Rejected feelings, stick figures in a
full bodied world, find paltry places
in which to hide themselves, sitting
with their knees splayed out, their
elbows pointed arrows in the
directions I haven’t gone. Angry
buggers, and who can blame them,
dodging the out-flung expletives I
hardly ever throw? If I feel sorry
and feed them, will they thrive, and
then, what
will my penance
be?
I am not done. My
story is not over. The
sunlight waking colors in
great swaths of green,
the thrum of human
energy optimistically
planning on unguaranteed
destinations –
I sit with my head low and
admit there is more that I
don’t know than I do, and
that is a reason
to hope.
They scraped away the seagull nest on the building across from mine. I was going into the kitchen when I noticed him, the maintenance man up on the part of the roof that no one had ever been on before. He stared at the green mound and then kicked it with the toe of his boot.
I’m not unaware of the difficulties associated with seagulls. I’m also not unaware of the difficulties associated with humans. We’re the ones who removed the trees, toxified the water sources and put plastic into the mainstream animal diet. Compared to that, I think a few issues with seagull feces are relatively minor.
The pair of seagulls who’ve nested on that site have been there for at least eight years. We’ve watched them take turns, never leaving the eggs alone. They’ve warded off eagles and annoyed a few humans who wanted to smoke on the roof. One of the most hateful grabbed a two-by-four and tried to strike the protective seagull down. Of course, I was yelling and gesticulating wildly in my unit across the street, wishing for a zip line over there so I could give that man a piece of my mind.
Every year we name the babies. One year I was especially worried that something bad would happen to the sole fledgling and I named her Fly, in hope that it would be a prophecy of sorts. Usually baby seagulls take time to figure out the whole flying business. The babies hop-hop-hop and flap their wings. Then they graduate to short trips around the roof before taking off after one of the parents, toward the Puget Sound. Fly skipped all the steps and went successfully and directly to full and comfortable flight. She looked around as if to say, “Yeah. I was born for this.”
Some years there have been three babies, and then I focus extra prayer on the underdog. One is always dominant, then there’s the head honcho’s buddy, and then there’s the free spirit. S/he’s typically a little more submissive. I worry about that one the most. But every year since we moved here, we’ve never lost a baby. I know it’s the same pair of parents, too, because the papa has a gimpy foot.
Seagulls are loyal, protective, and downright beautiful. I love them. I actually love most all of the animals. I can’t help it. I love the plants, too. I’ve been known to hug a tree.
Someone once said to me that if she loved all the animals as much as she loved the humans, she wouldn’t know what would happen to her. In the context of the conversation I think she was assuming that I, therefore, must not love humans very much. For the record, I do love humans. The fact that I’m infinitely grieved by the ways in which we selfishly despoil environments across the globe in our constant battle for economic supremacy notwithstanding, I love humans as individuals. I have many friends. I love my students, coworkers, and even my dear and difficult family. I guess then, that I am evidence of what happens to a person who can’t help but love with abandon.
I can hear the groaning of the earth, feel it shift in discomfort under my feet. When I hold a baby rabbit, which is one of my favorite things in the world to do, I am at once delighted by the sweet and vibrant life in my hands. I treasure the ears, the twitching nose, and the big thumper feet. Simultaneously I am deeply saddened because I know that this tiny life is fragile. Everything eats rabbits. They aren’t known to be hardy. It is guaranteed that this one precious life will suffer pain and cry out in fear. There is no way of guaranteeing otherwise. It’s the way of earth, as it is, and I do not believe it is as God intended. It’s a product of human intervention, and God’s way of compensating. Every time I see a freshly developed construction site, with its felled trees and uprooted daisies, I grieve.
Now, the point of this is not to say, “Poor me. How unfortunately perceptive I am.” The point is that there is a price to love. The truth is, every time we love anyone or anything we are opening ourselves to loss and pain. Those of us more inherently in tune with the natural world are perhaps most aware of this, because loss is so frequent. Nevertheless, it’s true for all. Some losses are more painful than others. My little white cat keeps nuzzling my hand while I write. Assuming she dies before I do, I will be wrecked.
That’s how I feel about my seagulls. If they rebuild the nest and maintenance decides to destroy it again and kill the babies I will be absolutely beside myself. I’ll probably have to take off of work. I think we may have to say goodbye to them and move, just to protect my sanity.
So yeah, I love just about everything and I deal with depression and anxiety. There are other reasons for this, of course, but my big love (for which I can’t claim credit, having been born this way) plays a part. Here’s the thing, though. I wouldn’t change it if I could. I can’t bear the thought of not appreciating all that is wonderful in the world, including you, even if it means I have to pay in the end.
