at hand, which is to deliver a correct strike? In the last practice I had with my teacher, I delivered a quick feather strike to men. My classmate, the romantic young warrior, did not want to believe that it was a correct strike, however my teacher did confirm that it was correct and valid ippon. I remember evaluating what was different that day, as I can remember only a choice few times where I had gained ippon on my teacher. The first, we were practicing outside on a stage with cement floors. I remember the cool and smooth touch to my feet, the scent of the fresh air and feel of the ever constant breeze. I remember my teacher’s excitement that we were practicing at the park. I felt relaxed and at ease, as I always feel when I can spend any amount of time out of doors. I feigned a men strike, and struck do. If I remember anything, it was the incredulity on my partner’s face, his mixture of pride and love and bewilderment and determination, and his verbal promise to never let that happen again. I was in my own state of bewilderment – a mixture of pride in my progress, and the hopes that my teacher would be thrilled and encourage my progress and repetition of the maneuver until I could repeat it flawlessly. I took the words instead as a challenge, and in practice, attempted to recreate that scenario only to have it thwarted every time. I was not discouraged, however I was confused as to why it was that my partner would not want that particular opening to be claimed.
To create an opening for do in Kendo kata, one must raise the shinnai over the head. This exposes the heart. Quite possibly, the way to the heart is the do in Ken-do.
In relation to Ko Ken Chi Ai, to know love, we must be willing to cure ourselves of all of the sicknesses or prohibitions to love. To not allow fear, doubt, confusion or surprise master our actions, and to not deliberately cause or to allow harm to others by using these tactics to manipulate or control. To know love, we must be willing to be courageous in allowing joy to permeate our hearts, understanding that all things change, all things end, all things die, and all things can begin again.
There are very few people in this world that I would consider my friend. People whom I will discard the emotional armor for any day of the week and allow them to peer into the depths of my soul. I approach each potential friendship with an open mind, open heart, and open spirit, but have learned that I may need better kamae and seme when it comes to those who may try to assume they are my opponent. In Kendo, the distance to which you place yourself in proportion to your partner is known as maai. This is the distance from which you can make a correct strike without risking a strike from your opponent. For short people like me, the maai I assume is typically closer to my partner. To reach the top of a head of someone 6’3″, I need to get in pretty close, however for someone closer to my height, I can step back a little, and relax the angle of my shinnai, trusting in the power of my left leg to launch my body the distance it needs to travel. What I have learned is that kamae, seme, and maai all have to coordinate together to have correct distance to my partner, and that I must adjust my own maai, taking also into consideration that of my partner’s.
I can love someone closely, and I can love someone from a distance. I can love someone intimately and intensely, and I can love someone by wishing them well and understanding that their suffering is not much different than my own, for we are all one. In the sister art of iaido, we learn that there is no opponent other than ourselves. This is true in loving our lives, and this is true in a life of love.
“Come let me love you
Let me give my life to you
Let me drown in your laughter
Let me die in your arms
Let me lay down beside you
Let me always be with you
Come let me love you
Come love me again”
Annie’s Song, John Denver
There are some things that you cannot un-see. There are some things that happen that are so magical that you cannot believe your eyes. There are some experiences where you wonder if you’ve been put under a spell, and you question reality as you know it.
This is one of the better ones.
Annie is a white horse, with a long blonde mane, peanut butter cup saucer eyes, and a swooshy full tail that has me hoping she will donate a few strands for my next violin bow rehairing. I am no horse expert by any means, but my best guess is that she is a white Carmague, an ancient breed originating somewhere in the south of France. You’d never know it though – there is nothing rude about this hors d’oeuvre. I imagine her with a silver spiral horn grown from her third eye, swathing sparkly rainbows through the end of it, leaving a pathway of sunshine and happiness where ever she trots. She is beautiful.
Each day, the Landlord and I trot up the hilly, winding roads in the 4WD closed in sleigh, making our way to Annie. She recognizes the vehicle immediately, and is trotting up to the fence before we can venture out. A few carrots are prepared by the Landlord, and he insists that I feed her. I always try over the fence first. Some days she takes it, and some not, but it is always worth a try. Today, she takes one. Hearing the snap of another carrot worries her, and she steps back cautiously. This whole while I am cooing and telling her how much I love her, and how beautiful she is. Her head sways from left to right, then she points right at my third eye with her imaginary horn. From somewhere inside of me, the vision extending my carroted hand under fence comes to mind, and I immediately comply. If this is divine intervention or horse whispering, then Mister Ed must have been her distant relative.
Annie finishes all of the treats with her slow horse crunch, brushes her horse lips across my hand one more time, searching for carrot remnants, and we both stand up. I express my gratitude and love for her, and give her a deep genuflect as I have taken to doing each time we part. With the ground so wet this day, my boots are thick with field mud. Stomping them out on the road, I decide to do a little dance for Annie, in a sort of horsey cloppy way. My heart leaped when she extended the equine kiss to my fingers, and I thought I should let her know.
And then, it happened.
Annie let out a whinny as I have never heard from a mare. Long and musical, deeply punctuated and accented with varying rhythms and tones, it was as if the whole string of horses ensemble played a song of enchantment. Strutting slowly around in a circle, her tail raised straight up, and she waved it back and forth like a flag, baring that which is rarely seen to the human eye, and after several languid paces, looked back over her shoulder. Equus magazine describes this behavior. ‘In the presence of stallions, mares in heat will lift their tails up and to one side–sort of a “come hither” motion to indicate sexual receptiveness.’ From vivapets.com “When they carry their tails up, they are expressing pleasure; notice that horses play and run around with their tails up.”
The Landlord laughed full-bellied, I’ll never know until I talk with a certified horse whisperer, but my general impression is that Annie was loving life, and felt a great deal of pleasure from being fed carrots, friendship, love, and respect. Maybe, she just thinks I am a sexy beast.
Me too, Annie.
