Month / December 2014

by bcmiller2014

Short Life

When I’m done here I won’t have children, to continue drawing my line. I’ve never really understood the comfort in that, anyway, except some of my stuff would wait a generation or so before ending in a landfill.

We breathe in and out and carry things around feeling important and devastated and small, and then we simply leave, shifting dimensions with our carcasses left behind. Carcasses. Stuff. Anything else?  What stays, at least for a while?  If love stays, where does it go, becoming as it does, conjoined with inexpressible pain? I know of course that it fills me up from the toes. What else?  I ask because that’s what I want my life to be about while I’m here. For all my abstraction and taste for temporary things like print-making and flowers and hugs, I want to center my time around permanence. I think. 

Would collections of impermanent things become permanent over time?  Might they be embedded in the energy that is me so they remain, like navigational coordinates for future travelers?  Art decays while it is here on earth but does the creative act likewise become corrupted, or does it hover, joining with the life-bringers in a great, joyful dance we cannot see? Flowers last only days, dropping petals, browning at the edges. Everything lovely and natural and sweet like a lilac breeze (not those horrid, wide-eyed porcelain figures that bait with the subtlety of dart boards) may somehow collect itself, honey in a jar that we find on the other side. And hugs, well, those are obvious, I suppose.  Physical manifestations of affection, support, love, comfort, must somehow remain, even if they’ve leaked to somewhere we can no longer feel them from here. They carry meaning.  They carry hope. They hold every ounce of anything that ever mattered anywhere. 

I suppose those are still the things that matter to me, then. If I end this life having done nothing but loved, comforted, held, beheld, and generally spent myself on beauty, authenticity and kindness, then I will have left behind the only things that matter. I’ll do other things sometimes, God help me. I believe there is grace for that. It gets burned off as we transition from here to there. So since I have no children I’ll spend all of myself on you and me and the God who made all the good stuff, all this weird interdimensional, grounded reality and spiritual plane shit, as though he knew what he was doing when he put everything into play. Maybe each one of us is actually a note in a grand orchestral song. I think that would be fine with me. 

by bcmiller2014

Checking In

Check the box for “in”
please, when we haven’t 
known for long what’s 
real and actually 
happening during the
day, while hours pass 
like conversations drifting
either to course or off
and over waterfalls. It
helps to hear other 
voices calling out to each
other, solid almost as 
though we could hold 
them and be kept on
this side of the rocks. 

by bcmiller2014

New Year

And just like that, it’s over. 
All the twinkle lights and 
farmed trees in their red 
buckets of sugar-water,
windowsills with garland and
Doctor Who marathons 
opposite Jimmy Stewart on the 
old movie channel. 
I’m sleeping until noon until 
next year whether it 
brings happiness or the
drab kind of weather that
requires gin and a therapist. 
The truth is we never know 
what’s coming. All we have 
is this moment, this one 
breath for our senses to
collect all their data on
the now, regardless of
circumstance, and find 
their own reasons to 
choose love. 

by bcmiller2014

Roller Coaster

Chug up, push
down lift over roll 
forward running 
knowing one will
follow others. 

Chug down, pull
forward, pry up
backward crawling
guessing others
lead to more of less. 

Up and down and
forward backing
love and silence
linked together riding
roller-coaster-like,
wanted undesired. 

Days and evenings 
given taking work and
playful inklings lost,
the serious small 
injuries compile
to hemorrhage life, to

death we travel 
swift and slow by 
blinks and swallows 
flying, limping wishing
for a mindful heart that
filled instead of emptied. 

by bcmiller2014

Colorful Language

I dye my hair purple to
say something about
myself, using color 
as a statement, a
definition of sorts. I 
have the choice to use 
it, to pay for it and have 
a nice conversation with
the colorist, my
linguist, giving me a 
language of my own. 
It includes words like
“rebel” and “artist” and
probably “democrat”
though it has nothing 
to do with my politics. 
I don’t mind. They 
describe me, after all,
but don’t define 
me. They don’t limit
what I’m able to say. 
I can supplement with
my voice, my tongue 
twisting air bravely 
into syllables that say
I’m sensitive and shy
and kind. The language
of my hair conflicts,
actually, with my 
demeanor. It makes
me at once bold and
reticent, vivid and 
mellow, unhindered and
subdued. Color says 
something about every
person, but doesn’t 
contain the whole. 
Who I see hears 
differently than I say
or scream loud over 
what others think I
listen, communication 
scrambled and the 
power to feel confused
in the moment. 
Stop. 
Hear my color, see
my story, the me behind
all the words and 
visual aids, and I will
do for you, as we are
all given our own
languages to pluck 
from the grass and gather
like bouquets, the
hardest part being
to listen. 

by bcmiller2014

Touching

My parents never touched,
their own frayed edges 
brushing occasionally by
almost accident but never 
grasping strong with hands
that really meant it. I never
wondered about it. My 
normal was their far-away
barely there frailty, in
a cage they built in 
childhood. My empty 
hands didn’t know where
to go with their reaching,
even pudgy knuckled, so
I kept them closed. 

