Category / Uncategorized

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. 

by bcmiller2014

Where the Colors Go

I don’t know where the colors
go when the sun goes down at
night, or when the finite end will
come to open the spectrum
wide. I’m not a honeybee. I 
don’t glow ultraviolet like a
wolf.  I’m just me with my eyes
wide brown trying to find you,
trying to ask who you really are
behind all the light. I may
be burned for trying but my
questions burn anyway, 
through my life and the evening
and the same instance of 
opposites that have always 
held my attention.  Show me 
where the colors go, and take me 
there in the morning. 

by bcmiller2014

Waiting

Waiting is a branch from a 
fallen tree, the air in Georgia in
August, a bronze statue of a 
dog with his tongue hanging
out. It is silent. It doesn’t sit and
hum in the lobby, feet kicking
back and forth under a seat 
that’s too high. It can panic,
but never makes a scene. 

Waiting is going for a walk while
tests are being run. It’s talking 
with a therapist while it hails out-
side, inside where all the dreams
are, afraid of being killed. It’s 
paying $4.27 for a chamomile tea
with soy, because something warm
in February makes everything easier
to bear. 

Waiting builds muscles, enhances 
communication skills, forces re-
evaluation of all the whos and 
whats of identity, plans, and certainties. 
It shreds. It strains. It plants it’s feet
or lifts them up, allowing itself to
drift into the wide fog and accept
unknown destinations. 

by bcmiller2014

X-Files (because how else does one follow the story of a brother’s death?)

Since the last thing I wrote about was the death of my adopted brother, I wasn’t quite sure where to go with my next entry. It felt a bit strange to say anything without it sounding like, “Well, one of the most important people in my life died a horrific death at a premature age. Now, Happy Holidays!”  Weird. So I decided there was really only one thing I could do. I wrote about the X-Files. 

When the show “X-Files” first aired in the late 80’s, I wanted no part of watching it. I didn’t want to develop my own mental files full of spooky images and metaphysical freakiness. I was such a little Puritan back then that I didn’t even listen to “secular” music, and my absence of a dating life was, well, fodder for another post. 

It took a number of years, but as I grew up I started thinking that if God was threatened by a little Sci-fi he needed to be bigger to be worth my time. I also became a sucker for imaginative, morally complex programs and probably dared to try the show once and got hooked. I admit to being a born nerd. 

I still watch the show in syndication.  It’s outdated. The computers are antiquated and the effects rely heavily on low light levels. As with any good show, though, it rests on solid characters who are believable and three-dimensional. Dana Scully is young and idealistic. She a doctor who follows the rules and relys on scientific deduction in order to establish her beliefs. She’s also the one with a faith tradition in the Catholic Church, and her cross necklace is intentionally visible in various episodes. As the show progresses she struggles with her faith but it appears to me that over time she becomes the embodiment of a marriage between science and faith. 

Fox Mulder has plenty of faith, but sometimes lets his judgment become clouded by his passions. He is the believer avidly pursuing evidence to support his theories of government conspiracies and extra-terrestrial life. Without Scully’s steadying influence he has a tendency to get himself in trouble with vampires or killer cockroaches or some guy whose shadow kills people.

In my early days I thought the show was sort of heretical, God help me. Since then the internal boxes in which I held all life’s answers have become unhinged.  Engaging in the mental work of reconciling spiritual mysteries with concrete realities is a struggle from which I’ve emerged thinking that mystery is one of the few realities that are actually dependable.   God, if he is any kind of God at all, isn’t afraid of mystery or doubt or the study of science in the world he made. 

Real life may not be full of monsters and aliens and toxic bugs, but then again, it’s a damn dangerous place. And the dangers here can be interminably dull when you know there’s no able partner out there, running to your rescue. It’s tempting to give up, to curl into a ball and close out the world. Hope can look stupid.  

I’ve been tempted many times to disengage from the process of growing, facing my demons and engaging in relationships with other people. It felt too overwhelming and futile. Thankfully, when I’ve been in that state I’ve had people who’ve extended themselves and offered safe haven to my delicate heart. It’s helped me not to give up. Believe it or not, that’s what X-Files is mostly about for me. They never give up. I want to believe. 

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup, Part V

I don’t want to make you wait for part V so I’m posting both parts together. Even so, I must admit I’ve been avoiding writing the end of this story, but it’s real and true and needs to be finished.

Jason, Linda and Michaela left for school in Nebraska, in the summer of 2007. It was a long way, but we were planning to road trip out there as soon as we got a new car that would serve us more safely as we crossed the mountains.