“The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect
So hard to earn, so easily burned
In the fullness of time
A garden to nurture and protect”
The Garden – RUSH
Today’s visit had a slightly more regal tone than that of yesterday’s pageantry. When the Landlord and I pulled up, Annie made her way from the far side of the field where was peacefully grazing. I picked out my usual spot at the fence; the Landlord about 10 yards to my right. From the distance it appeared that she would end up somewhere between the two of us. To my surprise, she chose to walk directly up to me, and put her nose over the fence for a brief moment. I fed all of her carrots to her under the fence, and with each nibble she brushed my fingers with her sweet pucker, and even stole a few kisses between carrot offerings. As she eats, I remind her of how lovely she is, comment on her clean teeth and long white eyelashes. All carrots aside, I stand out of my crouch, bestow my thanks, and bow deeply for the gift of her presence. As I straighten, I see Annie bow her head and briefly close her eyes, then lift it again.
*rubs eyes*
It seems unbelievable that such a beast could mimic my behavior. After all, it’s just an animal. Right?
Time will tell what separates us from the animals.
“Time stand still
I’m not looking back
But I want to look around me now
Time stands still
See more of the people
And the places that surround me now”
The first time I was diagnosed with this condition was after a significant car accident that rattled my brain and strangled my brain stem, causing cerebral spinal fluid to back down my spinal cord and break it apart from the inside. The physical trauma from this left a myriad of physical anomalies that I have learned to adapt and work with the new normal, however the psychological impact of the traumatic car accident and undergoing neural surgery.
In the aftermath of the Audi-Mirage catastrophe, and had a very hard time getting into a vehicle, much less riding long distance in one. Walking into the surgical center and stripping off my clothes was as a walk of death, the scrub-green mile. I lay on a table while an anesthesiologist with meat hooks for hands attempted to insert an arterial blood pressure line in my arm. I smiled at him – it must have looked menacing, for he left and let someone else finish the deed. The next thing I knew, I was in ICU, throwing up said coffee into a pan, my head screaming with every heave. With no pain medication to dull, I needed to find another way to get through. I let go of my consciousness and drifted for 24 hours – not sleep, just letting go, hovering outside of my body so I did not have to be in the torrent of the river of agony, I could just sit next to it and observe it. Each time a nurse came over to check my vitals, I was sucked back in to the deluge in a paper cup. I had the ability to draw myself back out, but with lack of food or sleep, it became more difficult each time. At long last, they wheeled my broken body to a private room without any machines that went “blip”. The silence made it impossible to come out of my stupor, as I could not identify even one thing I could hear, nor make any sound of my own. It hurt too much to even cry.
By my bedside appeared my mother. Not my earthly mother, but Gaia, or Mary, or the Popess. Her robes were as celeste and cerulean, a mix of the cloudless sky above the plains and the deepest stormy ocean waters. Her presence was calming and soothing, and I lost myself in awe of her glory. She was not there to be worshiped – she was there to comfort and relieve my suffering. Her image is as clear in my mind today as it was that day almost 17 years ago.
I spent 6 months in intense physical of therapy before I could get into a car again without having an attack. In fact, I purchased the best possible vehicle I could manage to afford at the time that had Whiplash Protection Seating. In 2002, this was a new technology that appeared only on high end vehicles such as Lexus, etc.
“Yes, I used to be a real wild child,
But now I am a Volvo-driving soccer mom” – Everclear
I became a Volvo S40 Driving Soccer Mom, much to my ex’s chagrin.. While the lyrics of the song are not exactly accurate, the spirit was. My personality started to change after this. I took a physically demanding job to pay for it, starting part time, and working my way up the ladder to Regional Operations Manager running five stores in two states. This took 4 years. The vehicle acted as a placebo. It gave the illusion of safety while I worked on needing to check my mirrors 30 times a minute, and pacing myself at stoplights. The next year, I trained for a 10 mile race in three months, having never run anywhere except to the bathroom and to get the mail, and succeeded to run it in 1:45. The physically demanding job turned into my ticket out of a loveless marriage with narcissus, and the key to living independently for the first time in my life.
During the time frame when we lived at the base of the Lonely Mountain, our family had adopted a beautiful fluffer named Jake. Jake was a German Spitz, which is like a Pomeranian but with a foxier face. He was the most beautiful little floof that you could want.
When we brought him home, we found out something very surprising about Jake. He was petrified of the broom. I would go to sweep in the kitchen, and little Jork would dust-mop himself under a bed or the couch, shaking like a leaf. It was quite obvious that someone had swept him aside vigorously by his skittish behavior. I started slowly with him – laying down the broom in the center of the kitchen, and sitting with Jake in the next room barely in view of the broom, petting and cooing and giving him jerky treats. We repeated this ritual every day. Some days, Jake would see the broom and bolt. I would go and comfort him, and give him treats and all the love he could stand. Some days he just paced around. Eventually, we worked our way to where he would nose through the dirt I was sweeping up, looking for treats, and I could touch him with the bristles with no flinching.
Jake passed in the summer of 2016, his golden years spent being pissed off by having to share them with another gorgeous pup. I am not sure if he ever lost memory of the trauma, but he certainly learned to trust again after years of tender loving care from someone unrelated to his injury, wielding the weapon of it. This is a lesson I take to heart.
In October of this year, I was strangled. Strangled by the man who was supposed to be my Steel against Steel, in an act of rage and hatred. My trachea was crushed to the point that I think about the incident each and every time I swallow. Sometimes, I am yanked out of reality back into the incident hard. The panic attacks were severe at first. I was on. I was awake. A beloved friend and teacher came to help, and after poking the base of my neck, I became a puddle. That’s not the water they’re talking about being like. For nearly a month and a half I slept not more than one or two hours a night, slipping unexpectedly back and forth between the incident and reality, more there than here. Sleep is a bit easier these days, averaging four or five seductive hours per day, and I say per day for I take sleep as often and when it strikes. It is not striking tonight, but I’ve learned to accept and be calm and trust that sleep will come in due time. I’ve not felt safe, wanted to run, wanted to hide like the little bunny rabbit I can be. I’ve awoken to the feeling of his hand crushing my throat, heard voices and tapping and rustling, lived through technicolor nightmares. I see the future and the past and the present all at once. The countryside has appeared to me as a Van Gogh painting. My ancestors are calling – they are earth, and wind, and water. I commune with trees. Talk with cats. Caw at the crows. Have theological debates with houseplants.
