"Adopt the pace of nature.

Her secret is patience."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

simple lovelies

Picking out a new friend when two of your best friends just moved out together.

lighting incense.

writing a little blog, even if it's kind of feast or famine-y.

Happy tea in my kitschy little mug.

reading poetry (Marcie, this is a book I got that day we went to that estate sale(s).

leaning

I am leaning, and I don't know into what.

I used to see my whole future- the entire thing. I knew all of the boxes of which I would be checking, I knew them by heart; I had been planning them for years. I wrapped these plans carefully and clung to them white knuckled, riding out the lonely times of my past on these childhood dreams. I wouldn't repeat those mistakes- ever. I wouldn't lose my footing for love- ever. I wouldn't be vulnerable like that- ever.

And there I was, vulnerable anyways.

That crystal ball? Rouse. Selecting the details of my life carefully out of a catalog? Limiting. Vulnerable? Oh yes- this whole time. A newish feeling for someone like me to actually feel, though vulnerable I've always been. I find it to be paradoxical in nature, like a black and white drawing. Black defines white. White defines black. Vulnerability defines living. Living defines vulnerability. B is moving today, and it is a step forward. Seven years of looking for Home with one another, and we are off to separate houses. It's not so much that he is moving that makes me shake; the fear is in what comes next, a different kind of life. So far, it seems my objective had been to avoid pain...

Leaning. Into my bliss? Yes, but I can only see the very next step in this game. I have no boxes to check off, and I don't know where I'm going. God, I can actually feel it, through my chest, my stomach. It's raining, and I can't see ahead of me, but I smell something like spring, and I think I'll stick around for the new life, for the harvest. How long have I been swimming upstream, I wonder? Tired, yes. Will it be liberating to let go, to let the currents take me? Will it be terrifying? Will I get hurt? What will I find?

"Well," said Pooh, "we keep looking for Home and not finding it, so I thought that if we looked for this Pit, we'd be sure not to find it, which would be a Good Thing, because then we might find something that we weren't looking for, which might be just what we were looking for, really." -quoted from The Tao of Pooh

good morning, neighbor.

(periphery)

It is finally growing warm enough to spend my mornings outside, as I love to do. Well I wouldn't call it warm, but with a giant sweatshirt and a cup of chamomile tea, it's doable for someone even as wimpy as me. Preston digs his nose into my legs, hiding himself under the table from the rambunctiousness of Fool 1 and Fool 2, who sprint in constant combat across the bricks. We are full on ghettoasis this morning; the bird songs, towering trees and sounds from the waterfall below could almost fool me into believing that the waterfall isn't made of urban litter (which I am not moving- love my trash waterfall!), that there aren't a couple of no-tell motels within walking distance. I love the contrasts. I love it here.

B loves the Cliff, too; but he doesn't love this particular neighborhood as I do. With no interest in the house, he is moving to another Cliffborhood. It is frightening, yes, the fact that he is finally leaving. I can feel one foot out of my comfort zone, and I feel quite naked. We have known this was coming for much longer than we have outed ourselves, and we kind of knew for much longer than even that. We are both peaceful and compassionate towards one another in this, and in that peace, we find our confidence that this is our best next step.

It is hard to explain to others why getting divorced is a step forward, mostly because it seems an unconventional line of thought to many. People who know us well know that we love to spend time together and that we rarely fight. They know that Bruce was wonderful to me when I was very sick, and that for a long time woke up an hour early every morning to make massive amounts of green juice to help me get better. They know I helped him through his mom's lymphoma last spring; they know he then helped me through my mom's lymphoma later that spring. They know we practice transcendental meditation together and go to one another for spiritual advice.

In spite of all of this, we feel like we have outgrown our time with one another as a married couple, that keeping our relationship in this capacity isn't best for us. Of course, there is always more; yet, even the unspoken "mores" don't really warrant being typed into words, because the point is we aren't thriving like this, and it is no one's fault. Does that make it a mistake? Not for me; I would do it exactly like this again. It has been a wonderful seven years of safety and stability, which I know I needed and will always be grateful for. Do I think I'll get married again? Well, I've learned to try not to say never, but I don't think so. I have questioned whether marriage was the right path for me for years, and I do think I needed to get married in order to have those intuitions confirmed. I may be with someone again; but, a forever promise just doesn't feel right. If forever happens, that would probably be lovely; but then, after the dust settles, most everything seems lovely anyways.

