Grief, suffering & sacrifice

Years ago, a friend of mine said to me, "You have a deep well of grief hidden inside you." At the time I didn't believe him.

But evidently I didn't dig the well deep enough. Or maybe didn't hide it well enough. A couple of years ago it overflowed or came uncapped or was stumbled upon. Whatever it is deep wells of grief--hidden in such a way that the person housing them doesn't even know they're there--do.

We are supposed to be in control of ourselves and our emotions, but I am not in control of mine.

I cry. Like, a lot. "I could write a whole book on crying," I wrote in one of my pieces, and it's true. This essay might be the beginning of it.

Malcontente

Today the dogs weigh me down.
I think how nice it would be
to walk alone
without competing agendas.

We walk for a full block in harmony.
Then one stops, digs in her heels to sniff the grass
the other keeps walking
I pulled taut between them.

Three creatures vying for control.
I win only
because I'm biggest and strongest.

Today the fact that the dog walker
tied a series of knots in my dog's leash
two years ago
is a fresh source of annoyance.
And the dirt or
possibly dried shit
at the foot of my white comforter.
And the pile of unwashed dishes 
waiting in the sink,
and counter tops unclean with
crumbs and spills.
Just the thought of them
exhausts me.

Yesterday it was the neighbor
who brings his Rhodesian Ridgebacks
unleashed to my front yard
as though it were a city park
to do their doody.

The day before it was 
a lover's waning interest.

I feel the muscles 
knotting between my shoulder blades. 

We walk past a garden box with
unplucked cabbage
now of gargantuan proportions.
If all the people disappeared
would the cabbage spread out and run rampant? 
Would it shelter 'neath the rhododendrons
or overpower them?

This waning moon
is taking its toll.

The marks of civilization

I've been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately, so I'm feeling rather snooty. I'm always affected in some way by the things I watch or read that I get really into. As a result of watching that show and of traveling out of Portland for the holidays, I've come to realize that there are certain signs that help me recognize when I'm in a civilized (or less civilized) place.

In Downton Abbey the marks of civilization include running water, electricity, and a telephone (or two, if you're really rich). Some of the characters also define civilized as having enough footmen to serve dinner without bringing the maids into the dining room and having spare valets available for overnight guests.

I am not content with running water, electricity and a phone. Those things are important, of course, but I take them entirely for granted and assume that even uncivilized places have those things. And I don't care two figs for having a bunch of servants. (To tell the truth, I would be made uncomfortable by the idea that someone else was to help dress me and serve me dinner, as Matthew was when he first came to Downton.) Even so, what I consider to be the marks of civilization are still heavily influenced by my socio-economic class and the customs in my particular geographic location.

The Marks of Civilization, According to Sione:

Random thoughts (12/11/12)

Random thought #1
I believe that everything happens for a reason.

Which is another way of saying that I am (more or less) the sum of my experiences.

Which is another way of saying that the present moment is the direct result of every previous moment.

Which is another way of saying that I believe that there is something to be aware of and to learn from in any situation.

I'm usually pretty successful at deriving one or more lessons from an event in my life, but every so often something will happen that causes me to ask, "But what does it mean?" (Yes, in this respect I may resemble the double rainbow guy a little bit.)

Lately I've been reflecting on those things that happen that seem to be going somewhere but then don't and then I'm like, "Okay, what was the point of that?"

The day does not care what day it is, Part II

The day does not care
what day it is. It's Friday;
the rain has stopped.
Stepping outside
I am greeted by sunshine and
warm air: a world washed new.
"Come out and play!" says this day.

Yesterday I was tired
in body and spirit,
so I rested. Today the day
beckons: Come out and play!
My body, breathing deeply,
pupils dilating, says,
"Yes! I want to work.
Sweat. Breathe the air and
clean the tar from my lungs.
Hear the breeze whisper
through the tree-tops."
So I go.

On top of Mount Tabor
all covered with trees
a man with a
baby in a backpack
has stopped, pointing
toward the city skyline,
head turned over shoulder.
"Look," he says to the baby. "See."
He wants to share the world with her.
His daughter is so little I think
she can't possibly understand
or focus or answer.
But as I pass he says,
"Isn't it pretty?" and
she acknowledges
the beauty with 
something approaching words.