“Basic elemental
Instinct to survive
Stirs the higher passions
Thrill to be alive
Alternating currents
In a tidewater surge
Rational resistance
To an unwise urge”
-RUSH, Prime Mover
It has not been all bad. I see those who are zombies and those who are awake – angels and demons alike. I am learning to discern those who are on different planes of awakening. I am bringing balance to the Force. Left brain meets right, and they become best friends. My violin skills have dramatically improved, and I am working on a new concerto. This is the true concerto of a warrior – one who can memorize eight full pages of music, dynamic, tempo, movement, key change, and work with another just as equally important player. I’m taking my time with this one. I have figured out who the best friends in the universe are. I have cut everything and everyone unnecessary or unhealthy out of my life. I am exercising, eating what I want when I want, drinking as much wine as the Landlord can stock, and with the assistance of some Cetirizine HCL, developing a lovely relationship with two sweet puddy-tats. I have regular counseling with an amazing therapist, and am practicing some EDMR I remembered from the last time I was in physical therapy. I have goals I have set myself to attain, and work daily at as many as I can, trying to beat my own expectations, even if it is just by the count of one. No one can be harder on me than I can, however now I have learned that it is okay to be gentle with myself.
I figure, if the nice young men in their pretty white coats come to take me away someday, life will not be that much different. I do hope they allow visitors tho. I have a feeling I might be in good company.
“I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space
And when you’re out there, without care
Yeah I was out of touch
But it wasn’t because I didn’t know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy? Possibly..”
Crazy – Gnarls Barkley
Back to Annie. I know that with time Annie will learn to trust and welcome the touch of the Landlord once again, and will not run off at the sound of the snapping carrot. It’s so new though, still. We have to be slow and gentle teaching her. One day at a time, dear Annie. This horse can have all the carrots she can eat, and I’m going to give them to her.
PTSD can come from any severely traumatic experience – childhood trauma, being abused and cheated on, one too many hits to the snake. I recall the Steel recanting a few of his own traumatic stories, and while I will not publicly speculate, I will imagine that he has had a similar course of both psychological and physical trauma that have altered his personality. There was a reason he did not kill me on that day. He said to me, something/someone inside of him had ordered him to let me go.
Whoever or whatever that was, thank you for standing up for me. Thank you for protecting me, when no one else would. That was a brave voice. That was the voice of a hero. It takes powerful love to take correct action. Agápe love.
Winter. Although the calendar marks the official beginning of winter as December 21, the truth is that season of the ice and snow is already long upon us. The Valkyrie in me is pleased, and while she would charge out the door wearing little other than a sports bra and running pants if she must, the Buddha reminds her to be gentle to herself and put on her winter coat, thick woolen mittens, soft gray hat, and boots. There will be no running this day.
Taking my daily walk about the property, I stop at the burn pile and take measure of how many pumpkin seeds remain from the squash I had ripped apart with my bare hands the week before. And no, it sounds violent, but violence and violins don’t mix. This cold shock therapy was to ease the arthritic swelling that has discovered its way into my right thumb, in part due to many hours per day studying my violin, and also my rediscovery of the Joy of Writing. If one is to hold a bow in the Franco-Belgian tradition, one needs to have flexibility in the oppose-able joint, hence, I plunged my my right up to my wrist in this frozen gourd, exposing the seed for the crows that have been visiting daily. It seems that some seed has been eaten, although not all, leading me to believe they may be looking for some other sort of offering.
Each day, the wind and ice brings down more limbs from various trees around the property. Oak, maple (wouldn’t Dirk, Lerxst, and Pratt be pleased?), evergreen, tulip, and even a pine, all shedding the unnecessary, the broken, the diseased, and would make spring yard work quite cumbersome if it is not tended regularly. So I pace – 27, 27, 27. Counting off the steps and softening my focus on the grass, the twigs and sticks leap out in stark contrast, and I soon find a large armful. Down to the burn pile I go, musing over the pyre that will blaze come spring. For now, rabbits and birds seek shelter in its trimmings, and the last thing I want is to chase any living creature out of its home. The work passes quickly. I suspect the Landlord has been out and about already this morning – he is quite fond of sticks these days.
With no more work to be done, it is time for pleasure. I’ve taken a liking to spend time each day meditating on something from nature. My gaze shifts to the tulip tree. Liriodendron Tulipifera is known also as yellow poplar, although why it feels the need to assume a pseudonym is beyond me. One would think that being named Indiana’s State Tree would be enough to gain infamy in the woodland community, but possibly that is it. When you set roots in a foreign land, best keep your popularity under wraps. The imposing timber is nearly 20 yards in height, its branches stretching out widely to form a canopy, the bane of the Landlord’s existence until it shed the remainder of its thick foliage.
As trees only whisper, getting in close was the best way to start my meditation. Next to tree pose, savasana has always been my favorite. Laying comfortably on the frozen ground, careful to tuck my jacket under my buttocks so as not to wake the Valkyrie, I inhale – what can you teach me – and exhale – I am willing to learn. My thoughts go to the branches. The stark contrast of charcoal shadow against overcast mid afternoon sky is breathtaking. As a small child, I spend many days in this pose, not knowing it had a name other than “laying down on the ground”, getting lost in the tangle of branches above. Starting at the trunk, I follow them out to the tip where the petrifications of this past summer’s pastoral plumage present perfectly preserved pods. Alliteration aside, I notice a pattern in the branches. Starting strong and thick, none of these protrusions are straight. In fact, each one of them has a bend or twist of one degree or another. The branch scars, and appears as the knobby tight flesh over a seated kata knee. The wood then takes a different direction; not every branch is the same. Applying what I understand of plants, new growth will lean towards the direction and strength of the sun, given factors such as wind, rain, time of year, and the amount of time spent in the shade. Each branch has many of these angles, and the twists and turn makeup the web of sky branches. Each branch at the end proudly purports upright tulip husks on countless split slender branches – a reminder of the beauty that will present in spring.
