Sunnudagur Musing

Kissed by Sunday morning,
soft light leaking towards me.
My fears and doubts fall
to the floor,
lie crumpled with Saturdays clothes,
your body holds 
my stare.

Under your cover of logic and plans, 
wild and unabashed 
somewhere in there - 
Sheets slip away and my fingers trace
these secrets onto your skin.

Your voice...
In soft, waking moans,
echoes through, calling my bones
to listen.

Your neck,
curling into my breasts.
Lips, balm to the wide, heavy heart,
open to the world 
but no one.

Remembering now,
while you gracefully,
fast and unknowingly
open a pinhole, unleashing it all - 

Sundays were somedays,
maybe nevers,
content to love unattached - 

But here with you,
reaching for me while sleeping,
I am remembering.

Details of a place I've never been -
You have me longing to be there again,

In this kind of love.
Here.
In Sunday morning.

Love You Anyway

I should write today.

Words to say what you were, the complex and convoluted ways in which I learned who I was from you.

I should talk about knowing someone so well - the stages of knowing:
The playground beliefs, "My dad is better than your dad" stereotypes;
The moment you fell running bases at ball, and I learned you were human;
The moments I learned what your struggle was really about.

I should find ways to say the gravity of your loss. 
The way my breath goes shallow at the thought of the rest of my life without you.

But I've none. This is it. 
This year, despite all summons of bravery and grace, I just feel the loss.


The loss of the children I may never even have, that you'll surely never meet.

The loss of you hearing me sing now.
The chance of pride, or if not, even the sound of your critique.

I imagine hearing that - the ways I could improve, the things I should be learning - and calling your eyes to mine, to smile and lovingly hold your stare, both of us knowing what that's really about.
I imagine too, the other side of you, that would maybe sit softly listening, and say something like, "I didn't know you could do that..."
with the open vulnerability you sometimes showed, welling up.

I miss you. I miss the quiet of our similarities, like a low hum beneath the surface of who I am.

This is a love that's incomparable. Our acknowledgement of authenticity, messy, sad, sick - all of it. The space between us that allowed honesty, and safety. 
Our willingness to return to it when it was lost to us.

There is no love, born of acceptance, that I've known like yours.

Love You Anyway - Demo from Rick Edgett on Myspace.

Leaders

Tonight.

I took myself to Tom's Little Havana, and sat amongst the first dates, friend meets, candlelight and Van Morrison/Erykah Badu/Elliot Smith.
All these stories, and how I love to be lost in the mix.

Sitting here hoping to go unnoticed, but noticed, sometimes eyed strangely,
sometimes not given a second glance.
Just a girl in a funky shirt,
bright eyes and deep in her own thoughts,
craft beer and computer screen glaring.

I hope they find me brave instead of strange,
and yet,
that thought wasn't even worth writing.

What matters is that my hands are finally moving,
and I'm bothering to be present enough to document what I'm doing,
Because, see, documenting IS presence,
at least,
tonight.

I am seeing my surroundings.
The four gay boys gossiping
about their girlfriend across the aisle.
The hipsters beside me,
toques and plaid and skinny jeans
big words describing the structure of Alice in Wonderland,
high school kids these days,
reasons for living stumbling out of handsome bearded faces.
The private booths I was hoping for,
all occupied with what is, maybe their 3rd date?
and next table down,
no doubt the first.

Those two... they make sense already.
I hope they make it.
Her thin and tall, and hair on fire
Him sweet and shy -
I've never known an unbending man to date a redhead.

And hipsters,
I hope you change the world,
I hope your ideas don't stay in quiet conversations
amongst those who share them.
I hope you scream them out, in an inviting way,
And eventually rise to the calling of control,
learn to balance the naive dreamer that we're all needing to lead us
with the leader.

And the gay boys,
innocent and shameless,
I can't even begin to say how fucking proud I am of you.
Your gossip is good natured,
Your pride is fierce,
and I hope you remember to be as inclusive as you wish
to be accepted.
You're gorgeous, and if you don't remember what you've been through
and take note of who not to do that to,
Your beauty won't mean shit.

All of you, never stop growing.
There are places you're going,
and despite the buddhist mind in me that says so calmly,
be in the now,
I don't want you to stay.

There is so much more on the way.

For the Solo Traveller

For the one who goes alone,

This is for Claire from Idaho, in her youth and nervousness,
Taking advantage of barriers downed,
           with your blue eyes, dreads and shy smile.

For Bernice, and your bravery,
for your 60+ years of curiosity,
living like the locals with a grin as big as the sky
eyes as bright as a child's,
           elegant British accent standing out in the crowd.

For George, my old army friend,
Who wouldn't let me take his picture
But had the best belly chuckle,
And made bus rides shorter
          laughing at toddlers making friends.

