As a lover of structure and order and answers, I wish I could pinpoint the second it all began.
Perhaps
it was when I first came across your photographs and captions. Their
thoughtful selection betrayed an urgent wistfulness I was convinced was
visible only to me.
Or maybe it was before we even met. You were tugging
on me years ago, back when I first realized it was time to leave him
and start over.
Maybe it was reading the list of things you
couldn't live without and knowing I could easily ensure your survival by
providing an endless array of good Japanese knives and a life replete
with serendipity.
I guess it could have been later too. After I
told you on the sidewalk that I would never get on a motorcycle with a
stranger. Or later, after the homeless man in the gas station assured me
that you were a keeper. Or later, after you grimaced the first time I
experimentally called you my boyfriend.
Or yesterday, when I realized (again) that I need space and need you, both at the same time.
Of
course, it's entirely possible that the answer doesn't exist. That
there is a missing piece out there somewhere with the potential to elucidate not only
how and when our universe - yours and mine - began but by extension how
it works and how the most elemental pieces of us fit together.
It
would interpret why the currently abstract matter that constitutes our
relationship actually has mass. And how it, combined with gravity, gives
weight to what we are inadvertently building.
Maybe some day in this lifetime we will find it, and it will explain everything.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Loss
He saves everything. The proud way his parents looked at him when he took his first steps. His school uniform, the notes he wrote to others in class while the teacher wasn’t looking. That box filled with old photographs, the sweater that belonged to his brother, his first love letter, the locket and the secret that it held. Later, records of every business card he ever received, unfinished plans, old formulas, proposals, even if they never saw the light of day.
She throws everything out. She doesn’t take pictures, and what others take she rarely looks at. She gives books away after reading them, scribbles in notebooks she disposes of once the pages are full. His past is his treasure. Her life is a strong, clear line that does not look back and is scrubbed clean of the memories he finds solace in replaying before falling asleep. She has difficulty keeping friends. She does not attach meaning to objects; favors clean surfaces and empty spaces over buying a quilt that will remind her of that trip she took, back when everything was different to the way things are now. She does not believe in souvenirs.
They are the same, you see. He, terrified of losing something that was once his, if only for a moment, holds on to everything; she, convinced she can’t lose what she doesn’t have, holds on to nothing.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The antidote
To an empty refrigerator
A spacious bed
A spacious bed
A clean floor
To having all the time in the world
To every matter I ever closed
Or gave up on
To every absolute
(Almost)
And prediction
Assumption
Preference
To habit
Ennui
Déjà vu
To independence
And carrying my own suitcase
To brittle promises
Existential questions
To nightmares
To suspicion
To forgetting
To remembering
To leaving early
To reason
Moderation
To stale dreams I forgot what box I put in
To sensible shoes
To having all the time in the world
To every matter I ever closed
Or gave up on
To every absolute
(Almost)
And prediction
Assumption
Preference
To habit
Ennui
Déjà vu
To independence
And carrying my own suitcase
To brittle promises
Existential questions
To nightmares
To suspicion
To forgetting
To remembering
To leaving early
To reason
Moderation
To stale dreams I forgot what box I put in
To sensible shoes
Gloveless hands
Pulled-back hairTo the right time and the right place
To every day feeling like Wednesday
You are the antidote
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Morning light
What she wants is someone she can count on.
She dismisses the thought. She's vowed to count only on herself, to be nothing less than utterly independent. To never again be a burden on the person that she loves.
He wants to take care of her. He has to be cautious, though. Of not presuming too much, not being invasive, not transgressing on the tacit boundaries he imagines she has delineated. Of being better this time at preserving the careful balance of the life he has created for himself.
She dismisses the thought. She's vowed to count only on herself, to be nothing less than utterly independent. To never again be a burden on the person that she loves.
He wants to take care of her. He has to be cautious, though. Of not presuming too much, not being invasive, not transgressing on the tacit boundaries he imagines she has delineated. Of being better this time at preserving the careful balance of the life he has created for himself.
So she does things without him. It's the smallest of these she most wishes she could share. Here. Taste this, how just-right the ratio milk/coffee/sugar is. Look at the view in this rosy light. Look at the long shadows of fall.
She's standing by the window, quietly sipping from the cup he just handed her. He wonders if he finally got her coffee right. If she sees how beautiful this city that could be theirs looks in the light of early morning.
