My Darling My View 2011

Graveyard Mud

The dead around me are rising again

and I'm stuck

in the graveyard mud.

I could try to follow but

I won't be able to keep up.

My soles are fused

deep in the thick, wet dirt below.

Maybe I should just stay here.

It's quiet,

only the dark crickets

and windblown leaves remind

me my ears are indeed alive.

Maybe like the trees nearby,

I can suck up from the muck

and go dormant for a tick,

to get ready for the next loud trick.

But wait, what's that moan?

I see another one frozen

plus more

over there -

faces up

in the air.

"Do you need help?," I inquire.

And with wide eyes but narrow brows,

she shakes her head and looks away.

She would scurry if she could

but like me, her toes are trapped

in the graveyard mud.

Without even a whisper of suction,

dead quiet is she.

Being ignored

I turn to the man in the captain hat.

He stares at the sky.

"What are you doing," ask I?

His eyes flutter but he doesn't answer.

So close, I can hear him breathe,

but with his exhale there is no word.

I turn my eyes north,

letting the treetops blur,

as the diamonds twinkle

beside the moon glowing amber.

He must be lost,

filling in the missing color

in another paint-by-number dream,

I say, stealing, in silence.

Then his mutter, "I'm plotting my course.

The stars will steer me out of here."

All stalled,

I know they can't help me

anymore than I can help them.

I'm innocent but imperfect,

not lost but derailed.

Don't come back

to get me.

I won't go,

into the forest,

on Your whim.

Or worse,

be left alone

on that deserted path,

again,

waiting

for man to return,

casually.

I'm better here

in the graveyard mud

unhelping and unhelped,

tacking

in the midnight still

I can tell you

I can tell you how to hold my hand.

I can tell you when to kiss me.

I can tell you how to touch me.

I can tell you where to feed me.

I can tell you when to massage me.

I can tell you how to talk to me.

I can tell you when to cradle me.

I can tell you how to relax me.

I can tell you when to follow me.

But as long

as the music plays

And lovers fight

And mothers weep,

I can't tell you how to love me.

BFF or FBB?

This scenario has happened more than once: me, sitting confused and hurt, wondering why I became friends with that person in the first place. I'm sure anyone who made it to kindergarten has felt the same emotion on some level. I remember a school play when I volunteered to bring in a "Zero" candy bar for my friend to use on stage (we were learning our numbers). I don't remember which number I played on stage, but I very much remember that after the play, she ate my white chocolate treat. I cried; she didn't even ask if I wanted it back. Today, I definitely would not cry. (Have you ever seen how white chocolate is made?)

However, I have felt a sense of betrayal by a good friend on more than one occassion, and over issues much more serious than a silly piece of candy. And so.... I have had to learn the hard way the value of loyalty. And forgiveness. It seems you can't have a true friendship without both. When do you let yourself get mad? When do you let yourself forgive? And, when do you make yourself stay mad?

The question is: How do you react to friends behaving badly (FBB)?

When I'm on the other side of that judgment equation, when I'm the one charged for crimes against friendships, I would want leniency. Yesterday, I broke my friend's favorite coffee press. I was easily forgiven.* But in truth I've done worse. In high school, I dated a friend's boyfriend -- after they had broken up, yes. But still a horrible thing to do because she actually still liked the guy. I lost that friend for good, understandably, and for the wrong guy, not understandably. It helped me learn the lesson of loyalty. It took me much longer to learn about forgiveness.** I'm probably still learning both, to be honest.

Some pals are just impossible to throw away for good. They're the cockroaches of friends. You may get mad, you may fall out for a brief period (go into hiding under the Fridgedaire?). But when the seasons change, that friendship will see the light of day again, no matter what.

Unfortunately, I have also learned throughout the years, that there are some people who are worth letting slip into life's jet stream. Sometimes people or relationships that take more than they give and I've had to ask myself: is this really worth it? It's a painful process to come to the answer.

That said, it's also a good time to remember the value of loyalty, and no friendship should be tossed aside hastily. As I mentioned, there was a time when I was less than loyal and I learnt (or "learned" - which is proper?) through loss why it's so important. We have all been wronged by certain people along the way. Some of my friendships have been tested to the point of break-up. Some endured that test, and those friends over time are for certain the most precious. With this in mind, here is a little something I cobbled out on the subject.

An Indictment

You’re my friend --

Not a parent

Not a teacher

Not my boss.

So please don’t scold

Don’t preach

Don’t correct

Don’t pick one friend over another,

unless you want me to do the same --

to obstacle you when you’re on that path

towards hurt and torment.

I may resist

your words

like you resist mine

and that’s ok in our rulebook.

We have rules unwritten.

There is no need to document the fine line

between

our right and

our wrong --

rendered obsolete they will be

because even in the trial of our friendship

the end verdict will stay the same.