Understanding brings the universe inverted, and instead of laying on the earth, the earth is spinning under me while centripetal force and gravity holds my body on so I do not fling off into space. Each of us is part of the same tree. We grow. We have trauma or events in our lives that cause scarring and change. This will heal, and as time passes will not look or seem so raw; instead, becomes part of our beauty. As we can no longer grow in that direction, we must seek light and warmth with a balance of shelter. We must accept and be ready to get wet, and while the winds may curve our path, we do not have to stand against or be completely blown away by them. We need not be discouraged when changes come. We accept the lessons, we do not grasp onto the original path. We allow ourselves opportunity to learn new things, to be beginners regardless of the stage of life we are in, while neither being to firm nor too flexible. In the end, there is beauty. Beauty that lasts seasons, into our winter years, only to be borne again in the lives we touch when springtime comes again. There is always a rainbow after the rain.
This is the Joy of Being. I love you, tulip.
Originally posted on The Broken Covenant – ’tis the season.
With all credit to Rush and especially Neil Peart, to the tune of ‘Red Tide’ Sorry guys, I can resist anything but temptation. Media has some new plague to run in our feeds An ombre’d meme we are doomed to repeat Facebook feed, becoming a bore Thirsty travelers – find an open store Frothy drink […]
Be smart. Give yourself enough time to find evidence and focus. You can find the bullshit, fallacy, and inconsistency in anything. You can dive down the rabbit hole and find all of the roots of lies and the source of all truth. Pandora’s box floods open. You always find what you look for. Seek truth and you will find it. You can handle the truth.
The greatest good can result from the worst situations. Carbon under pressure becomes diamonds.
Reason rules passion. Consult your heart, but allow your mind to make the final decision.
Forgiveness is important. Seek forgiveness from all you may have harmed, deliberately or otherwise. It is not enough to ask forgiveness from God. You must ask forgiveness from your friends, brothers, sisters, parents, coworkers, spouse, etc. Understand that seeking forgiveness from your loved ones is about them being able to move on, and is an act of loving kindness. Repent with a humble heart. Take responsibility for your actions – own up to your mistakes. Vow to yourself to not harm another in the same way ever again. Hold yourself accountable. There is magic in sincerity and desire to change for the better. It is in this that our hearts and minds are changed. When you repent, mean it. Change yourself.
Mind what people do. Mind what people say. Mind what people do and say, and do not discredit either.
Mind over heart over matter. This means, what matters most is Correct Thought. Then Correct Intent. Then Correct Action. Make sure that all of your actions have been first consulted with your mind and heart, and that your mind and heart agree that the action is correct. Head over Heart over Pelvis.
Life is the present. Tomorrow is the future and full of possibility. Learn the lessons from your past and do not repeat it.
Accept and learn to embrace mistakes and failures with humility. Failures teach us valuable lessons and allow us to grow into better humans. Ask yourself, what is this teaching me? How can I be better from this.
If you find a contradiction, this means that you have discovered an inconsistency that has not yet been explained. Listen, ask questions, take notes. It may be that there is information still needed to complete the picture. Keep asking important questions. Keep asking Who, What, Where, When,Why, and How. The truth will present itself on a platter.
Willfully turning aside from the truth is treason to one’s self. Lying to others is treason to others, especially in a relationship. Get to know yourself before trying to get to know someone else. Be honest with yourself. Everyone needs therapy. We’re all broke, even if you think you are not, you are. Especially those that think they are not broke. And ladies and gents, you can’t fix each other – this is what trained professionals are. Please, be kind to one another.
Knowledge can be dangerous, powerful, and useful. Be careful whom you open up to. Gain as much knowledge as you can. Work hard. Don’t cheat. Cheating is a lie!
You can try to destroy those who speak the truth, but you cannot destroy the truth itself.
Agape first always. There are four kinds of love – Storge—empathy bond. Philia—friend bond. Eros—erotic bond. Agape—unconditional “God” love. The greatest of these is Agape, which is the love for all. Storge, Philia and Eros are for specific people. Know the difference and be specific, deliberate, and correct with your intent.
Love yourself first, then love others as you do yourself. Love is not hearts, rainbows, flowers, and worship of the ego. Challenge, motivation, discipline, repentance, forgiveness, structure, firm resolve for correct action. This is Agape.
Be the change you wish to see in the world. This does not mean force change on the world to construct it to how your whims. This means, change yourself into something that will make the world a better place for everyone else. If you are better, the world will be too.
If your mind is open, you can learn from anyone and anything. Even manure can nurture a garden, if applied correctly. Keep this in mind when the shit hits the fan.
“This is going to be a long, cold winter,” I hear the landlord proclaim for the fourth time this morning. If the early snows and howling winds lend any precursor to the impending season, then I must agree wholeheartedly. Usually, when he repeats a statement more than once, it means that I have not yet gotten the gist of the conversation and need to ask more questions. “What makes you think that?” I ask. He talks about the trees, this time. A seventy foot tall tulip tree has been one of the banes of his existence. It’s leaves are stubborn, and the flower pods reluctant to drop. “Maybe if it’s cold enough, the leaves will finally drop,” I reply, and a look of bemused speculation spreads across his smile. He tells me they are going to lock us up one of these days. I say, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He laughs.
We’ve awoken to heavy snowfall a half dozen times already. As the ground and air are not quite cold enough for powder, the precipitation is as wet cement. On this morning the new fallen blanket is five inches thick, a luminescence of periwinkle and lavender cut with seams of forest green treelines as patchwork on the landscape. I’m antsy, restless. Literally. After a month of not sleeping more than an hour or two a night, I am without rest. A month of no stimulant other than the occasional Coca-Cola from the fridge in the basement, prescribed by Sir Holmes as a stimulant for the mind to focus and ease my ADHD. A month of eye openers, dilation to the extent that there feels like constant outward pressure on my macula and retina, but without visible change to the pupil or iris. Lucy once told me that I would need more than her help. I think she was correct. What I had needed were clouds. Snowy white clouds, and lots of them.
Squirrel.
Outerwear assembled, the Landlord and I attack the new-fallen slush puppies with giant red and black spoons. The drive and walk are quickly and methodically cleared, and so are two of the neighbors’ and around the mail receptacles. I am sweating now, the 27 degrees feeling more like 72 after the effort. Removing jacket and hat, I step into the back yard to absorb the hillside, slumbering under its downy cover. For all the beauty, there seems to be something missing.
A snowman.
