Birthdays are altars.
They are not only markers of age, but of progress.
We can reflect back on the year or years, recalling who we were and how we saw the world the previous times we've done this.
We can understand ourselves today, and contrast versions of ourselves; past and present.
Was there any change?
Did we make any progress?
Did we digress against our intentions not to?
Birthdays are altars of stones we pile up in time. We cannot go back. We cannot change the altars we've laid. They stand permanent in memory as reminders that we had been there, and we have since forged ahead.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Friday, August 8, 2014
Make a dream last
I am listening to Jasmine Thompson sing Let Her Go.
Open the link in another tab if you want to sit with me for a bit.
If you're here with me, perhaps we can discuss the lyrics, and how they speak to your circumstances.
Or, maybe we can just silently listen together, sharing the experience without giving or taking a thing.
However we enjoy it, I am blessed that we get to enjoy it together, no matter how much distance in space or time separates us.
What brought you here?
I want to know more about you. I believe that what brings us to this place speaks volumes about the people we are right now, now that we're here.
Has the song repeated yet?
If it has, does it sound any different the second time?
Is it annoying, or does it change as you change?
Does it grow on you, or are you growing into it?
I'm asking because she's on her third or fourth pass for me, and I hardly hear the words this time. Instead, my passion rises and falls with the tone of her voice.
It is a wind, ebbing and flowing.
I catch a line:
"Everything you touch surely dies."
I've heard that as an accusation in the past.
I've heard this song as an accusation that I'm doing it wrong, killing my dreams.
It has always told me that I should have appreciated what I had while it was here, and that I am a fool for only now seeing what I've given up.
But, as my heart changes, so does my hearing.
It's still true that everything dies, but I am no longer being accused.
I change the song, but not the artist. Now, I'm listening to Rather Be.
If you have someone or something in mind to whom you wish to apply this song, then I welcome you to share that if you want.
For now, for me, I apply it to my inner peace.
She sings: "We staked out on a mission to find our inner peace."
Peace runs deeper than our momentary happiness.
Peace is what sustains us when we are thrashing violently in the throws of grief or anger.
Peace is our comforter when we can no longer stand, and we are collapsed on the floor just trying to breathe.
Inner peace is there with us, even when "we're a thousands miles from comfort."
Do you feel your inner peace? Do you taste it as you breathe? Do you feel its gentle hand moving up your spine?
Is there anyone with whom you are sharing your inner peace?
Is it something you give them? Is it something they take? Or, have you found that it can only be shared between two or more who have it?
Please, listen again. I'll be here with you if you choose to.
Or, we can move on to a new song...
Open the link in another tab if you want to sit with me for a bit.
If you're here with me, perhaps we can discuss the lyrics, and how they speak to your circumstances.
Or, maybe we can just silently listen together, sharing the experience without giving or taking a thing.
However we enjoy it, I am blessed that we get to enjoy it together, no matter how much distance in space or time separates us.
What brought you here?
I want to know more about you. I believe that what brings us to this place speaks volumes about the people we are right now, now that we're here.
Has the song repeated yet?
If it has, does it sound any different the second time?
Is it annoying, or does it change as you change?
Does it grow on you, or are you growing into it?
I'm asking because she's on her third or fourth pass for me, and I hardly hear the words this time. Instead, my passion rises and falls with the tone of her voice.
It is a wind, ebbing and flowing.
I catch a line:
"Everything you touch surely dies."
I've heard that as an accusation in the past.
I've heard this song as an accusation that I'm doing it wrong, killing my dreams.
It has always told me that I should have appreciated what I had while it was here, and that I am a fool for only now seeing what I've given up.
But, as my heart changes, so does my hearing.
It's still true that everything dies, but I am no longer being accused.
I change the song, but not the artist. Now, I'm listening to Rather Be.
If you have someone or something in mind to whom you wish to apply this song, then I welcome you to share that if you want.
