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Miracle Signs
Mar. 31st, 2010 04:14 pmI have been given such precious things in the last week. My life is composed of nothing but stories, and I do not want to lose these stories. These are my guides when next I travel through darkness. These are the seeds of my rebirth.
The other night I was lying in bed with him and he was touching my tattoo. He asked if there was a story behind it. I told him there was, and I paused-- it is an awkward story to tell. After a little bit I told it to him, and as I did the poet's curve of his fingers stayed tracing those lines, and even afterwards he did not move his hand. Sometimes when my defenses are assaulted I can hear things shattering, but this time it was as easy and uneventful as tearing wet kleenex. I said, "when I tell that to you and you keep touching it, I feel loved."
He didn't pull his hand back. He smiled.
***
The other night I was walking down Broadway with him after an evening of catching up. I had learned that he had been a permaculturalist, but shelved it to pursue other interests-- I'm not sure you *can* shelve being a real permaculturalist, but I will admit to the possibility. He is always very correct, very proper in his speech patterns-- a British private school accent would not be out of place on him. "...I really really like you," he ended, "and love is just really really liking someone, right?"
"You're squirming!" I accused him, "verbally squirming!"
He looked off to one side as we walked, and he was smiling.
***
There are roots, as well:
The other night I was lying on his bed with him and he turned away, curling into a fetal position as he cried. I reached out my hand for him and he turned into me, letting me hold him, letting me pet his face as if I had always been there. His cheekbones felt just like they had four years ago.
The next day we spent the day together and we were children and co-conspirators, poking and writing notes and making faces at each other all day. When I peed he held my stuff. We split a second helping of lunch. We shared the ride partway home. When I got off the bus and looked back at him, already busy with his phone, he was smiling.
***
My life has always been a cycle, a pattern of death and of rebirth. It's slowed some lately, and as anyone who lives around here knows, we didn't really have a winter this year. Spring started after fall and it's gone on and on and on. You know why it's a really bad aphid year outside? It's because there was no snow to kill them off (and because last year it was cold enough to wreak havoc with predators, but that doesn't forward my metaphor).
My life is so full right now. It's past brimming over; there is so much light and love in my life that it has burst through my skin, and it's blinding me and choking my breath. I don't know what to do with it; I don't eat much, I don't sleep much, and I can't settle. The veil feels thin and sometimes I feel I might start crying any moment, or my chest might burst open, or I might ascend or transcend or whatever it is that people do when holiness devours your soul.
And in the midst of this (very gentle) storm, I am a person still. I go to work and push my bucket around, I tend the plants, and I think about how nearly everyone I loved has come as an invader, because left to my own devices I wall up so tight that I forget that other people even exist as anything other than cyphers to react to when there's no other choice. I think about how long it's been since anyone's walked along that field just inside the walls, I picture the new footprints in rich brown soil there, with the spring light slanting low-angled to cast shadows in the heelprints. I imagine a sculpture made from pencils as bones and gears as joints: a pair of hands formed into a heart shape and within them a real heart beating. I picture myself as that field and warm rain falling and getting swallowed up without pause. I think of the thousand hiding places of idealism and it breaks my heart.
It's time for the cycle again. It's time to walk back out of the sunshine, to traverse the dusty dark places in my soul, to surrender what I have that is so much more than what I can carry easily, and time to leave myself free to take what comes. Things always do come. Joy always does come. Love always does come. So does grief, so does darkness: these come to all of us. This is being human.
And this weekend I'm going somewhere that facilitates this cycle. I'm going somewhere where I can ride all the way down. I expect to cry all weekend and come back renewed, although who can know anything about the future?
And when I come back, my life will be waiting. I can do nothing but come back eagerly.
I have been given nothing but gifts.
The other night I was lying in bed with him and he was touching my tattoo. He asked if there was a story behind it. I told him there was, and I paused-- it is an awkward story to tell. After a little bit I told it to him, and as I did the poet's curve of his fingers stayed tracing those lines, and even afterwards he did not move his hand. Sometimes when my defenses are assaulted I can hear things shattering, but this time it was as easy and uneventful as tearing wet kleenex. I said, "when I tell that to you and you keep touching it, I feel loved."
He didn't pull his hand back. He smiled.
***
The other night I was walking down Broadway with him after an evening of catching up. I had learned that he had been a permaculturalist, but shelved it to pursue other interests-- I'm not sure you *can* shelve being a real permaculturalist, but I will admit to the possibility. He is always very correct, very proper in his speech patterns-- a British private school accent would not be out of place on him. "...I really really like you," he ended, "and love is just really really liking someone, right?"
"You're squirming!" I accused him, "verbally squirming!"
He looked off to one side as we walked, and he was smiling.
***
There are roots, as well:
The other night I was lying on his bed with him and he turned away, curling into a fetal position as he cried. I reached out my hand for him and he turned into me, letting me hold him, letting me pet his face as if I had always been there. His cheekbones felt just like they had four years ago.
The next day we spent the day together and we were children and co-conspirators, poking and writing notes and making faces at each other all day. When I peed he held my stuff. We split a second helping of lunch. We shared the ride partway home. When I got off the bus and looked back at him, already busy with his phone, he was smiling.
***
My life has always been a cycle, a pattern of death and of rebirth. It's slowed some lately, and as anyone who lives around here knows, we didn't really have a winter this year. Spring started after fall and it's gone on and on and on. You know why it's a really bad aphid year outside? It's because there was no snow to kill them off (and because last year it was cold enough to wreak havoc with predators, but that doesn't forward my metaphor).
My life is so full right now. It's past brimming over; there is so much light and love in my life that it has burst through my skin, and it's blinding me and choking my breath. I don't know what to do with it; I don't eat much, I don't sleep much, and I can't settle. The veil feels thin and sometimes I feel I might start crying any moment, or my chest might burst open, or I might ascend or transcend or whatever it is that people do when holiness devours your soul.
And in the midst of this (very gentle) storm, I am a person still. I go to work and push my bucket around, I tend the plants, and I think about how nearly everyone I loved has come as an invader, because left to my own devices I wall up so tight that I forget that other people even exist as anything other than cyphers to react to when there's no other choice. I think about how long it's been since anyone's walked along that field just inside the walls, I picture the new footprints in rich brown soil there, with the spring light slanting low-angled to cast shadows in the heelprints. I imagine a sculpture made from pencils as bones and gears as joints: a pair of hands formed into a heart shape and within them a real heart beating. I picture myself as that field and warm rain falling and getting swallowed up without pause. I think of the thousand hiding places of idealism and it breaks my heart.
It's time for the cycle again. It's time to walk back out of the sunshine, to traverse the dusty dark places in my soul, to surrender what I have that is so much more than what I can carry easily, and time to leave myself free to take what comes. Things always do come. Joy always does come. Love always does come. So does grief, so does darkness: these come to all of us. This is being human.
And this weekend I'm going somewhere that facilitates this cycle. I'm going somewhere where I can ride all the way down. I expect to cry all weekend and come back renewed, although who can know anything about the future?
And when I come back, my life will be waiting. I can do nothing but come back eagerly.
I have been given nothing but gifts.