Closed, I left myself out-
side, forgetting finding 
me needing touch to 
give me somewhere to
connect, someone to
love who knew my 
name. I forgot to be 
born. They killed me but
didn’t mean to. Man-
slaughter. Slain alive,
breathing without 
oxygen, flailing around
in the deep end with
no way to swim. 

Bony-knuckles open 
I can spread my
palms and choose.
Interesting how 
much I need to be
touched to want life,
to see life as life instead 
of something involving
action but little 
meaning, small love
and bland step behind
step. I can swim and 
snuggle and twirl and
be a person who
wants to be here.
Because love is not a
theory, but a hug when
I cry in a dark room. 

by bcmiller2014

Christmas Angels

They always say not to
be afraid when they arrive
burning hot like the
sun. Above and around,
knowing what God looks
like they generally have
less to say than I’d think –
not like stars though, not
far away, but slipping 
between realities as 
though they were sheets
of paper. I’ve heard 
they sometimes fight
their way through when
darkness guards the
page. Do not be afraid,
as though we could 
manage it, however 
good the news. But
I’m glad they try 
anyway. Like comforting
a baby when there’s 
a loud noise or a 
change in cabin 
pressure. Elevated,
unreasonably loved,
ransomed, so to speak. 
Do not be afraid. Okay. 
I’ll try to believe
they mean it. 

by bcmiller2014

Being Me

I have more than one side to my personality, perhaps more than most other people. My students rarely believe I’m an introvert.  When I’m in front of a room full of students I am passionate, quirky, and outspoken. They know exactly what I think about environmental issues, architectural integrity and twentieth century design. I can be silly and self deprecating and confident. I dress for the part as though I were taking a role on stage. I make sure the clothes are fairly comfortable, but I also ensure that I look the part of an artist/designer. The artist quotient enables me to be slightly more casual than otherwise. I get my nails done. I have my hair colored, with a purple streak somewhere. My glasses make statements, both pairs. 

As soon as I leave the classroom I’m in standby mode. I’m ready to interact with students in a professional level, but I revert internally to a more introverted state until they appear. I keep a professional distance in my interactions. I’m fairly silent with most other professors. 

At church they would never believe I could act like an extrovert. I’m quiet, almost silent. I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts.  I’m full of questions. I disagree with some of the church policies, but hardly anyone knows. Mostly I go so I can get hugs, and sing when I’m needed with the worship crew. My uncertainty about just about everything leaks through.  I’m pretty tapped out from keeping up all that professionalism during the week. 

When I’m writing I can be sarcastic, witty and vivid. I can sound totally confident and slightly snarky, but if a reader were to meet me in person s/he’d find someone who’s agreeable. Affable might be a good term. 

There are exceptions but when I’m with most conservative friends I’m quiet, because I know I disagree about at least a few things. In their eyes I know I’m the one who has God issues. I accept the perception that I’m the one who’s fucked up and waiting to be fixed, even though I no longer believe this is more true for me than anyone else. I lose touch with my own thoughts because I assume they won’t be accepted. It’s really annoying actually, because I truly value differences and would love to be able to have open, respectful discussions in which we talk about what we believe and why. We could offer ourselves and discover that hearing different perspectives makes us richer.  Instead I shut down despite myself.  Moving away from this is part of my healing process, I know. 

I am happy to say there are also people who defy categorization. These are the people who are in my life because they want to be, they like me, and political affiliations aren’t a big part of the picture. With these people I can find myself jabbering away. I talk about my classes, my thoughts, my opinions and my fears. I ask them about themselves. I’m hungry to know. Sometimes we can be silent together and it’s totally fine. I can tell them if I need something, and I can count on them to value me even though they see my weaknesses. They see the good stuff, too. 

