never stops.

the fun, that is. tomorrow dodge starts. my head is feeling better, like it has a slipper in it and not a construction worker's muddy boot.

i've you haven't got the picture of what dodge is, let me break it down for you:

three fourteen hour days and one eight hour day of poetry. some music and a bit o' storytelling (poetry's closest cousin). so from 8am to 10pm, thursday through saturday, i'll be sipping that sweet nectar.

my girl will be in tow the first two days. a young aspiring poet at such an event is pretty cool. though she might not call herself an aspiring poet, sometimes it is easier for others to see what we are than we ourselves, right?

bly will be there, doing that rumi crap as the matriarch says. i dig hafiz so, i'm looking forward to hearing bly's rumi.

i'm also taking the time to do the women's poetry sessions. women and poetry, women in praise of the sacred.

there will be open mics each day, and i hope to make it to a couple on saturday and sunday. there i can read my stuff that is too, um, edgy for the church crowd. there i can read the stuff i'm really writing now. we'll see how it goes. if i even get the chance.

i can't even imagine what it will be like. i'm so excited. but i'm also trying to get better and not think too much about it. just focusing on getting well.

if you'll be there, i'll be at the poetry center table on poetry row thursday and friday on and off. do say hello. saturday, i'll be wafting around from one flower to the next drunk on words.

loving you.

it doesn't take a genius to figure i'd get sick being perched on rocks in wafting skirts and flip flops in the snow. so i spent the better part of yesterday in a medicated sleep. but a conversation i had over the weekend brooded over me.

worship as art is a precarious thing. i've only taken the peformance role three times now and it doesn't seem to be getting any easier. i trust, that if the Lord would have me dance it will all work out.

judith took my coffee captive, and bade me go where i would not. to sessions. i followed her and all ends well, i got to dance for the close of the session. those three minutes nearly killed me. my lungs felt like they got gridlock and my throat couldn't open fast enough to suck in the air.

i exited the room before the dance ended because i don't like to be there for the kindly remarks afterward. (i feel the same about when i read poetry. i just leave.)

so i manage to avoid people, because i just don't know what to say when they tell me whatever it is they want to tell me about the dance. by dinner time, i'm feeling myself again.

so i sit at the feet of a female poet. who looks at me and says,

i loved watching you dance.

thank you.


i could see your soul. and i loved watching every move you made. i don't even know you, but i love you.

her eyes were welling up as she spoke. she continued,

i thought, i should be worshipping, but love is worship. so i just loved you as you danced. you must have studied.

i've had no formal training.

you must have absorbed it from watching others then?

no, i don't watch others dance.

then your intuitive dance is beautiful. your lines just flow. some of your moves are those of trained dancers.

i just smiled and listened. i've never really had anyone say these kinds of things to me in real time, face to face. it felt like a God moment.

like He was looking back at me and saying,

daughter, i love watching you dance.

the good reverend greysquirrel

the first thing i did when i arrived at st. malo, was climb the mountain (or hill) behind the retreat center. i splayed myself out like a lizard across an obliging rock, and listened to nothing.

yellow, golden, amber, pomegranate aspens were waving in the breeze around me. it was so silent, i could hear the clapping of the aspens in the breeze. the rattle of their leaves to the wind. i would have stayed there forever, perched on that rock, if i could.

but since i could hear the hum of the a/c kicking on, i went higher.

snow flurries began on the road up, so i was being painted with beauty the entire time.

now at the peak of the mountain (hill), i found yet another obliging rock whose contours fit mine. i splay out in the other direction with arms outstretched looking up to the crystal blue sky, which was being overrun by clouds. the bare brown mountain peak just beyond approved of my presence.

nothing. absolute silence. there i stayed for about an hour. snow flurries descending, perfect in their uniqueness.

since i was wearing flip flops the entire time (i had tennies, but i like taking my shoes off), i discovered why flip flops are not the recommended footwear for ascending or descending mountainous hills. very slippery. i didn't fall. but i did obtain a bit of mountain sage, which i carried with me. i haven't had my hands on fresh sage for years. i wore it in my hair, on my clothes, and carried it with me the entire weekend. breathing in the sweet healing scent.

i ascended the mountain one last time and found my obliging rock again. it had snowed that night, barely, just a dusting really. so the glint of jewels was everywhere. i perched upon the rock and sat. wept. prayed. listened to no thing.