For now, for me, I apply it to my inner peace.
She sings: "We staked out on a mission to find our inner peace."
Peace runs deeper than our momentary happiness.
Peace is what sustains us when we are thrashing violently in the throws of grief or anger.
Peace is our comforter when we can no longer stand, and we are collapsed on the floor just trying to breathe.
Inner peace is there with us, even when "we're a thousands miles from comfort."
Do you feel your inner peace? Do you taste it as you breathe? Do you feel its gentle hand moving up your spine?
Is there anyone with whom you are sharing your inner peace?
Is it something you give them? Is it something they take? Or, have you found that it can only be shared between two or more who have it?
Please, listen again. I'll be here with you if you choose to.
Or, we can move on to a new song...
Nocuous Fragrance
We were laughing
Some joke
Some off-color comment
From left field
Surprisingly funny
Hardly worth repeating
Then came the crushing pain
A loss of breath
Vertigo
Falling on the floor of that stairwell
The odor of old urine reminding me
I wasn't as great as I once dreamed
I could have been
The smell of fresh paint reminding me
This world bears my marks as evidence
I was
The aroma of your perfume reminding me
I was loved so completely
I'll never be again
The nocuous fragrance of death's surprise
Is knowing
We didn't get to say goodbye
Author's Note:
I created this blog to talk about my thoughts and feelings as I move into what feels like a second life. I see death coming one day, and I can't avoid it. None of us can. Until recently, I believed I would die sad about the things I missed out on, and the inadequacies that mar my existence. However, recently, though it is a season of chaos, hurt and confusion, I find that I feel fulfilled and vibrant in my new point of view. This poem, which I wrote yesterday, shows me laughing with someone I love, and whom I know loves me, as I pass into the unknown. Falling short of the ideal is still there, but it is not the consuming, nor the final, thought. My musings in this poem begin with odor, but they rise to aroma. Only the final blow of surprise pains me. But, it is a pain that cannot be avoided when death surprises us. While I do not wish a slow death on anyone, I wish that we would all get to say our goodbyes when those we love are passing on, or when we are passing on and leaving them to grieve. In that way, my wish is that the finality of our inevitable passing is aromatic in love.
Some joke
Some off-color comment
From left field
Surprisingly funny
Hardly worth repeating
Then came the crushing pain
A loss of breath
Vertigo
Falling on the floor of that stairwell
The odor of old urine reminding me
I wasn't as great as I once dreamed
I could have been
The smell of fresh paint reminding me
This world bears my marks as evidence
I was
The aroma of your perfume reminding me
I was loved so completely
I'll never be again
The nocuous fragrance of death's surprise
Is knowing
We didn't get to say goodbye
Author's Note:
I created this blog to talk about my thoughts and feelings as I move into what feels like a second life. I see death coming one day, and I can't avoid it. None of us can. Until recently, I believed I would die sad about the things I missed out on, and the inadequacies that mar my existence. However, recently, though it is a season of chaos, hurt and confusion, I find that I feel fulfilled and vibrant in my new point of view. This poem, which I wrote yesterday, shows me laughing with someone I love, and whom I know loves me, as I pass into the unknown. Falling short of the ideal is still there, but it is not the consuming, nor the final, thought. My musings in this poem begin with odor, but they rise to aroma. Only the final blow of surprise pains me. But, it is a pain that cannot be avoided when death surprises us. While I do not wish a slow death on anyone, I wish that we would all get to say our goodbyes when those we love are passing on, or when we are passing on and leaving them to grieve. In that way, my wish is that the finality of our inevitable passing is aromatic in love.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Imagine Leaving a Mark on a Blank Surface
I have attended a few sessions of the South Bay Writers branch of the California Writers Club.
I want to officially join.
Then, I want to look into joining their board.
I want to get into marketing the current meet ups, particularly connecting with English professors and writing groups at local colleges.
I want to start my own sessions, if they'd let me.