It really is the perfect kind of snow for it, and I’ve no better place to be, so why not? I slide down the hill on my feet. For all of my training I have become quite nimble and fearless, and after a year of learning to glide like Sleeping Beauty down marble staircases this was a slice of cake. Below the leechbed there is a flat spot, perfect for the garden I will plant in the spring, but for now, this becomes a land of creation of another kind. The snow rolling starts with my right hand, and guided by me left. Then, left pushes with right as the guide, turning and watching, keeping all sides evenly rounded. Heavier and rounded it grows, until my body is nearly horizontal, levering the globe from under it’s horizontal axis, using the strength of my thighs and calves and core to set it back to the center of the newly cleared area. Measured with my hips, it is slightly taller. Satisfied that I cannot make a larger one that I could move on my own accord, it is time to start on the midsection. Again, left vs right over left over right, this time more ovoid than spherical. A clearing of thick, flat green blades is emerging as the flakes are rolled together. This torso is particularly heavy, and the Landlord is insistent that I receive much needed help levering it onto the base. We heave, and I measure – my head just barely clears the top of the section. Close enough, I wager. Now, for the head! I quickly make another ball, and set it on top. We pack the sections carefully, ensuring all cracks and crevices are firm. Bounding over to the burn pile, I pull out two ample length branches with forked ends, drag them back to my icy effigy, and snap them to equal length. It seems odd to place them in the typical mid-torso 15 degree above level fashion, and occurs to me that the reason for this is that other snowmen do not have what this one needs to be correct. Shoulders. Strong shoulders. A few large handfuls on each side do the job, and the arms are inserted. With a carrot loaned to us by Annie the horse, and some smooth stones selected for eyes and mouth, I carefully complete the face, and step back three paces to admire our work.
“He’s handsome,” the Landlord says. “Yes,” I agree, but there is so much more beneath the surface that looking into an icy pond will never reflect. I turn around and start marching up the slippery slope. The landlord asks where I am going. I turn, look at him, look at our creation, and reply, “To get my snowsuit”. He laughs. I am not.
Dropping my boots at the door, I bound upstairs to my quarters at La Villa Strangiato. It is a lovely room, appointed with a comfortable bed, small dresser, desk, and as many books as I could ever read. Some of these are ones I would have chosen for myself, others are unique to the Landlord, and the rest could have belonged to Love. Against the side of the bookcase leans my sword bag, my bogu propping it from the side so as not to slip on the smooth wooden floors. I strip down to my underwear, even discarding the bra I disdain. First on is the kimono style kendogi. Once deep indigo and crisp, it has been faded , and softened with three years of use, wash, repeat. I tie the inside, then the outer laces, mentally marking the beginning of a thread come loose that will need repair. Now for the hakama.
Strolling along in my hakama,
cross the street in my hakama,
swinging swords in my hakama,
our hippity hop hop hakama
Sampling Sugarhill in my mind, and reminded that Vanilla Ice would have been crucified for that shit, I step in to the largest pleated bell bottoms known to man or woman. It has always struck me as mildly comical, putting these on,and I can see my little bean rolling her hazel saucer eyes as I showed excitement for it. Straps and voluminous fabric and pleats (girls with little bellies never wear pleated pants), and to learn to tie it correctly and with confidence takes the better part of two years to be consistent with tension, location, and method. I’ve worn and seen petticoats with less grandeur and complexity, and the image of men of all sizes running around in petticoats has me laughing out loud to myself as I look in the mirror. And the laughter fades, as this is actually Japanese formal wear. Worn at weddings, funerals, and other traditional ceremonies, the deep rooted history and meaning of this garment is not one taken lightly.
Setting aside my cornball, I take a deep breath in, expanding my belly, and then let it out slowly to a natural resting place that is neither distended nor held in unnaturally. I learned this trick on my own, after one too many practice cinched up as if in a corset. My societal conditioning and shame filled upbringing had taught me to always suck in my belly to create the slimmest line for a sleek look. I had spent the better part of my life not breathing correctly, for there was always tension in my abdomen. This is part of me that I instinctively cover, and hold in with my arms when I am fatigued or stressed. No wonder I have had constant varying digestive issues, and a hard time processing emotions. During my twice daily meditation, when I breathe into my belly and follow it, it is as if there is a tight band just underneath my diaphragm. I hope that by understanding this, with a change in mindset, and deliberate practice of self-love, this tension will correct itself in time. Noting the distance of the hem from the floor, I set the center pleat fold underneath my navel, and wrap and tie the long himo. Placing the shoe horn duck bill inside of the center of the tie on my back (and not inside of my underwear this time – this is no crack filler), ensuring the koshi-ita is vertical, the shorter himo are tied in a square knot, and ends tucked back under the other straps. The method has always seemed hap-hazard as compared to the complex bow-tie in the Iaido fashion.
Squirrel.
I take a moment in the mirror to assess, smooth, straighten, align. Three years of practice in and out of the dojo has brought an unexpected perspective shift. Once, I felt wide and visible and large and exposed and awkward wearing this combination. Now, Sleek. Proportioned. Elegant. Dignified. I hear Arriga Sensei, or is it Yoda? Size matters not. Wakarimasu. Shomen-ni. Rei.
Facing south, seiza. First left, then right. The discomfort of both knees is from varying sources, but is not enough to complain about, just note. Tare. Do. In my haste, I did not bring tenegui, however a soft cotton pajama top works in a pinch. Men. Kote.
My snowsuit is complete.
Shinnai in hand, minus a piece of the dragonfly tsuba that was lost in transit, I slip my feet into boots, and head back outside. The Landlord is still there, admiring the Snowman. At the crunching of my boots, he turns, and laughs with a full belly as I have not ever heard. It is not a laugh of mocking – more of an awakening buddha. He created this just as much as I had. The realization has tears in his eyes, and not all from laughter.
I kick off my boots. Bare feet on snow is not for the faint of heart or weak minded. Today, all I see is my partner. I correct the stick position on the snowman so that it is facing upwards towards my throat. Issoku itto no maai, I bow, eyes up. I meet tip of shinnai to branch. I am calm, aware.
“Meeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!”
