Waiting for the moon
When your life is ruled by the sight of the moon
and clouds creep in
fueled by rain
and wind and wintery madness
nights can seem long.
But the air is nice and cool
and we have this night
and that is a lot, really.
Favorite Places
Standing outside after midnight
in the shadow of the building
where the stars are free
from lightpost illumination
and other forces
the air is so rich
and the sky is
pieces of broken glass.
And I watch
and memorize
as if there is a test
any moment.
Monday, December 20, 2010
A Special Kind of Self Help Group
Feeling betrayed and abandoned by the sky
and the moon
and knowing twelve step groups don't even exist
for your kind of madness
you compulsively check for the lunar eclipse
just in case those numerous clouds
have all gone away
of course they don't
so you log onto the internet
and look at photos
and know that it isn't even as close to good
as it should be.
Feeling betrayed and abandoned by the sky
and the moon
and knowing twelve step groups don't even exist
for your kind of madness
you compulsively check for the lunar eclipse
just in case those numerous clouds
have all gone away
of course they don't
so you log onto the internet
and look at photos
and know that it isn't even as close to good
as it should be.
Monday, November 15, 2010
It was twenty years ago today that I was walking through the lounge in Baker Hall at SOU and started a conversation that would span these decades with someone who would prove to be my best friend and soul mate and as good love stories often do, it all began with poetry. You see there was a poetry reading that night in the SU and I had been searching for a friend to go with me, but everyone I knew had other plans. So I took a deep breath, gathered my wits and asked Jason if he would come along with me. He said yes.
To be fair, he and I had been watching each other for weeks. I saw this guy who wore "John Lennon" style sunglasses and was kind to Jorge my "shhh don't tell anyone because he is illegal" stray cat buddy who hung around the dorms. He thought I was stuck up but was intrigued by my door (which I must say was a work of art and was full of oddly interesting pictures, photos, words and even a great clipping of Ronald Reagan getting on a plane waving happily at the crowd, post brain surgery while Nancy stood behind him looking horrified, and on the bottom of that my friend Pammy had written "Win one for the gipper", so I kind of owe her a bit of gratitude for the small part she played in all of this too). There was, I guess some bit of cosmic electricity between us even from the very beginning.
Twenty years? How is that possible?
Neither of us remember all that much about the poetry reading itself other than Sharon Doubiago was headlining. He remembers talking a lot. I remember listening. I suppose we still balance one another like that. He learned that the arrogance he thought he saw was actually shyness. I learned that he cared a lot about his grandparents (who are really my own now after all these years) and was passionate about photography. I'm certain that we laughed quite a bit.
Fast forward through four, count 'em four kids, births, death, the most incredible lives that we share. More laughter, tears, the day to day minutia that make up a life and all of the moments that really matter with me feeling so incredibly lucky that I get to have this man by my side. That he is my friend, my husband, sometimes the only one in the room who gets my jokes and at the end of the day even through all of the messy stuff, there is this love between us. Love that goes on and on through twenty plus years. Love that I know will span this lifetime and beyond. Lucky. Me. Him. This family.
This is what I know about time. When you aren't having fun it can drag on like it probably did when you were in seventh grade. Good times pass quickly. Summer vacations seem to be over in minutes. Each of our childrens first years were over in the blink of an eye as we tried to hang on to the miraculous wonder of it all. Despite how much we wish we could slow time down, we know that the best tools in our bag of tricks are our minds, our ability to pay attention and to appreciate the "everyday" days. I'm pretty certain that the next twenty years will pass just as fast, Jason as long as I am spending them with you.
We are always a work in progress and the rest of the story is still being written. I'm grateful.
To be fair, he and I had been watching each other for weeks. I saw this guy who wore "John Lennon" style sunglasses and was kind to Jorge my "shhh don't tell anyone because he is illegal" stray cat buddy who hung around the dorms. He thought I was stuck up but was intrigued by my door (which I must say was a work of art and was full of oddly interesting pictures, photos, words and even a great clipping of Ronald Reagan getting on a plane waving happily at the crowd, post brain surgery while Nancy stood behind him looking horrified, and on the bottom of that my friend Pammy had written "Win one for the gipper", so I kind of owe her a bit of gratitude for the small part she played in all of this too). There was, I guess some bit of cosmic electricity between us even from the very beginning.
Twenty years? How is that possible?
Neither of us remember all that much about the poetry reading itself other than Sharon Doubiago was headlining. He remembers talking a lot. I remember listening. I suppose we still balance one another like that. He learned that the arrogance he thought he saw was actually shyness. I learned that he cared a lot about his grandparents (who are really my own now after all these years) and was passionate about photography. I'm certain that we laughed quite a bit.