I remember learning about the Buddhist concept of impermanence from Lori when she was working brilliantly through reorganizing her life post-cancer. I recall reflecting on how special B was too me- How could it be that we are transient bubbles on a stream, no more connected to one another for eternity than any other two particular bubbles? How could it be that we could pop out of existence as individuals who felt so much compassion and connection for eachother, and just be water, sameness, perhaps even other bubbles down the stream? I still don't have an answer, but I've developed a haunch that our path is to follow our bliss, to float down stream; and maybe that the love and connections we find on that path are a reflection of the sameness and compassion that is core to the relationship that we all share...That the love we feel between two people is one of the greatest hints of all time, an analogy.

imprecision

Sometimes I think I have typed and writtten into journals SO MANY words, I mean, so many f****** words...trying to describe feelings and energies and gratitudes, and that what i will come to find is that there are no words, no piecemeal of phonemes carefully assembled -as much as i love them- that resonate at the precise level of any perception whatsoever. We can try, and it can be beautiful, but it will always just be an analogy.

the relativity of perception...the precision of essense

Reminds me, once again, of my favorite poem:

Persimmons

BY LI-YOUNG LEE

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker

slapped the back of my head

and made me stand in the corner

for not knowing the difference

between persimmon and precision.

How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.

Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.

Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one

will be fragrant. How to eat:

put the knife away, lay down newspaper.

Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.

Chew the skin, suck it,

and swallow. Now, eat

the meat of the fruit,

so sweet,

all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.

In the yard, dewy and shivering

with crickets, we lie naked,

face-up, face-down.

I teach her Chinese.

Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.

Naked: I’ve forgotten.

Ni, wo: you and me.

I part her legs,

remember to tell her

she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words

that got me into trouble were

fight and fright, wren and yarn.

Fight was what I did when I was frightened,

Fright was what I felt when I was fighting.

Wrens are small, plain birds,

yarn is what one knits with.

Wrens are soft as yarn.

My mother made birds out of yarn.

I loved to watch her tie the stuff;

a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class

and cut it up

so everyone could taste

a Chinese apple. Knowing

it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat

but watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun

inside, something golden, glowing,

warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,

forgotten and not yet ripe.

I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,

where each morning a cardinal

sang, The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding

he was going blind,

my father sat up all one night

waiting for a song, a ghost.

I gave him the persimmons,

swelled, heavy as sadness,

and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting

of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking

for something I lost.

My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,

black cane between his knees,

hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He’s so happy that I’ve come home.

I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.

All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find a box.

Inside the box I find three scrolls.

I sit beside him and untie

three paintings by my father:

Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.

Two cats preening.

Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,

asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,

the strength, the tense

precision in the wrist.

I painted them hundreds of times

eyes closed. These I painted blind.

Some things never leave a person:

scent of the hair of one you love,

the texture of persimmons,

in your palm, the ripe weight.

heaven unnoticed?

"Most people are so busy making improvements; they don't notice they just stepped out of heaven." Byron Katie

there is a lot number on my birth certificate.

(entry way of my "Cuban Family's" home)

True story. In the same genre, my mom and I used to have one tv which made the picture. On top of it? That's right: the tv with the sound. Sometimes we had to hit the bottom one just a little bit. This is a life skill I've taken into my profession.

6 year old: "The stapler is broke again."

me: "Did you try hitting it just a little bit?"

You know what is really comical, though? I used to think I was poor; I really thought that. I thought I was poor because we had thrift store Christmases sometimes. I thought I was poor because I was one of the few kids who had the special free lunch ticket. We lived in a trailer, and when we didn't, we were moving all the time. Didn't get braces. Went to the sliding scale clinic. I thought I was poor. I was poor, and others around me were rich.

Somehow, I reveled in this, starting pretty young. Our minds will do what they can to organize social ambiguity into something seemingly emotionally reliable. Pride. I felt proud not to care I was "poor," to be brave enough to invite my friends from beautiful homes into my little trailer. A humility which was it's own form of arrogance, somehow; I reveled in our differentness.

(happy accident in the ghettoasis)

My identification, my egoic hat if you will, hanging carefully on the hook of the deeper things in life, or so I thought. One more illusory division, or really, a failure to accept the illusory nature of our differences...whether I shop at a thrift store, or you have hair extensions...whether I read Vonnegut, or you read magazines...whether you volunteer your time with children, and I spend my time on myself...We are made of the same stuff. Somehow, I the best description I have for said stuff is: compassion. Peel the onion. Peel it. There is no core; that is a myth. Inside, is emptyness...pure potential...sameness....love.

I didn't always know this. I thought I did. Peel on, another layer. Lose count. The futility of being careful. Shed tear; the stinging, cleansing inevitability.

And then I met Invalvis, one lovely day in Havana. With her, once again, I met my own naivety.

More to come...

p.s. Then, I did not know this. And even knowing it now isn't enough; I feel this internal drive to see it, live amongst it. It just is.