I wasn’t particularly good at getting on the phone. I never have been, actually. They were well acquainted with this fact, though, and Facebook helped a bit. No matter, they were embedded in our hearts as family and we ached for their presence. We deeply grieved their leaving, but knowing they were enjoying their new life, doing things that they loved, was comforting.

Every time we heard from them Jason was ecstatically happy to be back in the world of theater. He wanted to teach because he was the kind of person who wants to share. He wanted to pass along his passion for the stage and help those younger than himself to find their own ways and discover their valuable places in life. He was a giver.

In October of 2009 I woke up to a text message from Jason. It was something about the hospital and ominous tests, but I couldn’t associate it with my vibrant, magnetic brother. I decided it must have to do with another friend. All day though, that text kept interrupting my other thoughts. By evening the air was ominous. Something in me knew that the ground under my feet was shifting. By 9:00 we knew that Jason had been admitted to the hospital in severe pain, and we were waiting for test results.

I spoke with him in the hospital the next day. “I didn’t want to be a wimp if all I had were hemerroids,” he said, and I scolded him and laughed. We talked about the schools where he’d already sent his Curriculum Vita, looking for a teaching job. I was supportive and enthusiastic until he got to one in a city I rather loathe.  I was silent for a moment and he roared with his big Jason laugh. We agreed to hope for a different place to go.

Test results started coming in and I got over my phone aversion quickly. I had to know what was happening. The news wasn’t good and we asked if and when they’d like us to arrive in Nebraska to visit. Thanksgiving, we decided, would be a good time. It needed to be soon. Jason had stage four rectal cancer, and a bunch of us started getting back together on Fridays to pray, while Jason was on speakerphone. We took up a collection to get them a juicer, and I started trying to find funny gifts I could send to try to lighten their spirits. Jason got a colostomy. He actually begged for it after a few horrific times in the bathroom. He went to start treatments in New York City, where they had the best specialists. His wonderful family joined him there.  His brother, Matt, helped him travel.

The treatments started and he went home to Nebraska. He moved down to the basement because he was so nauseated he couldn’t stand to be jostled in bed. He felt sidelined and alone a lot, despite all the love so many tried to give. His Mom moved in to help for a while.

He was gray when we got there. He tried to hide his suffering but I grew up with someone in chronic pain. I know what it looks like. The spark had gone out of his eyes. I discovered that all I wanted was to be near him then, to soak up his presence as though I could keep it with me in a jar forever. We were still talking as though there was hope, but something in me knew. I just knew he was leaving, but hadn’t yet boarded the train.

We helped with his furnishings in the basement so he could be a little more comfortable and then we had to come home to work. Only a few weeks later, on 01/11/10, he did board the train and left us behind, bereft and longing. And yet, we couldn’t help but notice the exact date of his departure as one final message of hope. Jason was forever seeing repeated digits on the clock. They’d come to be a kind of language between him and God. They were reminders to him that he was right where he should be. I can’t tell you how often I see repeated numbers now, or how I sense his presence in those moments.

I flew to Nebraska immediately with a friend, and Keith followed a couple days later. If there was one good thing to come out of it all, I became connected with Jason’s warm and loving family. We all clung together for days as though we were on a life raft. It didn’t seem possible that a man full of more life than anyone else on earth would be gone at the age of 37. It was immutably wrong. Yet, it was true.

Here’s the thing. I don’t have any clear lesson to give about God here. I know Jason had a clear and shining faith and I believe he is with God now. He’s doing wonderful things, leading theatrical productions and writing musicals. What I want to avoid though, is even a hint that God allowed it all to happen for a reason, so Jason and all of us would grow and be better people. If that’s true, well, I’m not investing in that God. That’s the mad scientist God I grew up with, and whoever invented that guy can have him back. So I guess I lied. There is a lesson, at least about the God I believe in, after all. It’s a broken planet. There are many, many things that happen here that are fundamentally and excruciatingly wrong. God is with us in that. He teaches us how to love each other so we can survive and have life again, later. He groans with us and collects our tears. He takes us home, in the end. I don’t know why he doesn’t intervene more except for the whole “free will” bit, but I refuse to accept that it’s because we’re in a crucible he designed so we’d be perfect, like some crazy Aryan family. If he is love, that is not okay with me. I can’t reject God altogether, either.  He was Jason’s God, and Jason knew stuff.  I’ve experienced things of my own. I believe God sent us Jason and his family so I could have my first brother, be seen, hugged, accepted, and nursed in some sense, into accepting life. Jason would be heart-broken if I were to lose all those precious gifts because he’d simply had to shift dimensions. He’d want me to love more, to accept love more, to continue to open my heart to God and health and living my life as deeply as I possibly can, and I try each day to honor that.

