I didn’t know.  I mean, I knew March 1st was coming…despite the extra day; despite the apparently ridiculous amount of work that keeps coming at me from every, single, space in my life; despite the “surprise” family vacation that ate the school break without apology; despite the coughing daughter who probably needs to see a doctor; despite the new glasses for the son or the teenager that seems to be full of all the right answers and is in need of nothing but freedom…but I didn’t really know.  I had crafted the first post many times in my head while avoiding any of the above obligations, but I still hadn’t fully committed.  It wasn’t until this morning, at 5:30am, when I filled in my participant information form, which necessitated having my blog’s password reset, because, even with the best intentions, my daily writing petered out until it finally dried up in some proverbial corner of my life. 

And then, finally, I reopened my blog and clicked: write.

Write.  One word, in the upper right hand corner.  Write.  I was shocked when my throat tightened and my eyes filled and I touched whatever that thing is deep inside me that had been sleeping.  No, not sleeping.  It was more intentional than that.  That place had been ignored.  Neglected.  Abandoned.  It had been shoved aside purposefully, because it had grown last year, slowly, imperceptibly, inch-by-inch.  Every day, at some point, last March, I had written. And published.  Put my words out there for someone, anyone, to read and judge.  And everyday I had read others’ words and comments and become, without realizing that it was happening, a part of a writers’ community.  And my words mattered.  And I cared.  And I was feeling a bit more whole.  And for some reason, that was scary.  But I was forced to continue, to write every day, to allow my words to find some place to land and take hold.  When March ended, I promised myself I’d continue, maybe not every day, but I’d continue.  But there were enough distractions, enough reasons, enough of life interrupting and eclipsing, that the daily writing fell off quickly.  The voice that had become louder each morning, in these quiet moments between sleep and Real Life got lost and I stopped looking for it.  And then I allowed it to shrink again, and it shrank just as slowly as it had grown during the 31 days, until it went silent.

How could I have forgotten this feeling??  The completeness of writing, and rewriting…searching my entire being for just the right word, just the right combination.  Making sure that the ellipsis–my absolute favorite mark of punctuation, for its unknown possibilities and its inherent forgiveness for not knowing the right words–wasn’t used too often. How could I have stopped writing?

I think this first post is really a post of gratitude.  Gratitude for this opportunity and for this community and, especially, for those incredible people who know how necessary this is and keep inviting me back.  Thank you, TWT.  Thank you, slicers.

I have never been so aware of my whiteness as I have been these past few days…ever since the moment I got my henna tattoo.  I was at a party–a lovely graduation party for a dear friend’s daughter–and they had hired a henna artist.  This was not the first time that I had seen this particular artist at an event; she has quite a reputation and is sought after by many people.  While she is clearly of middle eastern descent, her clientele consists primarily of white folks who like the beauty of the henna tattoo.  There is, to be sure, nothing wrong with admiring the beauty of the henna tattoo, nor is there anything inherently wrong with paying someone to put this artwork onto your body.   But for me, as the darkness of the ink sunk into my pores, the whiteness of my history grew brighter and brighter.

Macro and microaggressions have always belonged to others.  I pride myself on being fully aware of my words, my actions, and my privilege as a white woman in this western world.  Until now.  In a moment of slightly inebriated celebration, I allowed myself to not just covet that which belonged to another culture, but to actively take it and claim it for my own.  I had crossed a line that I didn’t realize had always been so close to where I stood.

I was instantly uncomfortable with my own hand, which is, for better or for worse, permanently attached to me.  While this transgression fades slowly away over the next few days, I am left trying to find ways to cover it.  I knew immediately that this was a mistake when I remembered that I would be tutoring my Indian student who had, occasionally, donned her own henna ink.  Would my sleeves come down far enough to cover the offending artwork?  How would I respond if she asked me about it?  Would she care?  Was it a compliment or an affront?  What was I saying to the other students in my class?  Would they take this as tacit approval to commit their own acts of cultural appropriation?  Or would they consider this an act of cultural appreciation?