even in my room at night, there was utter silence. i had asked for no roommate so i could revel in the embracing silences. and so i did.

after about a half hour, friday morning. the good reverend greysquirrel took the pulpit. he lectured me on the etiquette of the forest and the nature of God. chirping and squeaking, barking and grunting, he said his piece for about five minutes. and then skitted off through the forest with a pine cone.

i sat a bit longer, then returned to the world of artisans i was there to mingle with.

i, the richer for my absence.

before the sun.

before the sun arose, i was writing a poem. wholly feminine.

i was also confiding in a friend that i am no longer disinterested in publication. that i can feel it coming near. hear his footsteps in the hall, the heavy breath of one who has come far and needs to rest.

and i am afraid.

this, my last entry before i ascend the mountain comes at a time when i am ready to change my voice, my life, my work again. i'm willing to let it all go. to slay it and watch it burn if need be.

i'm ready to move forward and become.

and i am afraid.

as i try to contain in words the distance this year has brought me. i find none suffice. they are all too simple and i still don't see the distance. i can't have an objective perspective about a life i'm living.

and i am afraid.

this inability to distil my experience into so many words. to mete out my experience in whiskey glasses to those who frequent this bar shakes me. perhaps that's the way of it. to have an experience that cannot be contained.

and i am afraid.

psyche's labors consist in part of containing an uncontainable font. the source of life which flows from hades to the world, the river which feeds styx. i need an eagle's help here. someone to swoop down and carry this crystal vessel beyond the terrors, to risk it all, for me.

and i am afraid.

to receive such kindness, one is greatly indebted. and i cannot repay. cannot even ask for such kindness. psyche fell often to despair and contemplated suicide. but each time a wise counsellor came and instructed her in the way. who will be my reed, my pan, my tower, my eagle? who will tell me to carry two loaves and two coins, to not trouble about pity in the underworld for it would ensare the soul.

and i am afraid.

the sun is rising now, and i must be about my labors.

disturbing silences

excersizes in silence, i've mentioned in the past. where i silence my words. that is not nearly enough any more. i generally don't have a lot to say, verbally, and don't say much. unless, of course, you ask the right questions. very native that way.

but now i'm acutely aware of the noisy ways i conduct myself. placing a pen on the table with a slight echo. walking through the apartment and the floorboards creak. lumbering up and down the stairs to the washer.

what's so different,

my best friend asked.

didn't you make that kind of noise in texas?

yes.

i said,

but there, the silence permeated everything and seemed to absorb my noiseiness. here, i don't want to disturb what little silence there is.

because some moments now, just moments, sometimes five or six consecutive, i can hear myself think.

then a car alarm goes off (one was sounding in the adjoining parking lot, so fun to live near parking lots), and i got this idea for a poem. about how i'd like to go out there and beat the car with a two by four but then i'd likely get locked up and be put in a cell with a large talkative woman who goes on and on and on never allowing me a moment's peace. i'd kill her in my frustration and be there for life, and a long string of talkative types would cycle through, i'm sure.

seems that's the way of it. talkers need someone to listen (i do too on occassion, believe me. but it makes a difference to me who the person is listening). some folk are indiscriminate about blathering on and on. they seem to ask questions to hear themselves answer. their opinions are paramount.

i don't have many of these types of people in my life, thank God. but i notice, my husband isn't a real talker either, so he gets around people and they just open up. spill their guts. but that is a different kind of talking, i think.

so back to my conversation with my best friend. she said,

what is the difference between there and texas?

i dwelt in silence there. i try to create silence here. it ain't easy. i fail most of the time because of my loud habits and lifestyle. but i am noticing how my noise pollution, not of voice, but of action can be curbed. i can emulate the nuns who move silently through the cloister.

closing doors with a gentle click. lighting up stairs with their sensible shoes, and i don't think it is the shoes that make for silence, but it is the way they carry themselves. the way they conduct themselves throughout their lives. very mindful.

they prepare the eucharist without sound.

they do most everything without disturbing silences.

that is my aim. to silence my offensive clamouring. to shut the dampers of my internal furnance which blazes on and on churning me so fast through my days that i can't slow down and contemplate my actions and control the sounds those actions create. to be as mindful of my actions, as i am now, of my words. to emulate silence. and live silently, even amidst clamour.