A life sentence: friends.

*I imagine if I were to shatter more than one piece of favoured glassware, that forgiveness would be a bit more hard won.

**Remind me to tell you that story one day.

What I Learned in Bikram Yoga

I saw it coming. She had asked to leave the studio a couple of times but the instructor told her to stay on her mat and rest. When the woman behind me finally threw up in the bucket, I think I actually rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “She’s so stupid, she ate before class.” I have seen one person pass out in yoga (and I think she was epileptic), but never anyone get sick.

So I got annoyed. Her problem meant the teacher had to stop class to take her upstairs. There was a break between poses and I could feel my muscles start to tighten up.

There are a few rules which they repeat during each class: stay on your mat, stay in the room. If you can’t do a pose, just sit in the rest position. Don’t drink water or move between poses. It’s distracting to others who are trying to focus. And don’t eat for two to three hours before coming to class.

So when the woman regurgitated her breakfast, I knew she had made a big mistake. And her mistake was cutting into my precious yoga time.

It’s not the first time I felt irritated in yoga class.

Once, the man next to me coughed for the entire 90 minutes. It was a congested, sloppy, gut-wrenching cough and I thought he was rude to spread his germs around the studio. I also thought, the instructor should have asked him to leave. For that matter, I’ve found myself getting peeved with the instructors on other occasions as well. If I’m in “standing bow” pose, don’t prolong my agony by giving another student pointers on how to do it better. If I'm teetering on one leg in that hellhole of a room you better believe I'm counting every second.

Now, to the rule about staying on your mat. You’re supposed to stand with your feet together between poses. If your feet aren’t together, or if you step off of your mat to grab a hand towel, I do notice. The teachers are all pretty good about telling you not to judge yourself: if you fall out of a pose, don't get frustrated -- just try to get back into it as quickly as possible. I think I've improved as far as that goes. As much as I want to improve with each class, I try to smile when I fumble up a pose rather than grimace. But if someone reaches for their water when I’m in backwards half moon pose, I have been quick to judge.

For those not familiar with it, Bikram is very intense – the room is heated to at least 105-degrees (one night it was 124) and for an hour and a half we complete a series of 26 postures that you hold for anywhere between about ten seconds up to a minute. Bikram himself says that he’d rather you have a heart attack during class so you don’t have one later in life. What I hadn't learned until that day is that physical stress isn't the only reason for cardiac arrest.

After class that day, I returned upstairs to change my clothes and the woman was in the lounge recovering while she waited for her daughter. As soon as she saw me, she commented on how impressed she was with the young women. "I don't know how you do it." (Gulp. Guilt set in.) She was so nice and felt no need to apologize. She admitted that she had eaten breakfast complete with coffee before coming to class. (I knew it!) But for once, I didn’t feel any satisfaction in being right that day.

The truth was that I had been wrong. I may have advanced in my moving meditation class to the point where I wouldn't judge myself. But I have failed by judging others: wayward students......frustrating teachers.....a studio that's too hot.....a studio that's too humid.....and beyond: erratic drivers, lackluster co-workers, pushy people in the train station.

That list could go on for infinity. But my reaction to get upset with them is really only a reflection of myself and how I fit into my world, whether it's in the yoga studio or driving down New York Avenue at rush hour. I don't want to go through life with a grimace on my face. One of my instructors once said that yoga is a practice, not an event. You might not achieve exactly what you want the first time round, but just do what you can and get a little bit better each time. So now I've given myself a new mental posture to attain: when someone steps off their mat during a pose or if someone cuts me off in traffic, I will simply look at myself in the mirror and smile. When I can do that, and mean it, that's when I know I've found my yoga.

Post Script: I wrote this piece several weeks ago and was going to publish it the day that Osama bin Laden was killed. It didn't seem appropriate at the time, so I saved it. What that means is that I have had time to practice my new goal -- and would you believe that it is working? I no longer get irritated with other students who do something to distract me during a pose. I don't get mad at teachers for making us hold a pose longer than I think we should be holding it. Instead, I focus on myself, what I can do, and most importantly, what I can control -- and my classes have been much more stress free. (I will admit, though, that I have yet to perfect that "judgement free attitude" while on the road. But I have hope. There has been a slight improvement. I think I actually LET a car or two cut me off last week.)

A Moment on the Hazy Morning Train from Fredericksburg

From here the sun looks even bigger than it already is. I'm losing battle of the curl against my hair and blue herons blend with the steam from above. The Rappahannock's topface is smooth as a vintage mirror with only the occassional ripple or wrinkle due to watercraft not wind. The morning is young but prematurely aged, an ungentle reminder that Washington, DC was indeed built on a marsh and that nature can be glorious even when oppressive.