For Andrea, with your weight and wonder,
Mind of a philosopher,
Heart with both hope and cynicism,
that hold hands with each other.
        There's no question in another life
         you were my brother.

For Pedro, a different kind of alone,
Battling demons the whole world knows,
Desperate for acceptance,
and meant for so much more.
         You are good, and you are worthy.

For Lino, the small man with the biggest presence,
Who takes no shit and speaks no english
Who has a true talent to antagonize without offending.
Who makes me feel light and joy, for reasons I can't explain.
          There is no language that could translate this.

This is for all of those open
walking different roads,
crossing paths and present
unafraid of the unknown.

And for me, always learning
          How much love this heart can hold.

How to Love the Broken Open Woman

Be fiercely independent,
and unafraid of vulnerability.

She will like to do things alone,
well planned and with purpose.
Be involved in your own activities, but want her.

Let her know she is wanted.

She will become absorbed in her passions, her purpose and work.
Sometimes in her analyzing, intellectual mind.
Don't mistake this for cold - just calculated.
Know not to fear the aloneness it leaves you in.
Be alone too.
We're all separate, navigating the edges of cliffs like lone trees,
roots reaching for the slowly eroding ground.
But then, this is not unique.

Whatever you need, know what you need, and have the means to provide it.
She's perceptive, and unless it is pressured, she'll meet you half-way
if ever you don't want as much space.

Whatever you do, don't fear the asking.

If she's gone inside herself for too long,
hand her a stone from a place that you wandered
and let your fingers linger in the passing.

You will stop time, and bring her to the present.
Be aware of her and she will be of you.
This intention will be noticed, and in this moment
she'll be a sea of love
filled by your small act of big bravery.

Let yourself be seen along with her.

Because she is reaching for the bones of you,
wanting to know your insides
what she already senses, whether you're prepared to be seen.
If you're ok with this seeking, you will know what it feels to be safe
in another's full acceptance.

For this woman knows her place in the universe, and yours -
Most of all, that it is perfect.

When she has to go, trust her.
She needs to get lost in the spin of the planet,
the vastness of the wilderness,
the variety of cultures to experience.
She is alive.
She is filling herself with the world, letting it sink in and change her.
The next time your paths cross, her heart open-even-wider
will swallow you whole, hungrier than before.
Don't expect the same energy, for she's ever-changing,
but always, always know her honesty.

I dare you to be moved, for a moment,
to hold her open, smiling stare
with her hand pressed to your chest.

She has all the love,
all the love -

Let it be for you.

Nursery Narratives

Thawed.
As ice in small hands, she holds.

It doesn't matter that she moved me;
I'm no longer cold.

I feel like a person
humble, gently flawed.

It doesn't matter how she judged me
Or what she thought she saw.

We are more than our stories we write of ourselves.

Greatest Loves

I wasn’t in the room when my father died.

We knew it would be that day. We could tell the night before, when his breath was rumbling up as if from deep beneath a gravel swamp. When he could no longer move his right eye, or blink with his left. His mouth hung open, his chest heaved in quick pants. He lay on his back with his ankles crossed, knees bent, legs splayed. They were so thin beneath the sheets, you could hardly see that they existed. Just a torso. 

Six of his seven children sat around his bed that day. I was on his left, holding his hand. His eyes, for the most part, didn’t focus on us, but, with effort, he could turn his head. My youngest sister came around to my side, to try and be near him. I watched her face. I could see the sick feeling well up, the naked fear and understanding of who and what she was witnessing. The strength she was desperate to muster against the terrible shock of that dreaded moment that was so quickly approaching. She paused, not breathing, and his good eye moved to her face. She said in a small voice, full of selfless compassion, “Hi, Dad…”, then slowly turned and left the room. His eye moved to mine, a flash of fear and concern, a father’s panicked demand mixed with helplessness, to help him take care of her. I whispered, “She’ll be ok. She will. I promise.” His focus drifted again, as if something was hovering near the ceiling.

We took turns then, each having a moment alone with what was left of him.

The night before, I was desperate to do something different – to feel alive and taste air that didn’t taste like hospital. My friend was in town. We had a night out planned for some time. Before meeting up with her, my sisters and I and our mother were in his room, talking about who would stay there that night. To keep watch for final moments. My older sister couldn’t, she knew, and was gently clear. It was Liz, or I, or Evan. Evan hadn’t yet, up to that point, and as strong as he had been through it all, I saw the little brother, first born son, resistant to being alone with it. I have deep regret now, to have stood for what I wanted and thought I needed to do, telling Liz I couldn’t. Her face was so defeated, open, childlike. My big sister.
I suppose mine looked no different.