I find it interesting that I am forced to confront this dilemma throughout my day, while the rich, beautiful ink slowly fades away, allowing my natural pigment to return and, with it, my comfort level.  My comfort with my whiteness.  Such a strange place to be.  There is a part of me that is in awe of the beauty that snakes around my fingers, which have become unusually elegant in this new dressing.  But this is a beauty that I cannot claim.  It is not mine nor should it become one more “conquered land” that I inhabit.

There are things that do not belong to us.  Every culture has an unspoken language, a way of moving through this world, that is unique to those who are on the inside, leaving the rest of us on the outside.  While we may be fortunate enough to be invited in, we must respect the sacred space as such, admiring and appreciating, but not appropriating.  There are things that do not belong to us.

 

(for mom on mother’s day)

 

I see you in me

the lines that crease my face come from a different sort of living,

but they are the same lines that have gently etched your story

 

I see you in my eyes, early in the morning,

when I stare, just a bit longer, to try to find out

who am I becoming?

and to see, maybe, what others can see

 

I see you in the photographs of me as a little girl

captured in a world I no longer remember

and I see you in the brief glimpses of my hips or shoulder

reflected in a window as I go about my day

 

I hear you in my voice, both in the moments of frustration & in the tenderness

pieces of you, occasionally, escaping my lips

finding their way into my own children

My hands have begun to make music, but they are not your hands

My knees have begun to ache, whispering warnings to take care and stay strong

And even my words get lost sometimes, making me wonder where lost words go

 

And now I watch my daughter…

She won’t see you in her mirror or hear you in her words

but when she finds my face in hers

and hears my song as she hums

you will be there.

“Trust your instincts.”

I don’t remember how old I was when my father said these words to me, but it was somewhere between the end of college and the beginning of real adulthood (for me, this was a 10 year gap).  I was distraught, the memory of my tight chest holding back my adolescent tears is still incredibly strong.  We were in the family room, TV providing background comfort.  I sat on the couch, legs curled up beneath me, while he stood, gently pacing the small space.  Our familiar positions suddenly were broken when he sat down on the other end of the couch, not too close, but clearly yielding his authority and position and handing over the decision making completely to me.

“Trust your instincts,” he said.  “This is your life.  It really doesn’t matter what I think.”

I heard the words but I had no idea what to do with them.  What did that mean?  Did he not care?  Was this another parenting ploy I needed to deconstruct?  I think that I mumbled some response, hoping to actually be the person that he thought I was in that moment, and the conversation was over.  He may have stayed on the couch, sinking into the distraction of the television, or he might have walked out to get a drink or check on some detail of adult life that I still hadn’t encountered, but, either way, I was left alone.

Decades later, I hear the words often.  “Trust your instincts” has become the defining force that pulls my parts together.  It’s not the gravity that we all depend upon, keeping houses, cars & feet firmly grounded on the earth, but the field that surrounds just me, as if I am the center of my own, little universe.  A solitary planet with its own pull, co-creating the concentric circles of orbiting paths for other planets that share my tiny corner of space.  It is my mantra, but it is only half of what was said.

 

 

 

There is a rattle

deep in the belly of our not-so-old car

plastered with its political declarations and subtle confrontations.

It’s not a constant rattle, signaling its discontent only upon the first turn of the key, undetectable to mechanics and other passengers.

It’s been there for so long, I wonder if it’s possible that it was there all along.

But wouldn’t we have noticed it?

Wouldn’t we have heard it when the car was shiny & new & full of promises?

And now that it is a part of the whole,

there are many days when the rattle is missed altogether.

But, there are days, when the rattle roars, forcing me to recoil for just a moment.

On those mornings

when my silence is assaulted by the reminder

that all is so clearly not right with the one thing I am depending upon

 

I wait for the crescendo…

and then the fall back to a quiet pretense that all is okay

 

Music is layered

with time

& sound

& heart

It is the movement

It is the stillness

It is the echo of worlds unknown

or, more accurately,

It is the echo of worlds hidden.

To write is to create

& define

worlds…

best left in the echo.

Sometimes I sit with the words, just waiting for the right moment

which never comes

I know the answer, even before the entire question is released

and

although my heart begins to race & I feel the capillaries opening

deep inside

I don’t make a move.

Words flow around me, arguments ensue, plans are made

I watch and witness.