Riverdream

Sixty miles from the horns of Capitol Hill is the old historical town of Fredericksburg. This is not the strip mall-congested civil war haven that can suck the life out of you in Route 3 West Fredericksburg. No, I'm talking about the cobble-stone-sidewalk, homes of George Washington's sister and mother, civil war haven that is somehow endlessly charming in Route 3 East Fredericksburg. Being about mid-way between Washington, DC and Richmond, this area was a hotbed during the Civil War where about 100,000 people died as a result of four battles (Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania, and Wilderness). For that reason, it's a destination for American history buffs.

This side of Interstate 95 also hoards another treasure: the riverbed of the Rappahannock -- and the last few weekends, I've been hooked on its lure. Last Sunday during a tubing trip, I witnessed a large falcon brunching on a large fish (well, 12-inches long seems big for this size river). The bird perched on a branch above the water and pecked away at the wiggling fish trapped in its talons as I gazed from below. It was quite a gravity-defying spectacle of agility. This weekend was no disappointment either, watching some sort of water bird (a cormorant?) dive beneath the river's surface for minutes at a time for prey below - no more than twenty feet away.

I'm certain I'll find my way back to the riverbanks again, though I promise it's not to watch mother nature's predators at work. There is something so inherently peaceful and soul soothing to be near that river, I can assure you, the fish feasts are merely a minor distraction from the beauty of it all. Here is a little something I borrowed from it today. Bear with me as it's still a little fresh.

Riverdream

Rippling water surrounds me, surrounds and

drownds the silent silence,

making a new silence of water

anew

silence of water that

moves and

takes me downstream before

whirlpooling

back

to where fish - jump - and

dodge

great rocks

and

diving birds.

In this quiet,

the sun dances

a water tango -

reflecting sharply

while melting softly

into the love creatures

below.

Stop Looking at Me

You -

Stop looking at me.

I won't look at you

because to do so would be to acknowledge

your judgment

of me,

and validate it.

I know what you're thinking

and you're wrong.

You don't know what I know.

You don't know all of the facts

and the gestures

that I know.

You don't know the lack of facts

and the lack of gestures

that I know.

You don't know my confusion.

You don't know my need.

I could never explain all that you don't know

to you.

So again,

please,

stop looking at me.

We need to pretend

that we're not face to face.

That there is no tear welling in my eye

for no reason.

Return to Sender

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. No, I take that back. They all seem to be curve balls. Everything has a catch or a snag. Just once, I wish life would throw me a fast ball, straight down the middle: something I can see coming and know exactly what to do with it.

Yesterday a dear friend wrote and asked me how I'm doing. "Fine," I said. "Fine?" he asked. Yes, fine. Work is fine. Family is fine. Friends are fine. When I responded "fine," I meant that in a positive way. But when he challenged me on it, I was forced to acknowledge a rather lackluster sensation.

The problem is that nothing is easy. Sometimes it’s a minor issue (as in, why must the Virginia Department of Transportation funnel five lanes of traffic into a single lane on I66 Saturday morning when I need to be in Charlottesville?). But sometimes life’s difficulties are not so minor. That’s when I have to wonder if it's me. Is there something deeply rooted in my psyche that complicates my world unnecessarily? The answer is “probably,” but that would take hundreds of dollars and hours of therapy to figure out. So, instead I write. That can help. So can photography. Some days are just like that.

Return to Sender

Returned mail lands in the wrong hands,

and with that the lights go out.

The owner sneaks tainted loot.

A message lost is won unwanted.

A moment of wonder,

with new words

all to sit and ponder.

Today tests tomorrow

tests yesteryear

while a ghost voice flounders

in our ear

crying an anti-cheer.

Blackbird be gone.

Knowing some

can be worse than

knowing all

or even,

knowing none.

Doc, are these dreams

made of fear

or are they some sort of

real world seer?

Pre-tested temptations

sound sweet

way down yonder in the holler

where you can still stall her

with silence

and fodder.

Impossible to delete,

letters unsifted, torn, and drifted,

read in a dark, dank room,

clutter the diary

with craze

unfounded.

But old blood turns blue.

It needs air and care and flair,

and a one-way valve

for two.

So maybe

rap, tap, tap back

you raven bird.

Maybe just "accept"

how the red paper drips

a grey story down,

as it drops and slips

easily into the shadowy spout

even if it sticks to the pipes

now drowned.

The Slow Clock

click - tock

the slow clock

ticks

slower

bending time

backwards

to moments preserved

to be replayed and continued.

click - tock

-caught in a freeze frame-

the window narrows,

squeezing and heightening

the pinch in the chest and the tickle beneath. Agony

meets ecstasy. Horror meets temptation.

Anxiety of the most precious variety.

Drunk

on fantasy and hateful of reality,

she sits.