Fast forward through four, count 'em four kids, births, death, the most incredible lives that we share. More laughter, tears, the day to day minutia that make up a life and all of the moments that really matter with me feeling so incredibly lucky that I get to have this man by my side. That he is my friend, my husband, sometimes the only one in the room who gets my jokes and at the end of the day even through all of the messy stuff, there is this love between us. Love that goes on and on through twenty plus years. Love that I know will span this lifetime and beyond. Lucky. Me. Him. This family.
This is what I know about time. When you aren't having fun it can drag on like it probably did when you were in seventh grade. Good times pass quickly. Summer vacations seem to be over in minutes. Each of our childrens first years were over in the blink of an eye as we tried to hang on to the miraculous wonder of it all. Despite how much we wish we could slow time down, we know that the best tools in our bag of tricks are our minds, our ability to pay attention and to appreciate the "everyday" days. I'm pretty certain that the next twenty years will pass just as fast, Jason as long as I am spending them with you.
We are always a work in progress and the rest of the story is still being written. I'm grateful.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
When I start to come to, I see a nurse standing over me. At first I can't even speak and the few words that I try to utter are indecipherable. After several tries, I'm finally able to get it out. "My son?" I ask. "Where is my son?"
The nurse looks away and quietly says, "We have to get you stabilized and then a doctor will come in and talk to you."
There is this silence that seems to stretch forever as I lie there thinking about what those words might mean. "He must have downs syndrome," I tell myself. "There must be some sort of issue like that." One time, a few years back, one of our cats caught a blue jay and brought it to me. The bird was still alive and I tried to get the cat to drop it, but he held on to his prize as though his teeth were stuck to it and no amount of yelling or pleading from me could make him let go. I thought about that cat's tenacity as I let my mind grasp that tiny possibility of hope, as I drift in and out of consciousness.
When I wake up Jason is standing in front of me. He looks strange. His eyes meet mine and there are these words coming from his mouth, but they seem to be coming from a distance a lot farther away, almost like they are coming from the hallway beyond the room.
"He didn't make it."
I spend several minutes trying to figure out what that means and he must see that the words are not reaching me because he tries again. "He died."
Those words echo inside my head. "He died, he died, died, died died."
I just want to be invisible. I want to climb back into the safety of sleep.
Some days pass and before I leave the hospital, several nurses tell me that my milk will be coming in and I 'll need to think about doing something to stop it. One nurse suggests a pill that I can take that will dry it up, but after checking with someone else in the hospital, determines that my doctor will not prescribe that medication. Instead my doctor stops by my hospital room and talks about what will happen.
"Really the only thing we can do about that is to have you bind your breasts," she tells me. That way the milk will dry up quickly."
When I first hold that bandage in my hands, images of centuries of women being bound in various ways come to my mind. I am expected to follow instructions and I do. I go home wearing an ace bandage tightly wrapped around my chest. In the days that follow, I wake up each morning lying in a puddle of milk with breasts that feel heavy and painful. Sometimes I express milk to calm that angry pain even though I've been warned by several well meaning people that it will just increase my supply. Despite my effort, wearing that bandage does not seem to be working because I am still dealing with painful boobs and flooding milk so I soon give up trying to stop it, choosing instead to allow it to run its course. It takes weeks, but it is my last physical connection to my son and I am heavyhearted when my body finally stops producing milk. Many months later, I come across the ace bandage while I am cleaning and I am happier after I place it in the trash.
I recall that the cemetery smelled of juniper and baked dirt. The heat rose up from our ankles as we stood underneath the ancient trees. There were rows of people; our friends and family who sat in folding chairs in front of his tiny pine casket whose inside was lined with soft, white silk. We'd given his little, pale blue, footed giraffe suit to the funeral home and I had to trust that it was on him and that the handful of soft toys that Sierra had chosen to be placed inside the casket was next to him. It was a closed casket.
I can only remember snippets and pieces from that day. I remember that when we arrived at the cemetery we were greeted by a guy named Steve who worked for the mortuary. The open ground was covered with fake grass and there was a support beam holding up his casket. There were several floral arrangements on top, so many that I could not see the carving of the little animals on top and I pushed one aside a bit so I could run my fingers over the dips and curves on the wood one more time. After a little while although at the time I had no sense of time, so it could have been twenty minutes or several hours, people began to arrive. I remember Jason stepping towards the casket and turning around to face our family and friends. I guess I could use words like officiate or conduct, but what he really did was stand there and talk about what had just happened and then he tried to map out a plan for how we would survive what had just happened. I said a few words too, but I was shaky and held on to his arm to steady myself. And then, just like that, it was over and everyone stood up and prepared to leave. And we were expected to leave as well.
I remember standing there wishing that I could stay there with my son. Knowing that it wouldn't matter because he was not there, but finding those steps to be the hardest I have ever taken. Walking away seemed impossible.
"I guess we should go now."
"Just a little longer."
