Sometimes we don’t
sing our redemption songs
in temples or stadiums
sometimes we croon out
our saving grace
in dark parking lots
outside of dive bars
at 1 a.m.
and I am playing
her like a piano
I am striking the chord
she does not want to hear
and I know…
I know.
It is knowledge
born of experience
and while I’ve never been
much of a singer
I am holdng her notes
singing her song back
to her here in the dark
and she just keeps talking
and she won’t shut up
and she is babbling about
wishes and wasted chances
and regrets.
and she is not feeling
she is only thinking
and she thinks too much
when what she needs to be doing
if she is going to sing this song
is feel.
I am going to make her feel
that’s the plan, anyway
but how do you make someone feel?
is it ethical?
is it logical?
Is it even possible?
About to find out…
“I saw how you were
looking at her,” I whispered
and she looked like I had slapped her
“That,” I told her, “was longing”
and she stammered,
“I just wish I had a way of knowing
I just wish I had explored this before
I got married”
and I cut her off
I said, “I don’t think you need
to explore anything to have your answer
tell me, if he wasn’t in the picture
would there even be a question?”
ethical?
logical?
possible?
her face crumpled
and I folded her up in my arms
and her aria poured out of her soul
and onto my shirt
and I relived that hurt of knowing
that nothing would ever be the same again
and she shook her head back and forth
against my neck
and her shoulders felt frighteningly
frail
as they shook in my arms
and she shook loose the song
she had held so tight
and she found not only that
she had a voice in there after all
but that she had vast range
and was capable of hitting the
high notes

The night comes back to me in flashes….

Downtown restaurant. Trendy music pounding on overhead speakers.

Pomegranate martini, tart and strong, filled to almost overflowing. My eyes water on the first drink and a splash spills across my hand and on the table.  My fingers are sticky.

A shared plate, salad with field greens, chicken, cashews, berries, manchego cheese – layers of subtle flavor pleasing my mouth.

My dear one across from me, tightly sprung curls surrounding an angel face.

My questions echoed in her kind eyes.

She is tentative, guiding me towards truth. Saying what she sees with no pressure or expectation.

She knows this space.  She knows me.  Better than anyone.

Her words ‘it is like the ocean’ unleash a longing in me I do not think I will ever be able to answer.

~~~

Later – the parking lot of a gay bar, found via google:

I’m too afraid to go in.

Women enter and leave, I think outloud  ‘they don’t look like me.  I don’t look like them’.

My head is down.  I feel alone and uncertain.

I catalog my heels and makeup and all this fucking effort against them, the way they seemed to exist outside of a world that has always demanded my assimilation.

The way they move suggests to me that they know who they are.

I wish badly that I did.

Shaking my head, pulling out of the parking lot.

Not ready yet.

~~~

Later: another bar, some random dive across the street from the bar we were looking for but never found.

More drinks.  Something pink and sweet.

The bartender is transgender, or a cross-dresser, or a drag queen.  I don’t know which.  I am reminded how small my world is, how little I know.

Flashing LED light show on the dance floor. People watching.  Texting.  Giggling.

A girl.  Tall and thin, sleek short hair.  Skinny jeans.  Young and chic.

My eyes following her.  Laughter and teasing threaded with undercurrent of danger and boundaries that must not be crossed.

My dear one reminding me of what I already know.

My heart pounding and head spinning in a way that is beginning to feel familiar

~~~

Later: In her car

She pushes me.  She knows she has to. Makes me admit, makes me see.  Makes me speak.

Grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around and forces me to face this truth.

I can’t catch my breath.

Sobbing in her arms.  Wailing.  Fists pounding.  Fighting so hard against all of it.

I’M NOT READY. I DON’T WANT THIS. I’M NOT READY. I DON’T WANT THIS.

I can’t do this.

It hurts.  It fucking hurts.  I CANNOT breathe.

The ground collapses beneath my feet and I wonder how on earth I will take one more step forward.

It feels like hours that I cry.  Cry like I never have before.  My head hurts.  My heart implodes.

~~~

Later – home:

My head spins.  The drinks and my emotions combine.  Emotional Inebriation.  Dangerous.

Fuck…it’s all dangerous now.

I bang into the walls on the way down the hallway.

He is there.  He is always there. I always want him there.

I don’t remember what I say, just what I don’t say.

What remains unsaid always seems to be the most important part.

This is where the undoing begins….

I’m not nearly as strong as you.  I can’t leave.