I want to expand the community, and make it more available to local writers.
I am intimidated by my own imaginings.
Am I dreaming too big?
Am I over-imagining my own place in all this?
Even if I acted on these ideas, are they misplaced?
If I can muster the energy I'm imagining, should I be investing that enthusiasm elsewhere?
One step at a time.
I have to join.
I want to officially join.
Then, I want to look into joining their board.
I want to get into marketing the current meet ups, particularly connecting with English professors and writing groups at local colleges.
I want to start my own sessions, if they'd let me.
I want to expand the community, and make it more available to local writers.
I am intimidated by my own imaginings.
Am I dreaming too big?
Am I over-imagining my own place in all this?
Even if I acted on these ideas, are they misplaced?
If I can muster the energy I'm imagining, should I be investing that enthusiasm elsewhere?
One step at a time.
I have to join.
Communication Preference
For all of us, there are expressions that speak to us more fully, and are more important to us, than all of the other great things in our lives. We might be with the right person for us in most ways; the person who takes the best care of us, who meets us where we are, matches our enthusiasm or drive, and inspires or encourages us to be the very best we can be. However, if that person cannot speak our language of love, we may still end up feeling like they are not the right person for us, in spite of all the good they bring into our lives.
I have very recently come to appreciate the significance of what I refer to as my communication preference. I have what I personally considered a really difficult preference to satisfy. I yearn for sharp, witty, inspirational, intelligent conversation.
I have recently met people that do satisfy my communication preference. With one person, in particular, I have had the unique opportunity to share this language without restraint. I got to openly dialogue about my most intimate feelings and thoughts, and this person reciprocated in a way that I have long considered impossible, or at least improbable.
Experiencing my communication preference in this way brought unexpected and considerably disruptive hope into my heart. It is a hope that I can be satisfied in a way I never previously believed possible.
Craig Thompson ends his graphic novel, 'Blankets,' with:
"How satisfying it is to leave a mark on a blank surface. To make a map of my movement--no matter how temporary."
It is an exhalation at the end of a triumphant autobiographical, coming-of-age story. He expresses appreciation for the work he has created and for the life he lived so far, in one romantic statement. It is a satisfying end to a fulfilling song.
It is that satisfaction that my communication preference brings me. It is a feeling of fulfillment that tints everything else I can see. When I get it, my soul exhales a sigh of relief, and I lounge back like a heroin user whose eyes are rolling back as her heart beats the drug throughout her bloodstream, taking her on an unparalleled high.
This communication preference is so addictive, and so compelling, that it can drive me to the craziest decisions. Above, I began by speaking of the tremendous good a person can be, and if that person doesn't speak in this preferred style, it could appear as though I don't want them at all. Alternatively, a person may not even be available, and yet if they speak in this preferred style, I don't know how I could stop thinking about them.
This communication preference, and its impact on my heart, is profoundly powerful and priceless in significance.
Why is the capacity to communicate a particular way so overwhelmingly important to me?
I have very recently come to appreciate the significance of what I refer to as my communication preference. I have what I personally considered a really difficult preference to satisfy. I yearn for sharp, witty, inspirational, intelligent conversation.
I have recently met people that do satisfy my communication preference. With one person, in particular, I have had the unique opportunity to share this language without restraint. I got to openly dialogue about my most intimate feelings and thoughts, and this person reciprocated in a way that I have long considered impossible, or at least improbable.
Experiencing my communication preference in this way brought unexpected and considerably disruptive hope into my heart. It is a hope that I can be satisfied in a way I never previously believed possible.
Craig Thompson ends his graphic novel, 'Blankets,' with:
"How satisfying it is to leave a mark on a blank surface. To make a map of my movement--no matter how temporary."
It is an exhalation at the end of a triumphant autobiographical, coming-of-age story. He expresses appreciation for the work he has created and for the life he lived so far, in one romantic statement. It is a satisfying end to a fulfilling song.