The snowman collapses straight down, leaving only the lower ball intact. Echo of my kiai is still in the air, and the Landlord’s expression is that of terror, understanding, respect, and obligation. I return to my starting position, bow, eyes up, turn and march back up the hillside. “Get your boots on!” he calls. I laugh, and carry them inside instead. He understands not that I can only feel the cold on my right foot, and I dare not tell him otherwise.
Returning to my quarters, I remove and lay out my now wet snowsuit, kendogi and hakama. Sugarhill stopped singing a while ago, but the beat still plays. Dressed, and now for the weather, I return outside to find the Landlord repairing the snowman. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he turns, his gray blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s okay. That’s enough for today.” He replies with a short nod, and together, we build Frosty back up.
“Not quite as tall.”
“No,” I reply. “We’ve always been the same size.”
The Landlord’s knee is feeling the cold, and I urge him to go inside. Taking a moment by myself, I straighten Frosty’s face, reset his eyes, nose and smile. I plant a small kiss on his forehead, just above his brow line.
Sensei. Rei.
There is a sudden absence of sound. Curtains. Finding beauty. Spring. Gods. Death. Strawberry Jake. Hilt Deep.
Blink.
A new day. A fresh layer of snow refreshes the ground that was cleared. Driveway duties complete, I walk down to visit Frosty. His nose fell off last night, but landed upside-down in the lower ball. I giggle, but quickly straighten myself. “That is undignified, Frosty, you are so much more than that,” putting his carrot back on his face. He looks a little beaten and tired. I kiss him again. doumo arigatou gozaimashita
I decide, he needs a companion. It is lonely out on this hill alone. After an hour of sweating, I roll up another, as tall as myself. His sections are round, and proportionately descending in size. He leans slightly to the left, with arms upraised. Eyes are rounded, smile is wide, carrot firm and fresh; the placement of these gives the impression that his head is tilted up to the sky. The Landlord finishes him off with a flower pot hat.
“That has to be the most perfect snowman I have ever seen in my life,” he declares. “Does he have a name?”
“Yeah. Snow Joe. But, I think I will call him ‘Gratitude’.”
I recall the first Tarot card that I drew personally while sitting in Doshikai, the whereabouts of which are unknown. It is an image of me, split down the middle – half violinist, half kendo player. My art is folk art, soft and feminine looking. The violinist is in a flowing gown, on a stage in front of many velvet lined seats. The Kendo player is on a wooden floor in a dojo. The Page of Wands.
“You, you are so special
You have the talent to make me feel like dirt
And you, you use your talent to dig me under
And cover me with dirt”
“Dirt” – Alice in Chains
I am a bisexual woman. I love men and prefer them, especially for long term relationships, I feel that the yin and yang just work really well. I have met three memorable women in my entire life, and only ever touched two of them. The women that make you quake and tremble in awe. The women that remind you of all the power and mystery of life, who are the embodiment of earth and the big bang. Powerful, magnificent, intelligent, creative, women. I have heard men say that this quaking power happens to them with many women. I wonder if the reverse is true for bisexual men who find those other rare men that make them turn to marmalade.
It was not until recently that I had the courage to really say this out loud. I’ve known it from a young age, however toxic shame kept it covered and buried deep within the bowels of my abdomen. I thought it was a monster, a demon. It kept me up at night. I was told I was dirty, I was worthless, I was sinful. I needed saving. I needed to repent. I was FOUR YEARS OLD. I fed it with food, alcohol, men, work, religion, everything I could to keep it asleep so it would not drag down my “perfect” life. Right. Perfectly miserable is more like it.
I thought that it was not right to have the ability to love or be in a relationship with either one of the sexes. I thought it made me perverse. I thought it made me impure and unholy. How could this be if I was made in the image of God? I think of other people in my life who are honest with themselves and those around, and how I support them. Why did I feel like I would not be supported or loved or accepted for who I am?
I am content with one partner. I am content married. I am content not married. It’s whatever works for me and the partner I am with, based upon a mutually agreed upon arrangement. If I intend to be in a committed relationship, and the agreement is that we are only for each other, then I am very content and happy.
By learning to be true to myself, I can be true with others and help others learn to share about themselves. I find healing in this, to help others heal, and become as beautiful as their creator sees them.
I am a warrior. I was born a warrior.
I have nothing to be ashamed of.
“My pain is self-chosen
At least I believe it to be
I could either drown
Or pull off my skin and swim to shore
Now I can grow a beautiful shell for all to see”
“River of Deceit” – Layne Stayley, Mad Season
Genesis 1:27 – So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.
“We come from the land of the ice and snow
From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow
The hammer of the gods
We’ll drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde, and sing and cry
Valhalla, I am coming!”
-Led Zeppelin, Immigrant (Toby’s) Song
“There is no set standard for what makes a warrior. You don’t have to be able to throw people over your shoulder or endure a fifty mile forced march. Being a warrior means living with courage and integrity, facing difficulties with dignity, and finding joy even in sorrow.” -Jennifer Lawler, Dojo Wisdom
“Put the oxygen mask on yourself first, then assist those around you.” -What’s her name, some airline, between somewhere over the rainbow and the dirty water.
Another day in the autumn of the shire. The misty mountains grow thick with with rising fog from the river valley, adding weight to the airy clouds above. Hanging in mid air, they neither move nor shift with the chill breeze on the hillside, giving the backdrop of this heaven slice an otherworldly appearance, as if to appear on a stage, hand-painted on canvas with 103 of its mates. Crisp morning air invigorating my already hyperactive nature, I plunge in headfirst, pulling a knit gray hat over my ears.
Not much raking or stick picking to be done today, I meander my way around the property to the berberis thunbergii. My thoughts return to the day before, high on maple pulling. I had found four woollybear caterpillars. Pyrrharctia isabella, or isabella tiger moth, is a farmer’s friend for predicting the oncoming winter weather. The little worms have 13 segments, either black or brown. One had 5 brown, the others 7 or 8. While there is not specific scientific data supporting the caterpillar’s ability to predict weather, only evidence to support that it reflects how long the former winter was. With the air getting colder by the day, it seems that it might be sooner rather than later that this impending cold season sets upon us for a long one. The landlord is taking measure of this poisonous betty, and I recognize the look of intent – take it out. In a flash, I return from the shed with barrow, shears, branch snips, axe, spade, garden shovel and two pairs of thick leather gloves. He clips, I trim and minimize, until the visible portion of the venomous berry is all but hidden from the road.