Oh darling.  My sweet, wonderful, intensely brave darling.  Sit down with me here, cross legged, face to face. Take a deep breath.  I want to lift your chin and look deep into your eyes and tell you some things.

It is not the leaving that makes you strong.  Endings do not mark you as brave.  Courage does not only lie in being the one who initiates destruction.

Yes, all of those things require strength.   And oh, if you have ever been the one to leave, or end or destruct, I want to cradle you in my arms and tell you I know your pain.  But the other choices- when the only thing to mark the difference between before and after is your own quiet resolve – those also require strength beyond comprehension.

We are all on a path.   Day by day we decide if we’ll follow that path, or forage a new one.  Sometimes the choices are not clear, and everything seems twisted and painful.  But moment by moment we choose, because we have to.  That’s how life goes.  The big bold stuff gets the attention.  The tearing down, the crashing and banging and wailing and starting anew.  And we all say ‘Isn’t she brave?  Isn’t she strong?  Isn’t she courageous?’

And she is.  Of course she is.  But you are too.

Oh how strong and brave and courageous you are.

Sometimes stillness takes far more strength than movement.  There are times when choosing to stay requires a level of fierce tenacity you wouldn’t need if you decided to leave.  Boldness does not always declare itself to the world and demand attention, but rather lives steady and small in the spaces we choose to continue inhabiting, even though we are called elsewhere.

There is no shame, no lack of strength inherent in your decision.  To rebuild instead of tearing down.  To recognize that perfection is not always found in novelty, and that all the answers lie within, not without.  To know that what you have is precious, and to not be willing to risk it.  To look it all in the eye and say “I choose this.  Not what might be, but what I have now”.   This is nothing to ever be ashamed of.  It is not the lesser choice.

It is not weak.  It is not cowardly.  It is not less authentic.  No less worthy of respect and admiration than my choice, or her choice or their choices.    We often measure our choices with words like good and bad, right and wrong, strong and weak.  And they are all of those things, and none of those things.  They just are.

No matter which road we choose, it will always require a profound and audacious level of guts.  It will be a testament to our spirit and our faith, and it will push us to our edges and pull us to our center.  It will be the embodiment of love and heart and soul and inspiring commitment.   And it will be brave, and strong and true.

Because living is courageous.  Every single moment of it.

5.20.09

Ever since I read these words they have been swirling through my mind.  How I wish I had this one and a half years ago and could have sent it out into the cosmos to the people that mattered.

I would have taken those words and wrapped them in layers of my heart and dropped them like fairy dust over the houses of my loves.  I would have attached words of my own so my voice could have whispered through the wind and lodged in their hearts so they would know what I could not say.

I have to go away now, for a little bit. I wish I didn’t, but I have to.  This is a lonely journey, you see, and it is impossible for me to be lonely with you in my life.

Please understand (I would plead) Please don’t leave me, even though I am leaving you.  I could not bear it if you did.  I need you so much, especially right now, when I am not able to accept any of the loveliness you have to give.

I cannot take for granted that you will be here when I return.  I cannot be so arrogant as to assume that once tucked away on a shelf you’ll be willing to be brought back out on my timeline.  And oh, how that frightens me.

But, you see, I’m going to be doing things that I don’t want witnessed. Chasing and facing demons that are mine alone.  I’m going to be flying and lying and climbing and crashing and dismantling and I cannot bear your kind eyes on me while I do.  I cannot know you are watching while I bring forth self destruction and devastation in the name of survival.  I love you too much.

I am not strong enough to walk this any way but alone.  I need to know that I can walk it alone.