It is that satisfaction that my communication preference brings me. It is a feeling of fulfillment that tints everything else I can see. When I get it, my soul exhales a sigh of relief, and I lounge back like a heroin user whose eyes are rolling back as her heart beats the drug throughout her bloodstream, taking her on an unparalleled high.
This communication preference is so addictive, and so compelling, that it can drive me to the craziest decisions. Above, I began by speaking of the tremendous good a person can be, and if that person doesn't speak in this preferred style, it could appear as though I don't want them at all. Alternatively, a person may not even be available, and yet if they speak in this preferred style, I don't know how I could stop thinking about them.
This communication preference, and its impact on my heart, is profoundly powerful and priceless in significance.
Why is the capacity to communicate a particular way so overwhelmingly important to me?
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
I Can't Pray Away This Gay
Growing up Christian, one of the mentalities that I had been brainwashed into believing could essentially be summarized as:
"Fake it until you make it."
Or, more elaborately, if you do not now feel a particular way or believe a particular thing that you think you should, then perform actions and indoctrinate yourself in that feeling or belief, and after long enough, you will find that, without trying, you actually feel or believe that.
This is a conviction that our feelings and beliefs are the byproduct of outside forces and stimulation, and that we as individuals are not in ourselves beings that think, feel and believe from within, pouring out.
I have learned the very hard way that this method does not work. It may change the words I say, and may change the way I appear on the outside. It might keep me from hurting people, or destroying things in my life. At least, for a while.
But there came a day, brought on by an event, or a hormonal change, or a rise of passionate feelings, in which I could not deny who I was and what I truly felt or believed. On that day, my relationships and lifestyle had all been based on doing the right thing in spite of what was brewing on the inside, and I found myself totally breaking down.
There are obviously limitations and boundaries and appropriations with what we do with our feelings. There are things we have to do to respect the landscapes and contexts and people in and with which we find ourselves. There is morality insofar as we should take care not to hurt one another where it can be avoided. Maybe our actions should be considered good if everyone in our society acted the way we are acting. However, nobility cannot come at the cost of denying who we are, how we feel, and what we believe, in the grander sense of each of those.
I couldn't figure out why I was so guilty and miserable and confused and torn and frustrated and disappointed. I was going to just go ahead and die feeling all of those things.
I never intended to change in this way. I never thought I could be so wrong.
I feel liberated seeing that I can't "pray away the gay" in my life. It is such a relief that I don't have to "fake it until I make it." In my maturity, I know and fully accept that I will not get everything I want, but I am excited not to have to feel guilty about wanting it--or not wanting it, as the case may be.
An added side effect of this personal discovery is how it affects my judgment of other people's actions and desires. I have admittedly been very judgmental over the years. The basis for this judgment has been this very mentality I have discussed above. Because I thought people just chose all their feelings, and controlled them through their actions, I could not figure out why people acted in ways that hurt them or others. But, here I am, totally wrecked by my own actions, standing among the fallout of my words and actions as I wrestled with how to keep faking it. I am not any better at this than anyone else, and just excited to finally give it an honest shot.
I look forward to what happens next...
"Fake it until you make it."
Or, more elaborately, if you do not now feel a particular way or believe a particular thing that you think you should, then perform actions and indoctrinate yourself in that feeling or belief, and after long enough, you will find that, without trying, you actually feel or believe that.
This is a conviction that our feelings and beliefs are the byproduct of outside forces and stimulation, and that we as individuals are not in ourselves beings that think, feel and believe from within, pouring out.
I have learned the very hard way that this method does not work. It may change the words I say, and may change the way I appear on the outside. It might keep me from hurting people, or destroying things in my life. At least, for a while.
But there came a day, brought on by an event, or a hormonal change, or a rise of passionate feelings, in which I could not deny who I was and what I truly felt or believed. On that day, my relationships and lifestyle had all been based on doing the right thing in spite of what was brewing on the inside, and I found myself totally breaking down.