nuns are my model here. i always aim for the stars.

despairing humility

it has been a great while since i've picked up merton. i've wandered so far away from his writings, now that i return, i find them familiar, a kindred. a mentor. a friend. i'm glad to be back. in thoughts in solitude, he writes:

Teach me to bear a humility which shows me, without ceasing, that I am a liar and a fraud and that, even though this is so, I have an obligation to strive after truth, to be as true as I can, even though I will inevitably find all my truth half poisoned with deceit. This is the terrible thing about humility: that it is never fully successful. If it were only possible to be completely humble on this earth. But no, that is the trouble: You, Lord, were humble. But our humility consists in being proud and knowing all about it, and being crushed by the unbearable weight of it, and to be able to do so little about it.

How stern You are in Your mercy, and yet You must be. Your mercy has to be just because Your Truth has to be True. How stern You are, nevertheless, in Your mercy: for the more we struggle to be true, the more we discover our falsity. Is it merciful of Your light to bring us, inexorably, to despair?

No--it is not to despair that You bring me but to humility. For true humility is, in a way, a very real despair: despair of myself, in order that I may hope entirely in You.

What man can bear to fall into such darkness?

merton peers into my soul with these questions. for i have found falsity abounds. pettiness, abounds. sloth, abounds. all those godly attributes i strive after elude me. and i am left begging mercy. holding a tin cup in hand at the King's gate. unworthy, while at the same time sitting in the seat of honor at His table and feasting on abundance. the perplexing dichotomy cannot be remedied by will or effort. but by grace alone. i understand this.

merton's words further affirm something i've felt stirring in me for days.

it has been no secret the noise of this place would part me from my sanity if i let it. but i have often wondered, if meditation and solitude can only exist in "right" circumstance, or if they are not intended to actually right circumstances.

the peace we carry does not mean we live in a peaceful world. the joy we carry does not portray the joyous world. but perhaps, we carry these things to impart them.

i have long believed impartation to be a necessary and right conveyance for the gifts of the Spirit. but i had only understood it insofar as imparting gifts of which i was confident i've received. namely: writing, dance, etc. but i've always held, because we don't receive a gift, doesn't mean it was not given.

all the boon of heaven is at our disposal. all good and perfect gifts come from the Father of Lights, who has gifted us in spiritual places with EVERY heavenly blessing. so, if we have all the gifts all around us, maybe giving the gifts is key to receiving them. maybe.

joy has eluded me. silence, evades me. but is this their doing or mine?

i think it largely mine. the fault is my own. God has gifted these things to me. i have yet to receive them. perhaps, because i have yet to give them away. you cannot give away what you do not possess (a line i have lifted from merton who says: you cannot give up what you do not possess. he speaks of renunciation).

so in this place of noise. uncertainty. seeming chaos. i can rest in the gifts of God to me and draw them out for others. how this will look in actuality, i have no idea. but it is something that makes a great deal of sense.

her hand

it was such a rushed trip to nyc this time, that i didn't feel myself wandering of eye and thought as much.

last time we had six hours to reach our destination (which is just enough time for me to meander to the locale), this time, we were leaving on an earlier train (lower fares) and altered our plan to be at the park with other actual children. so ground zero was out, especially after the explosion and uncertainty.

we leave the tiny park and start heading uptown.

across tiny cement triangles of curbs and lights. i could hear the subway rumbling beneath us through the grating in the floor, i just had to find an entrance. we walked about three blocks and found one tucked behind a newsstand. if i actually read the paper, such a ny thing to do, that would have been the perfect place to acquire one, just like in the movies.

the houses in the area we were at were what i guess you'd call brownstones. the ones they use in the movies. nicer looking than the giant towers of humanity (the kind i knew i could not live in).

so, we're walking and the people are not standing out to me much this time. truly because i had to get to where i was going and back to that train in such a truncated period. i didn't feel free to just contemplate anyone.

down in the subway, i'm looking all over to see if i can acquire a map. when i hear a man ask,

que necesitas?

a map.

oh, over there, behind the trash can.

i have long since stopped being offended that people talk to me in spanish. at least i know what they are saying. some folk, are so fluent that i hardly understand them. i do stammer and try to speak back to those real native spanish speakers, but it is a challenge for many reasons i won't get into now. mostly, i have trouble accepting myself. that is the biggest challenge of them all.