Jason was right about one thing. He wasn’t the last brother I would have. I have at least two more, to date. I grew up without much family, and things were messed up with Keith’s family and me, too. Jason opened the door to having adopted family. I can share my life and figure out who the safe people are. And I can look over again at the clock, see 11:11, and know Jason is well, and near.

Jason head shot

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup Part, IV

KBM_A0110 One day when we were standing together at church Jason looked me in the eye and said, “I’m not the last brother you’re going to have.” He had that serious look when he said it. And he had the gift of knowing seemingly impossible things, so I believed him even though it made me sad. He’d let us know that he was applying to MFA programs in theater all across the country, and we knew he’d be snatched up if there was anyone smart left in the world. Our time with them living close by was drawing to an end, and I didn’t like it one bit. I couldn’t help but be happy for him, though. He’d sacrificed so much, and his heart so obviously yearned to be involved with work on the stage. Keith and I were both thrilled and heart-broken.

We knew already, I think, that the Friday Friends as such could not survive without them. They were the glue. Jason naturally ran interference between a couple people who cared about each other but weren’t really compatible. Linda was the planner. She gave our little troupe of eccentrics stability and just enough structure so that group events actually happened. They both had a gift for building bridges between people who wouldn’t otherwise get along.

Before they left we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Keith had vowed to himself that it would be a big deal, because our honeymoon had completely and totally sucked. I’ll leave that for another post. Just think band camp, Wisconsin, car problems, emotional meltdown, canned fruit and Precious Moments figurines. It was all kinds of bad at epic proportions. Anyway, the up side is that Keith splurged on our tenth. Keith’s Dad had been a spy (yes, really) and I claim he inherited the spy gene. He’s profoundly gifted at sneakiness, in the best possible sense.

He created our anniversary as an event that would unfold for me bit by bit. Dinner at a nice restaurant was first and he made sure there were flowers waiting at the table. When it was time for dessert he managed to subtly steer me toward a different cafe. When we went inside he spoke to the hostess and we were magically whisked to the front of the line. As soon as I went through the doorway I saw, sitting there as though they didn’t live 2000 miles away, my childhood pastor and his lovely wife. I think I may have squealed. These were people with whom my family had spent holidays. Tom had married us ten years earlier and had proven himself trustworthy and kind in immeasurable ways. They’d known me since I was eight years old and my heart was already full with the grand surprise when they said they were going to visit Barbara’s brother the next day and would love for us to come along. I was over the moon.

The next day Keith ran off on some mysterious errand and returned with a friend’s red, Mustang convertible. Then off we went in style, but strangely, when we finally got to Barbara’s brother we only stayed for five minutes and left again. It was somewhat surprising since they lived so far apart, but none of my business. I happily tagged along until I finally realized we weren’t in fact headed toward home. We actually had arrived at the ferry to Orcas Island. The four of us were going to spend the night at one of my favorite places on earth, in a lovely little inn overlooking the east island bay! Heaven! I don’t think I’d ever been so happy. I was happy on our wedding day, of course, but I was too nervous to be what you’d call “giddy.”

After breakfast the following morning we went back to our rooms and Keith pulled out a dress of mine that he’d packed with his things, along with the shoes I’d worn to our wedding. I’d been purging our 600 sq. ft. condo earlier but he’d snagged them out of the bag to Goodwill. Now here they were, transformed by an artist friend to match my dress. It says something about my commitment to yoga pants that he still had to convince me to dress up. I did finally consent and he took me out, across the street to the adorable white clapboard church I’d fallen in love with when we’d been to the island before. And then I recognized it. My pastor’s deep baritone came rumbling a hymn out over the lawn and my knees began to tremble. I made it up the steps and through the front doors, and there were most of my dearest friends, all gathered together to celebrate the two of us as we renewed our vows. There was a full reception following, complete with a professional video message Keith had made to tell our story.

Yes. It was the most romantic thing ever and I felt surrounded by love. Most people wait until later, maybe the 25th anniversary, for a splurge like that. Most couples haven’t overcome all that Keith and I have. Keith also said he felt a certain urgency about it. Jason and Linda were still with us and the Friday Friends were still intact. We didn’t know how much we’d need the memory of that special time, but we did know that life is short. We’ve always wanted to live in the now, and not wait to do everything we dream of at a much later date. So in that time, with all those precious friends, we knew we’d done something important. It wasn’t just fun and romantic, although it was both. It was an alter of sorts in both our lives. We could look back and be reminded of the many great gifts we’d been given.