There are obviously limitations and boundaries and appropriations with what we do with our feelings. There are things we have to do to respect the landscapes and contexts and people in and with which we find ourselves. There is morality insofar as we should take care not to hurt one another where it can be avoided. Maybe our actions should be considered good if everyone in our society acted the way we are acting. However, nobility cannot come at the cost of denying who we are, how we feel, and what we believe, in the grander sense of each of those.
I couldn't figure out why I was so guilty and miserable and confused and torn and frustrated and disappointed. I was going to just go ahead and die feeling all of those things.
I never intended to change in this way. I never thought I could be so wrong.
I feel liberated seeing that I can't "pray away the gay" in my life. It is such a relief that I don't have to "fake it until I make it." In my maturity, I know and fully accept that I will not get everything I want, but I am excited not to have to feel guilty about wanting it--or not wanting it, as the case may be.
An added side effect of this personal discovery is how it affects my judgment of other people's actions and desires. I have admittedly been very judgmental over the years. The basis for this judgment has been this very mentality I have discussed above. Because I thought people just chose all their feelings, and controlled them through their actions, I could not figure out why people acted in ways that hurt them or others. But, here I am, totally wrecked by my own actions, standing among the fallout of my words and actions as I wrestled with how to keep faking it. I am not any better at this than anyone else, and just excited to finally give it an honest shot.
I look forward to what happens next...
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
My Greatest Regrets
I don't know if you are here.
I can't tell if you can hear me.
I may just be speaking into a void,
and if that is the case,
I know I must say this anyway.
You are one of the best people
to have come into my life in
a long while.
I hate that I wasn't ready.
I hate that I treated you awfully.
I wish I'd have been
a better man.
I miss your voice
your words
your confidence
your wisdom
your compassion
your whit
you.
I felt physical things for you,
but just recall my actions.
I did not simply objectify you.
I did not touch you,
when I thought I could.
I pushed back,
and I held back.
I never lost sight of
you.
I assume my hurtfulness
has cost us any chance of
us.
Maybe my hurtfulness
demonstrates a potential reason
we might not work anyway.
But whatever becomes of us,
I care very deeply about you.
I want you to know that
you are lovely
brilliant
amazing
different
not normal
in all the right ways.
I objectified you
but not only as a sex object.
The worst way I did this was to
push you away
pull you back
push you away
again.
You are not an object,
and I can't throw you out
of my heart.
Out of my own brokenness
I hurt a really great person.
I treated you like an object
when all I ever really wanted to do
was treat you like
a princess.
Hurting you is one of
my greatest regrets.
I miss you everyday that I
breathe.
I can't tell if you can hear me.
I may just be speaking into a void,
and if that is the case,
I know I must say this anyway.
You are one of the best people
to have come into my life in
a long while.
I hate that I wasn't ready.
I hate that I treated you awfully.
I wish I'd have been
a better man.
I miss your voice
your words
your confidence
your wisdom
your compassion
your whit
you.
I felt physical things for you,
but just recall my actions.
I did not simply objectify you.
I did not touch you,
when I thought I could.
I pushed back,
and I held back.
I never lost sight of
you.
I assume my hurtfulness
has cost us any chance of
us.
Maybe my hurtfulness
demonstrates a potential reason
we might not work anyway.
But whatever becomes of us,
I care very deeply about you.
I want you to know that
you are lovely
brilliant
amazing
different
not normal
in all the right ways.
I objectified you
but not only as a sex object.
The worst way I did this was to
push you away
pull you back
push you away
again.
You are not an object,
and I can't throw you out
of my heart.
Out of my own brokenness
I hurt a really great person.
I treated you like an object
when all I ever really wanted to do
was treat you like
a princess.
Hurting you is one of
my greatest regrets.
I miss you everyday that I
breathe.
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