this guy, (i didn't ask his name and i wish i had) was about as tall as i am. perhaps a couple inches more. so not a towering mass of humanity, but substantial. he was about twice my size and wore a messenger bag across his powder blue t-shirt. he explained to me that the train we were taking had so many stops, and a few other things before we got to penn station. but then i realized times squre was just a stop beyond and asked my girl if she wanted to do lunch there again.

which of course she did. i did too, it's nice when we agree.

so this guy is talking to me as we're waiting on the platform, and the trains are blazing by, so raucous. metal grinding on metal, the whoosh of air, recycled a thousand times over air, the exhaust of the breaks and momentary pause for on and off loading of passengers.

the guy would stop talking when the train came, which was nice, because i couldn't hear him. i don't know that you ever get used to those sounds, but some must because people seem to be about their business pretty routinely down there. reading, jumping on the train and off at the right times. while i, like a neurotic ferret am twitching and searching for the right places. but it was only my third time on the subway.

the guy boards with us, and he is nice. giving me adequate space. he wasn't intimdating in the least, a good soul, i'd call him. he had native qualities, and i asked him if he was tribal. he said,

taino.

which elicited my telltale, huh? look. i had no clue what that nation was.

puerto rican.

ah, yes.

that explains a lot. the spanish for one. people exited the subway and we sat across from each other. he tried to converse with me from there, but couldn't so he moved next to me.

native puertoricans are tainos.

ah, when you hear the word tai, you think thai. or at least, i do. but i knew that wasn't right.

he told me about toys r us in times square. and of course, my girl lit up like a roman candle.

there's a ride,

he said.

just to warn you.

he's describing this ride in detail. a small ferris wheel with different cartoon characters.

do you have children?

no, he said. but i take my nieces and nephews there. it's expensive having kids. i am trying to get myself established before i have kids.

what is your day job?

it was, midday after all.

i'm between jobs right now.

ah, don't get down.

i said.

it's hard, but try to keep postive about it. it will turn around.

yeah. i'm pretty positive. i hope to have my own apartment by november. i've sold water, maps, jewelry. anything to make a buck. i should be going back to school.

good.

i said.

it's hard, in some ways, to encourage strangers. but when they are kind and open up it makes it easier.

our stop came up, he never said where he was going, so he got off with us. and said goodbye on the platform. i for one was grateful for the escort. but we ascended the stairs into times square.

there is so much activity there. we ate on the fly as we were walking to toys r us. you know i wanted nothing to do with the place, but i was willing to take a stab at enjoying myself.

so in we went.

the place is three stories tall. the ferris wheel is in the center, like a mall atrium. we didn't go down to the bottom level, that's where my girl said the "boy's stuff is."

so we quickly found the faeries and hello kitty stuff. and looked around there.

the taino had warned us to watch the time, because, he said,

you'll be in there forever if you're not careful.

so we lit on outa there and headed to penn station.

in the many wrong turns we took, we passed this one lady down in a subway station. she was old. wearing what looked to me like a housedress. she had on tennies which resembled slippers, and a black cane. her hair utterly grey, gathered into a loose bun. her eyes unfixed, she stood against the wall with her hand out.

i can't tell you how many people we passed in the city who were asking for money. rastafarians, young greek guys, hip black women. all collecting for the homeless. very few moved my heart. but this woman. with her hand out like that. just standing there.

even if i knew she walked out and climbed into her bently with jeeves and buttercup her pet pomeranian. i had to give her something. so i stopped and found what i could.

i put it in her and and she said,

thank you.

and stood there. we left, because we were in the wrong subway station. we were about a block east of penn station, which isn't a subway at all, but those are detail we had to find out. i had figured since we exited penn through the subway, there must be connecting corridors from adjoining subways. but that wasn't true. because we weren't that far. even when we were just a stone's throw from penn's entrance, the subway never adjoined penn in a location to let you pass through, which makes sense i guess.

we found our way, eventually. got some bad directions, but kept searching. we'd left early enough. and found our way to an earlier train and just rode home with ten thousand stops. some construction workers drinking red bull in brown paper bags who peppered their speech with the f word. and every now and again, they apologized for it. which was kind.

all in all, a joyous sojourn. even though harried.