I will be back.  I pray I will be back.  All I can do is hope, with everything I have, that you will be here when I return.

~~~

The relationships I walked away from then, the most precious of my life, are still being rebuilt.  They are – in many spots – still tender, and tentative, and there is much trust to regain.  Every now and then something happens, and I realize how much I still have to make up for.  I hope that I can.

He comes to pick up the girls a few times each week, often arriving right at dinnertime.  I cannot seem to let go of the feeling that I am still responsible for feeding him, so I offer him some food.  Minestrone and crusty rosemary bread, pork and pineapple stir-fry with jasmine rice.  Food made for a family that is his, and isn’t is.  He always says no before he says yes.

Just a small bowl, he eventually agrees, and stands at the corner of the table to eat.  He never sits.  Somehow I think it would be too much for any of us to bear.

We talk about everything, and nothing, like it’s really all okay.  And it is okay.  Except that it isn’t, cannot be, not really.

And I am aware, in those moments, that there is no finite end to a breaking heart.

ten years today
and I love him.
truly
still
always
no less than I did then
really, I will love him
Forever

I didn’t know what that word meant
not really
until well after the end
now Forever has a context
that I can grasp

Forever is wedged
like an ache in my heart
between the memories
of his tears at the end
of the red carpeted aisle
and his tears the nights
our daughters were
born
and his tears the day
i choose to stay away
instead of coming when he called.

you know,  love has nothing to do
with gay or straight or
the number i select to represent myself
on some scientifically proposed
continuum of sexuality
or whether this is my definition of
intrinsically right
or someone else’s definition of
inherently wrong

because love lives in
an entirely different
place than dogma
and structure
and schemes of classification
and division
and it even lives in a place
beyond time

today i balance
the need to honor this love
for him
without dishonoring
her
because
both are a part of me
now

you see
regret is not always a synonym
for mistake
and it is true that
self-inflicted wounds
often take the longest
to heal

and so today
ten years later
there is no celebration
no sappy love cards
no declarations
but there is the memory
and those exquisitely beautiful girls
who are the reason for everything

and the love
there will always be the love
Forever.

No, you were never going to be my forever, but you were exactly what I needed you to be, when I needed it.  And I think I was the same for you.  Some of it was shitty, and some of it was blissful, and all of it took me places I’d never been.

Our lives crossed at pivotal moments, times that brought us both face to face with the darkness and light within, nights where we encountered strength we didn’t know we had, and weakness we didn’t want to claim as our own.  As crazy and mixed up and painful as it sometimes was, for that brief period of time there was a purpose to us – to what we were and were not to each other.

What you give to the world is such a small part of what you are. You hide your heart under layers of bravado and attitude and edge.  It protects you, keeps you safe.  I know that, because I know you.   But I also know – from the times I saw you cracked open – that underneath that facade there is gentleness, and kindness and loyalty.   Your truth does not always lie in your words, your body language or your actions, but it is always there in your eyes.  I promise you that I will always remember to look there first, and to trust in what I see.

When I hugged you tonight, I wanted to cling a little longer to the moment.  We have seen each other so infrequently over the past year and a half that I didn’t anticipate it being difficult, but I was overcome by a fierce tenderness that took me by surprise.   Somehow, saying goodbye to you felt like saying goodbye to that time, to the months that carried me from that life to this one.  It was harder than I expected.

I wish you only goodness and love and growth in your new life far away.  Face your fears, stand up tall and take that city by storm, in the way that only you can.

Only good things, little one, the very best of good, good things.

You were important, and I will never forget you.

~ Benjamin Button

~~~

He always told me that the freckles scattered across my legs and arms were worm holes, and I believed him.  After all, they did look suspiciously like the dark spots on the crab apples littering the ground beneath the trees in the lower field.  I worried about this, about when the worms got in, and how on earth they would ever get out. He teased me mercilessly on my summer visits, nabbing me as I ran through the room and trapping me between his legs – in what he called a bear trap – tickling me until I gasped for breath.

He was a woodsman, like his father before him.  I remember the softness of his worn flannel work shirts, the way the scent of the forest clung to his skin, and how his fingers seemed permanently stained with dirt and tractor grease.

He was somehow different from the rest of our noisy crew. He mostly held himself outside the fray, observing the chaos with quiet amusement, chewing on a bit of wheat or a tall piece of field grass plucked outside.  I had a sense, even as a young child, that he was far more comfortable in a quiet stand of trees than he would ever be in the midst of his highly social family.

Today word came, traveling as it does amongst family, from aunt to aunt to mother and finally to me.

You know how your uncle feels about gays and lesbians? He doesn’t think it is right at all.  Your aunt says it would be best if you didn’t come up to visit.

I’m still for a moment, blinking back surprise and sudden tears.  My throat is tight and I summon a bit of bravado that I don’t really feel.

Fine.  His loss.