What does it mean to fully participate in this life?

When does listening become passive acceptance?

I want to be fully present

but I am afraid to lose myself

completely.

10.  Then 12.  15.  Now 17…although if I stop and click?  Yep.  Over 20.  Posts just keep piling up.  Writing keeps being thrown out into the universe, gobbled up by other writers and some readers who are searching for answers? enlightenment? laughter? connection?

I am shocked by the way that daily writing, for an unknown audience, has shifted my world.  It did not knock me over, although there were days that I obsessed over finding just the right word, but it did make me focus on each step I took, wondering if I was going to land on solid ground or if I was going to tumble forward, grasping in the darkness.  I both loved and feared settling into my computer, unsure of what was going to find its way to the screen and, also, what was going to open up deep within me.

I have always written.  Always.  But I have never shared the way that I have shared these past 31 days.   I am buoyed by the writing that has surrounded me for the past month and so I am reticent to continue just for me.  It brings me back to my very first post…wondering if what I have to write is worth being read.  For now, I’ll hit “publish” and share the link and settle into my day.  Tomorrow will need to take care of itself.

I woke up abruptly from an afternoon dream and was struck by the permanence of death.  Again. This realization seems to be hopelessly attempting to penetrate my core belief system, diving at it over and over, relentlessly, yet being deflected by the hope in something more.  The hope that in the end there is really not an end.

No.  That’s not it.  The permanence of death is not in the theoretical or metaphysical.  It is in the pain that transcends words, even the words I am attempting to write.  It takes the living (and loving) into an uneasy space that is beyond the emotions we assign to the business of each day.

Actually, it is far more simple.  I miss my dad.  He died in 2006, the night before Halloween.  I was not almost 50.  I did not have 3 kids.  I was barely beginning to know who I was in this world, but maybe he could see glimpses of her, just as I have to believe I see glimpses into my own children’s true selves.  I was so incredibly different and, yet, very much the same as I am now.

And today he entered my dreams, solidly and completely, as much as dreams can possibly be.  And I don’t have the words to convey how it feels–so you would think that I wouldn’t try to write about it.  But I do know this emotion that transcends any label I’ve ever encountered is instantly familiar to anyone who knows loss.  It is membership into a club that, I guess, we are all supposed to enter, presuming that the natural order goes as it is intended.

I know that this Slice, this writing, this understanding about death and pain and permanence, is incomplete.  But it is late and the month long challenge is almost over.  So I guess it is an indication to me that, with more to say, the writing will continue beyond tomorrow.

 

I woke up this morning still carrying the weight from last night.  Although I slept, sleep did not seem to ameliorate the rage that shared my pillow, but not, curiously enough, my dreams.  I don’t even think I dreamed.  And now I am about to embark on another day without the fresh start that I had been promised eight hours ago.

In parts of Alaska, the sun is out for over 20 hours in the summer, giving the allusion of one day running, unbroken, into the next.  I have always been fascinated with the flip side of their seasons:  the winters when the sun peeks up, just over the horizon, for a mere 3 hours of visibility, before darting away, leaving the people to hibernate for weeks.  But the never-ending days?  I am exhausted by the thought.

I must have forgotten how this feels.  I do know that I have had many days where the night was merely a pause, not a complete reset.  While I can’t viscerally recall the hazy days and weeks of college final exams, graduate school all-night writing sessions or, most recently, the hours that rolled into one another when each newborn arrived in our home, I am struck by this familiar (and uncomfortable) morning with no discernible boundary.   But I recognize that it is not this entry into the day that threatens to rub against me continuously, like a wool sweater’s raised collar against unprotected skin; it is the fear that led to the anger which pushed me, prematurely, into a sleep that was more of a recoil than a retreat.

So, today, when I move out into the world, I will be aware of the blisters building to protect the raw skin that sits just beneath the fragile defense system. I will shield them, somehow, with invisible band-aids and gentle movements that will not burst this bubble, releasing the protective fluid and exposing the underlying skin which is vulnerable and defenseless.  I will wait for the blisters to heal a bit; I will wait for the promise of gentle sleep; I will find what my morning has failed to provide.