We stood there next to the piled up dirt and watched the warm sun dry out the lazy susans. It was hard to stand there and harder still to walk away.
The nurse looks away and quietly says, "We have to get you stabilized and then a doctor will come in and talk to you."
There is this silence that seems to stretch forever as I lie there thinking about what those words might mean. "He must have downs syndrome," I tell myself. "There must be some sort of issue like that." One time, a few years back, one of our cats caught a blue jay and brought it to me. The bird was still alive and I tried to get the cat to drop it, but he held on to his prize as though his teeth were stuck to it and no amount of yelling or pleading from me could make him let go. I thought about that cat's tenacity as I let my mind grasp that tiny possibility of hope, as I drift in and out of consciousness.
When I wake up Jason is standing in front of me. He looks strange. His eyes meet mine and there are these words coming from his mouth, but they seem to be coming from a distance a lot farther away, almost like they are coming from the hallway beyond the room.
"He didn't make it."
I spend several minutes trying to figure out what that means and he must see that the words are not reaching me because he tries again. "He died."
Those words echo inside my head. "He died, he died, died, died died."
I just want to be invisible. I want to climb back into the safety of sleep.
Some days pass and before I leave the hospital, several nurses tell me that my milk will be coming in and I 'll need to think about doing something to stop it. One nurse suggests a pill that I can take that will dry it up, but after checking with someone else in the hospital, determines that my doctor will not prescribe that medication. Instead my doctor stops by my hospital room and talks about what will happen.
"Really the only thing we can do about that is to have you bind your breasts," she tells me. That way the milk will dry up quickly."
When I first hold that bandage in my hands, images of centuries of women being bound in various ways come to my mind. I am expected to follow instructions and I do. I go home wearing an ace bandage tightly wrapped around my chest. In the days that follow, I wake up each morning lying in a puddle of milk with breasts that feel heavy and painful. Sometimes I express milk to calm that angry pain even though I've been warned by several well meaning people that it will just increase my supply. Despite my effort, wearing that bandage does not seem to be working because I am still dealing with painful boobs and flooding milk so I soon give up trying to stop it, choosing instead to allow it to run its course. It takes weeks, but it is my last physical connection to my son and I am heavyhearted when my body finally stops producing milk. Many months later, I come across the ace bandage while I am cleaning and I am happier after I place it in the trash.
I recall that the cemetery smelled of juniper and baked dirt. The heat rose up from our ankles as we stood underneath the ancient trees. There were rows of people; our friends and family who sat in folding chairs in front of his tiny pine casket whose inside was lined with soft, white silk. We'd given his little, pale blue, footed giraffe suit to the funeral home and I had to trust that it was on him and that the handful of soft toys that Sierra had chosen to be placed inside the casket was next to him. It was a closed casket.
I can only remember snippets and pieces from that day. I remember that when we arrived at the cemetery we were greeted by a guy named Steve who worked for the mortuary. The open ground was covered with fake grass and there was a support beam holding up his casket. There were several floral arrangements on top, so many that I could not see the carving of the little animals on top and I pushed one aside a bit so I could run my fingers over the dips and curves on the wood one more time. After a little while although at the time I had no sense of time, so it could have been twenty minutes or several hours, people began to arrive. I remember Jason stepping towards the casket and turning around to face our family and friends. I guess I could use words like officiate or conduct, but what he really did was stand there and talk about what had just happened and then he tried to map out a plan for how we would survive what had just happened. I said a few words too, but I was shaky and held on to his arm to steady myself. And then, just like that, it was over and everyone stood up and prepared to leave. And we were expected to leave as well.
I remember standing there wishing that I could stay there with my son. Knowing that it wouldn't matter because he was not there, but finding those steps to be the hardest I have ever taken. Walking away seemed impossible.
"I guess we should go now."
"Just a little longer."
We stood there next to the piled up dirt and watched the warm sun dry out the lazy susans. It was hard to stand there and harder still to walk away.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
July 24, 2010 free samples:
Info on how to get free stuff from the Chicago White Sox, free EAS shake, free pain patch, free cold medicine and free makeup. Click link below.
Info on how to get free stuff from the Chicago White Sox, free EAS shake, free pain patch, free cold medicine and free makeup. Click link below.
Free samples: Chicago White Sox kid fan club, EAS shake, pain patch, cold medication, eye makeup
Friday, July 23, 2010
7/23/10 free samples July 23, 2010 free samples
Free samples: Muscle & Fitness Magazines, Vendr TV, Virgin Mobile FreeFest concert, General Mills
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Free samples: Alpha Geek T-shirt, 2 yrs Shape Magazine, Starbucks (California), Kmart Kids birthday
July 23, 2010 free samples
Free samples: Organic products, Bahama Breeze $10, food safety magnet, coffee, skincare makeup
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