Yes. My mother agrees quietly.

~~~

On my last visit home this was all just beginning to make its slow, painful ascent to the surface.  After six weeks of idyllic vacation I returned to the desert and within days the foundation gave way beneath my feet, beginning a free fall that lasted for almost two years.  I was nervous about coming home, about finding the courage to present myself to those who have known me since birth, and to stand without apology before them.

I’ve been here for two weeks, and it’s been so uneventful so far as to be anticlimactic.  I had an idea that my differences – that sense of otherness that has been my companion often on this journey - would be more profound here.  Instead it’s been elusive, so much so that I have to remind myself that anything has changed at all.

At home now, amongst the green and the water and the earth that seems infinitely more solid beneath my feet, I’m reduced to my essence.  All the rest swirls out of my grasp and all that’s left is me.

It’s a lesson in layers, in all that I carry with me by choice, all that I hold on to, to protect and comfort and make fierce.  All of that belongs in the desert, it seems.  It has no footing here by the sea.

Without all those labels and identities and protective spells wound tight around me, I am open and simplified.  My breaths are drawn deeper and I can allow the moments to steal over me and make me still. The drive to go-go-go eases up, and all that is left is to be.

From the nomadic childhood existence of a preacher’s daughter, I drew comfort in the eternal sameness of my summer home in the country, nestled along a rutted country road in a protected curve of the Bay of Fundy. No matter what happened elsewhere during the year, this place remained untouched.  It is only now, having changed more than I ever thought possible, that I realize the root of that comfort lies in the knowledge that I haven’t really changed at all.

The crashing waves and the green grass and the ancient trees will greet me and accept me as they always have.  The air, electric with the buzzing of thousands of insects, will touch my face and find that I am no different than I was before.  And when I raise my eyes upward at night in the darkness only found deep in the country, the thick blanket of stars will not wonder who I am. They’ve known me forever already.

Nothing changes, really.  Like the rocks on the beach, we are broken down, carried places, placed in new formations, but always, at the heart of it, exactly the same as we began.  Even if we don’t at first recognize ourselves, we still belong, still exist, are still a part of the same infinite whole.

~~~

His loss?

Not really.  Our loss.  All of us.  His and mine and theirs and yours.

Don’t you see? I want to scream. Don’t you understand? I’m the same girl I was then.

Worm holes and all.

but what is time,
really?
just a convenient
way to measure
the complex
activity of our
hearts
and if that is all
that matters
(and I believe
that this is
so)
then perhaps we
should expand
our discussion of
time to include
other measures
like the number of times
my hair has brushed
softly across
your face
or how often your teeth have
closed on my
skin
or the numerous tracks
my tears have left
on your shoulders
or maybe even
(if we blow our minds wide open)
how salty those tears
tasted when our
lips joined to
intercept their fall
(because who says time
must be discussed in terms
that can be counted, perhaps
time is just another sense
like touch
and smell
and the sound of your laughter)

we have encompassed
rush
and reality
and burden
and bliss
and fullness
and emptiness
and have been each
of these things
to one another
and everything to one
another
and sometimes
(in the darkest moments)
nothing to one
another
we have swung
from understanding
to questioning
to accepting
to rejecting
to knowing
but somehow
we have always
swung back
together

we know
with the certainty
of two who
understand that love
is not always
enough
(not nearly enough)
that we don’t get a
guarantee
and we push against
cynicism and yearn for
blind optimism
because we want
to believe
in the notion of forever
the way we did
before

but I think sometimes
our doubts are
our biggest gifts
because they keep us working
keep us from our blindness
keep us from expecting too
much
and accepting too
little
keep us seeking
and striving
and stretching
beyond the surface
and into the depths
of us.
and most of all
they keep us saying
yes
yes to the insanity
and yes to the chaos
and yes to uncertainty
and even yes to ugliness and heartache
and resentment and dismay
(because those emotions
must be honored too)
and then yes to
laughter
and family
and future
and home

yes
yes to time
(in all it’s
complex measures)
yes to future
and what it brings
yes to not knowing
to working
to bliss and floating and melting
yes to yelling and crying and pouting
yes to ecstasy and agony
and all the in crazy
mixed up in between
and certainly
yes to trying

Yes to one year
Yes to us.

there was this one night
just last week
when i saw these
at trader joes

b. thought they were
b-o-r-i-n-g
(being all one colour
and pink at that)
and so tried to
direct my attention
to some
brightly coloured
daisies

but these
for some reason
in their softness and
strength
captured my attention
and so I bought them for
her

(and to make b. happy
we got the
daisies
too)

and much to my surprise
when we got home
we found that sometimes
love and flowers go
hand and hand
and there was
another bouquet
waiting for
us
(because she
wanted to give flowers
to her girls).

isn’t it nice
when things just
come together
like that?