So who the hell am I?  Identity is actually an issue that has plagued me all my life. When I was in school I wasn’t there to learn. I was there to figure out what was expected and then meet those expectations. I was pretty good it. I had a great gpa, and I developed the capacity to morph into whoever I was expected to be. I didn’t know this then, but I learned how to do that at home. Mom needed the emotional support of a husband. He was emotionally absent, so I filled in for him. She needed one person with whom she could be herself, so I became her safe place. Dad needed a dependable employee, and an intermediary with Mom when they had misunderstandings.  I figured out how to meet those needs, too. If I didn’t have a particular role to fill I crept back into myself and didn’t share much because I didn’t know who I actually was. This made being with other people generally exhausting because if I was with more than one person in a social setting I couldn’t possibly adapt to all the expectations on my radar, and once again I fell into silence.

How do we figure out who we are?  I think it’s supposed to happen during childhood, but what if it doesn’t?  How do we keep our footing and remain grounded in our general attributes, values and beliefs while maintaining the social complexity to adapt to varying parameters?  It’s perfectly healthy for there to be a teacher and non-teacher version of myself. It’s much like playing a theater role. The rest of my plasticity is a little too much. 

We’re all allowed to have our own opinions. People of good faith and intelligence come to different conclusions. That’s reality, and part of why we need community. We need people who will stand up for what they believe and humbly listen to those who differ, without losing grip of who they are. I want to be one of those people. I’m learning how to be one of those people. I allow others to have their own opinions. I need to extend this grace to myself. That seems, after all that I’ve written, to be key. And being who others need me to be is totally different than being me and meeting the needs that I can in a healthy way. Maybe I need some boots. Maybe that’s why I have so many boots!  I’m ready to stomp around in my own skin, express myself and be. I hope you are, too. The world needs both of us. 

by bcmiller2014

Strangers on a Train

If I met a stranger on
a train I’d run like hell if
he said much. I’ve watched
Hitchcock and sci-fi. No 
driving at 150 mph. No sky
diving. No space exploration
for me. Life is scary enough,
criss-cross hijacked work
and all the unexpected. 

Weaving in I see you, great 
golden-eyed feline protector
growling fierce and low,
my champion love and 
savior all in one. Weaving out
I see the darkened rest. Warp 
and weft deny each other, 
refuse to catch. There’s 
calliope music in the distance 
and people flip knives on 
the dock while boys are 
bought and sold.  

No, if I met a stranger on a 
train I’d run all right. It’s not
the right answer 
(being afraid)
but I’d run anyway. I’ve seen 
few lions in the city.  I cannot 
know the God-mind, father-
mind, free-will, big picture and 
find my way safe in the blind. 
And If I may say, how then can
I trust you?  

by bcmiller2014

2014 Year in Review

I’ve noticed everyone putting together digital photo albums to commemorate the last year. They look great. Really. I’m just not up to doing it. 

Last year I put together Christmas cards with an insert that said “Don’t Ask” instead of my usual, newsy update. I didn’t actually get most of them sent. I guess that’s just something that can happen when a person has had a breakdown during the year.

There are actually quite a few surprises associated with breakdowns, although of course, I’m only familiar with my version. Long after the death wish phase has passed a person can find new evidence of collateral damage. One of the most disturbing things to me is that my handwriting changed. I don’t like this at all. I used to have pretty great architectural lettering, and now I just can’t manage that much control. I’m still taking an insane number of supplements as guided by my naturopath, because so many of my systems are still depleted. Sleep is fickle and problematic. 

On the other hand, I’ve noticed that I have much less tolerance for taking the blame for things. It’s sort of ironic. My breakdown caused me to see the factors that led to it, which in turn resulted in the revelation that I’m a really strong person. Yes, I have real issues that I have to face, but I’m a damn powerhouse to have made it this far. I don’t want to put up with any more of the “it’s all your fault because you’re fucked up, you dear and delicate soul” shit. I have a lot of great insights, both in spite of and because of my experiences. I am full of compassion and loaded with the need to be real. A person never fakes his or her way out of a breakdown. 

How in the hell am I supposed to cram this into a happy little “year in review” album for Facebook?  I don’t have pictures for the times I’ve managed to get out of bed and go to work even when I felt like I couldn’t move. I didn’t take selfies at the doctor’s offices. Not any of them. I didn’t record my voice when I allowed myself to be angry about some injustice in the world. All I have are cat pictures. 

I guess if you’re getting this, it’s my version of a 2014 summary. I was still recovering from the breakdown in 2013 when I got a herniated disc from a bad chiropractor. There was a shooting at my school. I go to a new and gentle chiropractor three times a week, see a therapist and insist on honesty in my relationships. I love my husband and a freakin’ lot of other people. And animals. I love almost all of them. And I can give six hours worth of lessons on environmental issues without looking at my notes. That about sums it up. Maybe next year will involve more images and a  link to a Christmas carol.