Aye, the stump. He looks, a bit dismayed, at the size and scope of this project, and starts with the axe into the center of the core. It’s a root ball, knotted and twisted with years of growth. We make no progress, the axe clunking in the middle of the gnarled knot of venomous wood. I suggest we take a softer route, unearthing it, rather than hacking it to pieces. An eyebrow raises in my direction, and I nod in return. Wrapping my gloved hands around the handle of the agricultural pick-axe, I sink one of the ends into the earth surrounding – it slides in with ease – and I pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull.
sinking, pulling, unearthing root
venomous invader of my soil
pervasive penetration, unearth
The song echoing in my ears as through the halls of Darrowdelf, it only stops with a thunk at the thick thread of root shoot. Inside, it is the color of bile, and the scent is worse. I breathe through my mouth to keep breakfast in, and swallow carefully. The contents of my stomach are NOT coming up today, I think, but this root is. I follow each offshoot patiently, careful to not break the vine-like meandering. The landlord is quick to just yank it out and be done and set it into the burn pile. He is of a different mind on the root – the same one that has been cursing the tulip tree to hurry up and drop it’s leaves, and wondering why the pin oak isn’t just following suit, going so far as to shake the branches to test the tactile strength of the petiole. Hatchet, axe, and saw is the answer, but sometimes old oaks need to hang out with the thorny red fruit to learn, and vice versa. I won’t let him hurt himself on this one. He might have allowed it to grow, but he was not the one who planted it here, and he was certainly not the one in denial of it’s existence as it matured. He just saw a red berried plant because that is all he was knew or was allowed to see.
Squirrel.
These roots run in every direction, as do my thoughts at any give moment. With each trowel of this gargantuan anchor, I rock the heart to and fro, discerning from the resistance which way to continue digging. Some roots are smaller and thinner, others are thicker than my thumb and run underneath the driveway, and are forked. This focking bush really wanted to live! I am going to need something with a little more oomph than an axe to get under the pavement. A few roots have snapped in the process, and the landlord has just about had it with my painstaking removal. He does not understand – his age, attention and memory are wearing on him this day. I stand up to stretch my back, and he grabs the root-ball and heaves up. One root left, and it snaps off. I elicit an audible “Fuck” and start digging. This one goes under the Chokeberry nearby, and is wrapped around one of it’s larger roots. The landlord grabs the spade, I tell him no. Let’s not hurt this other plant. Not any more than we have to. I dig, and start to unearth the root, he tells me to stand back, and cuts it with the spade as high up as the vile root goes. The red plant will heal, he says. It has stronger roots. He mentions that there is another stump that was from something similar in the back behind the garage.
Lead me to it, I say.
We haul the barrow full down to the burn pile, and heap it onto the ever growing pile, then back up the hill to this hideous ball, four times the size of the one in front. I can see that he is already weary, but my vigor of pulling out the first has me full of energy for the next. He obliges. This plant on the south side had grown so large, that the wind had blown it clear through the back window of the garage. With the garden spade, I carefully start removing dirt from around this dried stump. With it’s branches long since cut off, this heart was just drying up in the setting autumn sun, but it was nothing that melting snow and spring rains wouldn’t awaken. Dig. Toss. Dig. Toss. Shovelful after shovelful. Something starts screaming, starting from C1 through L4, tense, crushing, pulling, twisting. I grimace, but this is a look some have come to understand as, she’s overdone it again. Fuck, am I stubborn. The Landlord is kind, mentions that he has pretty much had it for one day (he means five or six), and as far as he was concerned it could wait until spring when he could hook up the lawn mower to it with a chain and pull it down the hill. Some ice and snow may just be what is needed to get this now dormant root to wither and shrivel.
I oblige.
The next morning, I awake to two inches of snow covering the landscape. I can barely see the party tree, much less the hillside of the Proudfoots, Hornblowers, Maggots or Hoggs. Thank you, Jesus! The landlord states he is getting too old for this shit, but I giggle and stuff my still broken foot into my shoe. I go outside with sleepy hair to check on the rosebush. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Buds are glistening with ice even in the morning overcast, and the open flowers are frosted in crystals, but still pliant and supple inside, deep dark red as freshly drawn blood. I give the fullest blossom an eskimo kiss, parting the petals with my nose, and it kisses back, velvety and sweet. Ah, you are gorgeous, dear flower. Your scent will fill my sinuses all day. I catch the pile out of the corner of my eye that we left behind the garage. The mound looks like chocolate cake mix covered with icing, but I know better. Nothing more I can do today, except shovel off the walkways and make sure no one slips. That’s okay, I love the cold. I can go outside in below zero temperatures without a jacket, even if the clouds are covering the sun, and still smile and be happy. I think again of the woollybears that I had nestled under leaves and at the bottoms of trees. I hope they are alseep. Next year’s crop will produce nearly all brown bears.
It’s gonna be a doosie. Hold my beer.
“Winter is Coming” – Ned Stark
“And ride with us young bonny lass
With the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite
On an out-size unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight
On a cold wind to Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Breakfast with the gods. Night angels serve
With ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve
In a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve
And light the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs
Of Thor’s trusty hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
‘We’re getting a bit short on heroes lately.’
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes
In the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens ride
Empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.”
“The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist” – Robert Jordan
Call it recycling, call it born again, believing in past lives, or travelling around the universe with the same group of souls over and over again, unless you are anti-theist and believe it’s a one and done deal, most folks out there believe in the circle of life. Acceptance of one of these belief systems is a coping mechanism of the human mind, as we try to understand the infinite in what to our perspective can only be finite because it is measured. By what, you say? Time. We call it a lifespan. We’re conceived, shot out of a vagina, fed, shit, are shat upon, grow up, shit on others, and we die shitting ourselves. If we are lucky, we find those brief glimmers of life where it isn’t all shit, and there is something to believe in.
Like, the Gargoyle Room.