I'd like to be a part of her life, he thinks as he leaves. But she doesn't need anybody.
She's standing by the window, quietly sipping from the cup he just handed her. He wonders if he finally got her coffee right. If she sees how beautiful this city that could be theirs looks in the light of early morning.
I'd like to be a part of her life, he thinks as he leaves. But she doesn't need anybody.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Don't look back
You think it's because
I'm quick to move on to other things
My gait along the sidewalk strong, determined.
If you only knew.
I treasure believing you want to look at me for as long as possible.
I am certain I feel your eyes on the back of my neck
As I walk away.
I don't turn around because I couldn't bear to be disappointed.
As I walk away.
I don't turn around because I couldn't bear to be disappointed.
To twist and find instead your back to me
Your strong, determined gait far along the sidewalk
And realize that so quickly
You've moved on to other things.
Monday, February 6, 2012
The seed
The photo you see above is the seed of a redwood tree. Sequoia Sempervirens. It's nothing short of a miracle. A minuscule, hard, unassuming package that contains - not the potential - (such a tired word, bland promise, assumption that weighs the recipient down with a vague sense of having to do something grand, but what?) but the ingredients (affirmative, inarguable, scientific, like chemistry) - needed to become one of the most majestic forms of life on the planet.
Have you ever visited a redwood tree grove? It's a religious experience, vast and peaceful, a thousand times more powerful than the most impressive man-made cathedral (with my respectful apologies to St. Peter’s Basilica.)
Have you ever visited a redwood tree grove? It's a religious experience, vast and peaceful, a thousand times more powerful than the most impressive man-made cathedral (with my respectful apologies to St. Peter’s Basilica.)
Redwoods are the largest organism the world has ever sustained. They are so big that when you stand up against one, hug it (do it) and look up, it blocks out the sky.
The seed of a redwood tree does not sprout easily. It needs a combination of very specific conditions. All of what you would expect: nutrient-rich soil, and water, and humidity. But here is the astonishing thing: a redwood seed cannot germinate without fire.
It works more or less like this: nature makes certain that sooner or later, fire sweeps through a forest. Redwood trees tend to survive it because their thick, moist, textured bark is rich in tannins, which are burn resistant and protect the redwood. The fire clears the space (by burning everything around the redwood), allowing sunlight to reach the seed. Everything the fire burned turns to an ashy mulch, which provides nutrients to the soil. And, now, for the Pièce de résistance: The very life of the fire, its heat, cracks open the otherwise impenetrable shell of the seed.
And there you have it: previously dormant, this seed is free to become what it was meant to.
Despite their remarkable resistance to fire, redwoods can be fragile. They're often covered in (burn) scars (which I suppose add character). They hate the cold. But, a redwood can survive in places too dark for any other tree. In deep shade, it doesn’t die. It waits. Once hit by light, a primal command tells it what to do. It sprints for the sun, growing up to two feet per year.
A redwood tree is so much more than what you see, even if what you see is nearly overwhelming in its splendor and dignity. It's actually a vertical universe (Richard Preston, in his magical book The Wild Trees, calls it a vertical Eden.) These trees, that predate most human monuments, have a kingdom of plants and animals living in their branches, lichens and ferns and salamanders that cannot be found in any other ecosystem. In Preston’s words “Their mysterious canopies are rich with hanging gardens, blackened chambers hollowed by fire, and vast, aerial trunk systems fused into bridges and towers”.
The purpose implicit in the seed of the redwood is not just a redwood tree, but a glistening green planet teaming with life in its endless combinations.
What is my point here? My point is that we each have a similar kernel of divinity, indestructible and perfect, within each of us. That its magic branches out into everything we set out to build: our lives, our relationships and families and careers. This force inside all of us could be dormant, waiting for the right conditions to unfurl into something so extraordinary that it would be impossible to grasp or even begin to understand.
But it’s there. In you. In me. You just wait and see.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Changing
I grounded terrestrial logical overachiever dependable a loner a planner sole master of my fate haven’t seen her in so long this girl her bare feet secret diaries her free-fall eternal possibly calamitous her reverse swandive/skydive (not to fall but to fly) outlookless
Her vigor carnal adolescent irrational social inventive un-analytical she is unafraid chaotic kinetic keeps me up with her incessant dreaming wants to move to a fragrant country has taken up praying
I hope she stays a while
(Photo: realsimple.com)
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