She stayed the night. Mom relieved her in the morning, called us all to come around lunchtime. It was a perfect sunny summer Sunday. I had been up until 5 or 6am, in a random hotel room with a couple friendly guys my friend and I had met. At one point I stood, I would imagine to them, quite strangely – staring out the window across the harbor, to the hospital. That was the moment dawn decided to break. You could see the other side of the harbor, soft light on buildings and trees, but somehow the sky remained dark, and the brightest stars still shone.

That’s what limbo is. Here and not here. There and not there. In-between everything – death and life, child and adult, innocence and tragedy. It is being at the edge of a cliff, the blackness of an unknown transition all that is visible. That’s what I talked to him about in our last moment. Tried to share with him, I suppose. So he’d be less alone, trapped inside like he was, unable to move and speak. That moment, before a great change. I told him I watched the last sunrise for him, and it was beautiful, and full of a strange clarity.

After we each had some time, we sat on the hospital balcony, quiet, together. Liz spoke with nurses, Laura, the youngest sister, wandered in and out, back and forth from each of us. I was outside when he left. Laura came through the balcony door and released this sound… something akin to a slow break. Almost tangible. She choked on the words that I heard instead through her eyes, while our eldest sisters Andrea and Alayna embraced each side of her. Buried in their arms, her eyes drilled into mine, and the sight of that moment has stayed vivid in my mind like a postcard from another time and place, with colours too bright, too saturated, to ever dull:

He’s gone.

I held her face in my hands, I’m not sure how long, maybe only a second, then moved towards the room. It was so quiet inside. No rattle. No panting. I asked someone to call the funeral home. I remembered that Cyndi was coming, Dad’s on-and-off-again girlfriend, so I took a breath, and made the call to her. I told her I loved her and hung up, when my heart jumped – Where was my brother? He was there, in the room with him. Is he ok? Where did he go? I went back to the balcony, where he stood, apart from the rest, hands on the rail, eyes to the sky. I wrapped my arms around his back and gripped his forearms tightly. I felt him slouch, exhale, choke, then gently pull my arm away after a moment, to stand straight again.

That was the second time that day I felt my heart leave my body for a sibling. 

I turned, hearing our oldest sister let out a sob, like the weight of how much her younger siblings were feeling suddenly slammed into her, mixing cruelly with the part of her that felt separate, different. The part that didn't allow herself permission to feel her own mixed loss for a man she had such a different experience of. I held her too, because I knew those sobs being unleashed from the bottom of her big, beautiful heart held her own personal confusion, but mostly were not for her. She was among her siblings, who just lost their Dad, and she couldn’t fix it. She kept saying, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you guys have to go through this.”

Then I was outside the hospital, hugging my knees on the curb, smoking. I called to tell the person who had been my partner – a relationship that, from that last close moment over the phone, came to the end of its final disintegration. I texted a friend, who had just lost his own father two days before, who knew like no one else could just how much was behind those words on the screen, “He just left.” I saw the others walking in slow motion towards their cars, like they were dreaming, and their minds were awake in some alternate universe. A question would be posed, that would wake them for a moment, long enough to mumble an answer. "Where should we go now?"
Words wandered between us, something about mom’s house, and I didn’t want to go but I said nothing. They left. After awhile and a few cigarettes, I went back upstairs burdened with the sinking knowledge that I would never see him again after this day.
In his room, soon to be someone else’s, they were getting ready to prepare him. 

"Did we get all of his things?" I asked, realizing they saw someone lost, wandering in, without purpose, and it wasn't their job to deal with one broken person who stayed behind.

"Yes" they said.

“Ok.”
... I couldn’t move away.

“Do you need a minute?” the older nurse asked me.

“No… it’s ok…” I said, still not moving.

I stood silent, taking it all in. His face, so different without life. The quiet. I finally pulled my gaze away from him, and said to the nurses, and maybe to him, with all the sincerity my heart has ever held,

“Thank you. For everything.” 

The ten minute drive to mom’s took me over an hour. I kept stopping, pulling over, driving down side streets, trying to think of something or somewhere else, someone that would bring comfort. I kept finding only empty.

It’s been a year now. A year of tumultuous discovery, aloneness, and alarming numbness - Except for an intense admiration and love for my family. I've been simultaneously rife with an opening so complete to life and being alive, and an emptiness that is indescribable - as if I'd severed from myself to survive. Somewhere in all of it, the confusion and piecing together of myself, is a lesson in self-forgiveness. Of beautiful humanness, and imperfection. An understanding that time provides the means to feel what cannot be felt all at once. I could only look to those around me, who grieved more openly, and fall in love with their courage, while aching to relieve it for them in any amount, any way possible.

I didn't know how big my heart was, but it is becoming so clear. As are the things that are important, and have become solid priorities in my thinking and actions:  Staying humble, accepting, grateful - all of which lead to a compassion of indescribable depth, which in turn, leads to being truly free.

The tears I've cried this week, are more than I ever did then, and are profoundly beautiful.