The Gargoyle Room was the dream child of my Love and I. He wanted a bar, I wanted an event venue. We compromised and got creative. He pointed out the obstacle of remodeling this basement room in an old Masonic Temple, considering the organization we were working for would not release funds (that were available, mind you) for such remedial tasks as modernization and code compliance. We would need to install a three station sink, serve some sort of food, have code compliant ice machines, and the list went on. So I said, well, we can still have an event venue, so let’s run an event every single night of the week. People show, great! If not, no harm done. Want to have a Record Good Time and spin some vinyl? Go for it. Want to show off your talents on stage? We’re open to that. We even had an improv group entitled “Playing on Orange Couches”, named for the repurposed 1960’s burnt orange sofas, loveseats, and chairs that filled the eclectically designed space . We had great music events, open mic, and karaoke. This was a child born out of love and creativity that I sank all of the goodness and kindness and heartfelt will and intent that I ever had. It was borne out of pure intention, for people of the heart of America to have a place that they could go to that was not a skank-a-way, or a red light meet up. This was something for the pure of heart, meant to imbue and inspire the hearts of creatives and lost souls. Even the custom cocktails that were served were meant to honor the Masons who came before, and who had chosen to donate the building to us. The Salina Blue Iced Tea was a legend in and of itself. M&M, I have not forgotten you.
No event had the impact, though, like Paint a Ceiling Tile Night.
When I first met Love he introduced me to the Tarot and Jungian psychology. It was not in the way that you might think, but that story is for him and him only, not for this audience. I learned that the Tarot was not a way of telling someone’s fortune, but rather it was a mirror that we could look at and help us discern the truth about what is on our hearts. The Medieval Scapini deck is rich in symbolism and each card has many things to look at. What I started to realize is that I saw something different on each card every time I looked at it. That depending on the condition of my heart, I might be seeing symbols for life, or arrogance, or innocence, or hunger, of danger or true love, and it could be different every time I looked at the card as to what jumped out at me. Anyone who tells you that they can give you a reading, Love says, is only doing it for entertainment value. What I learned though, is that when he gave a reading, he was really speaking of the symbols that he saw and was projecting his intent.
So, back to the ceiling tiles. I had this idea as I was getting a cat scan for something or other at the hospital. Above me were ceiling tiles and the panels that covered the lights were translucent, with a static cling sky and cloud scene. It was magical to look up, at what could have just as easily been left a harsh florescent bulb, and find this serene peaceful cloud scene. Clouds have always brought me comfort, which is another story for another time. But I remember mentioning this to Love and him thinking it was a great idea. He wanted to start by having some tiles done, so that it would give some inspiration to the room (fake it till you make it works in business), and suggested painting the 21 major Arcana in the tarot deck. We got right down to it, soliciting some help from friends, volunteers, and even the foundation director. One lovely lady traced, some others painted, others made a downright mess. Some obvious takers decided not to be involved. Love painted the Magician. He always fancied himself a wizard and as we were in a palace in the middle of nowhere Kansas, it seemed the perfect choice for him. The director chose the Star. A good friend, The Fool. As these were non-descript vague tarot cards, unless you truly understood the intent behind the card, it was hard to understand from the symbolism what you were choosing – the simplicity in these designs led for creative license, and opportunity to explore and express yourself.
The first one that I chose had a wheel that looked like a ship’s steering wheel, with a pharaoh in the center. Two serpents flanked the wheel on the top and bottom of the card, number 10 in the series. I only recently learned that this card is the Wheel of Fortune. I took special interest in painting this tile, working to create a clear colorful image. I filled in all of the outlined forms, and when satisfied with the result, created a background not on the original card – diamond shaped blue and green tiles, I worked for several days, coming back to it to make sure that each tile had light and balance of color and shading.
The next tile I chose was The Lovers. Again, in a simple non-descript design, a male and female figure, with a tree growing betwixt. This one I painted darkly, black and red and dark blue sky behind. Inside each of the lovers I created a heart, but each heart was surrounded by the black exterior. As for the Tarot, these were the last that I finished, however I painted two others – one, a lollipop and lips, and another a field of varying size circles turned into water droplets, again with the same green and blue motif of the Fortune Wheel. I never got the chance to finish this one. It was painstaking to make, but I wanted to make certain that the final product was the very best I could produced.
Curious this all is as it relates to the tarot, and why I chose the cards that I did, and what the meaning was behind my art. Because, all art has meaning. I remember explaining my view of art to Love early on, with all sincerity. And I quote “To explore one’s creativity is to touch the divine, and to deeply experience the work of another deepens our humanity.” So the lollipop? Lol, a little fun I had on a broomstick, maybe not the most loving kind thing in the world I have done, but it sure was great retribution for Colfax (another story on its way, I promise!), and was an act of empowerment, as I turn men to jelly with a lollipop, with a lollipop, with a lollipop, and without even trying to be seductive. But when I try, they lick their lips in spite of themselves, and cruel women quake and beg for forgiveness and kindness as I hand them their own trash. Some women do it with a banana flavor taffy- whatever, you cannot account for Love’s taste or tact or lack of class or decency or even discretion. At least someone found a conscience there, and is already forgiven a thousandfold.
The second tile of circles partially finished, these are water droplets, reflecting the tiles of the Wheel of Fortune. I have no idea when the tears will stop falling, for they seem to be in endless supply. I have no idea when the loss of Love or who I thought Love was will end. I have no way of knowing if all of these tears are only my own, reflected in this pool. I have no way of knowing even if I was told, for I mind what people do over what they say. I Hope they understand what the last orange actions bespoke of intent. Actions speak louder than words. All we have is time.
I see you.
Glinda was the Good Witch of the North. Glinda was never given a whole lot of credit, but she deserves it. Those Red Ruby Slippers were never magic to begin with. The power was within Dorothy to return home whenever she so chose. But, that’s another story. I was asked early on if I was a good witch or a bad witch. I chose good. I still do. Chaotic positive. Roll the bones. Come out from behind your curtain, Wizard. I see your feet.
“We don’t have to talk. We don’t even have to touch. I can feel your presence in the silence that we share. Nothing changes faster than the speed of love. My heart goes out to you.” -Neil Peart
Matthew 18:21-22
Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.
Luke 17:3-4
So watch yourselves. “If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them.
Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.
A Walk In Neverland 