I’m hoping I got this from God. I’m hoping he feels like this, too, and that somehow he’s going to make everything right. I’m banking on it, because if Love is the source of the universe, s/he’s not going to bear suffering forever. Someday she’s going to say “enough,” and all the rabbits and the seagulls will be fearless. And selfishly, the ever-ache in my heart will be gone. Until then I will groan with the world and keep learning to love more selflessly, because it’s the only reason to live.
I panic when I cannot sleep.
I cannot sleep because I panic.
I know damn well that there’s no
real cause for alarm, but it doesn’t
matter. Controlling the process
is controlling the direction
of the wind.
I am sad when I see cruelty. Because of cruel people I am sad.
I know that these persons are
primarily hurt, but it doesn’t matter.
Controlling the process is controlling
the height of the waves as they wash
the shore.
I draw a circle and it is round. When I
see a round shape, it is a circle. It doesn’t matter. They’re one and the same and all of life is like this. We wonder, when it does not matter, which of all came first. Controlling the process is holding hands and expecting not to be strangers.
Pain creates a haze
most times, as
though there is no
handle on the door and
the whole great world
were a paper bubble
around itself, crinkling
frail with a few sirens
thrown in. That is, unless
it’s sharp, and the
moon’s outline is a
knife that cuts the
inked sky and lets
the dragons in.
I opened,
inhaled
understood,
and
my floor was not
grass, and my sky was
low, my heart
cracked in that old
lost line of
withering
with the withoutness
of you.
I am a note in a barely flat
down from birth,
breathing loud and crying
quiet. Carried in circles,
the music of my silent
self undressed, ashamed,
and just a little too
human to go back where
I came from. I
am an unmother with open
arms. Define me, if
you dare but know I
carry your tears in my
pocket and they’ll
return when your eyes
glass over. I
am a learner who
shares to love the thoughts
I feeling buy and make
for dinners, some
healthier than others.
I am no chef. I
just try to eat the
real stuff.
Her mother said she only ever
could rely on family,
misty-eyed recollecting
isolation, the inescapable
feeling she was a
smaller species than others
she had met. Her mother was
taught by her parents, of course,
both of them djins released
from bottles, booming
names with cloud-trumpets
and opinions pulled from sandstorms.
Magic was full bright but
sadly mathematical with them.
They felt small, too, probably
taught by their parents.
Their daughter
was different. Of all the
DNA combinations
possible from two tempests,
her recipe twisted around
itself and dreamed. She was
flowers in a music garden, white
eyelet and patent leather shoes,
unruly red hair, magic
filtered soft through the evening.
That was her destiny, poor girl.
To them, she was smaller still, though
she could bellow a pipe organ
beautifully. In the end it was all djin
air and it made its way home
to the bottle.
10:29 on a Sunday night. It’s
the hard night, the
night before the possibility
that I will fail, disappoint,
fall apart. I fear this night
without thinking about it.
I have breathing exercises,
prescribed pills, and routines
to keep me calm. My heart
thumps faster than it should
and I know there’s no reason,
except the world isn’t a
safe place and a person
never knows. But except
for that.
What are you
doing here? Where were
you born and how old
was I?
You are here and
you are big. I cannot
conquer you. I can’t
pray you away. I can’t
meditate enough or breathe
enough or ignore you
enough to un-create you.
Quite frankly, you’re a
problem.
You are here
and you are small. You
have no facts, even when
I can’t argue. You will
not kill me. I won’t give
up. We’re going to have
to be roommates for a
while until finally, I can
maybe get my own
place. Until then, what’s
your name? I think we’re
in this together.
Five years are nothing. In five
years we breathe, we wake up,
we shower and go to work, we
go about all the business of
living. We eat pancakes and
decide what kind of syrup to
pour. Pure maple from a tree
for me or nothing, but you
weren’t so picky. You said you
were our campy friend,
and always sounded a little
ashamed, as though being down
to earth and able to start a fire
were something bad. I never
got to square that with you. We
always just laughed, and I never
told you, in a way that you heard,
that I loved that you were campy.
I loved that you were a fire-starter,
a seer, an enormous voice. You
were so, so big. You were the full moon in a sky full of stars, gleaming on the rough Sound of all the lives around you. I think you still are. I see you, your hobbit feet all swimming in green in a pocket, just to the right of the moon, but close, in the know of all our outs and ins. You piss me off sometimes, grinning there where I can’t touch you, as though your hugs were unimportant. They mattered, you know. They made me a person who was wanted and that made me want to live. I don’t know if you knew that, but I guess you do now, five years later, since you passed between pages from the book we know here to another one, where you can see all the colors. I miss you. I’m sorry it hurt so much. First brother, adopted late, I love you a billion years more.
Not Quiet Any More 