Tag / family

by bcmiller2014

Putting it Out There

It’s been a while.  Hi!  I just posted on my vlog about being vulnerable, so here I go in written form.

I hid in the corner, back then,

so young, so

shamed by being my

self, shaking, feeling

anxious for no reason and so

so

stupid.

You saw me and coaxed me

out as though I were feral,

or as if I were hiding in

a shell somewhere where people

payed money to stare and tap

and wish I were more brave.

You saw me in there and I don’t know

how you did it because I didn’t

know how to be seen or even

what color my sad fins had

joined to become after they

began life as hands.  I

felt loved.  I felt safe

enough to let my 20” deep

aquarium thick glass to keep the

sharks in/out wall

down

and all the water flooding through

the entry.  And it was good.  God.

I miss you so much.  But you

left me full, with fingers and lungs and

the ability to breathe air in the

company of others.

 

by bcmiller2014

Compounded

She calls in the morning, when
I’m waiting for alarm, breathing
the regretful morning, wishing
for light beyond sunlight and air
beyond breeze. She has no special 
ring tone, warning and dread 
having cancelled each others’ performance. I roll over. Groan. 
When I was small she’d care for
me when I was sick. I used to dream
of being ill, but then I wouldn’t admit
it when I was. She didn’t complain.
Never, forever in agony, and 
everyone admired that.
We were closer than mother and 
daughter. We were confidants, the
only other people in the world who
understood. And she needed me. 
I was her support, her best friend,
her reason for meaning. 
She sniffles on the phone and 
says she’s fine, her voice crackling
like a brittle leaf in autumn. The words 
are always different than the 
interpretations, but vague enough
to make me doubt myself. 
My spirit is emptied by her now, 
poured out without a conscious 
thought, painted on an underpass 
along an empty highway.  I drive
under my own graffiti, always 
desperate, no matter the colors in use.   
  
by bcmiller2014

The Lie that She was Small

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.

by bcmiller2014

Hope

I want to see what I
haven’t seen before, and
I don’t mean “The Alps” or 
“The Eiffel Tower.”  I want to
see things that matter.
I want to see through the 
eyes of my more colorful brothers
and sisters, to find out what life
has really been like for them. 
I’m vanilla white, sunburn-prone,
and privileged for no good reason. 
I want to know what people have 
suffered and what I can do to
make it better.   Hope is power. 
I need to see a way 
forward, a clue, a shred of what
might be if we dream, if we 
dare to see maybe and perhaps
as mighty and in the end
something worth living for.
To see that, I need
to listen. To hear hope I need 
to see. You, me, and everyone
are a family in a whole new way, 
use consonants to create space 
and vowels to punch holes in 
our sentences.  We speak
because words are power. We 
listen because it’s electric. It
brings life to our lonely sentences
and makes humans out of all
our shattered ways. 

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 II

I’m grateful to say I’ve been the recipient of an amazing amount of love during my life, and not just from my sweet husband. Although I was loved as a child, it was mixed with a lot of emotional unhealth.  When Keith and I first got married there were a lot of disastrous familial events as well. When I think of being loved, I think of the time since I moved to Seattle. 

When we first came we didn’t know anyone. We’d simply fallen in love with the area while interviewing for work, and decided to go ahead and move.  It was risky but such a good decision, and good timing, too. We got here in August, 2001. Had we waited another month the world would’ve already changed and we’d probably have stayed where we were. 

We found an apartment in a charming part of West Seattle, immediately painted it tangerine and magenta to offset the coming weather, and worked on getting jobs.  In the evenings we found ourselves staring at each other blankly, and outside of deciding we’d overreacted to stories of cloudy Seattle days and should probably repaint, we wondered how to get connected with a community. I was still entrenched in all the “shoulds” and “oughts” of Christianity so finding a church was automatically on our list of things to do. I have to admit, it did provide a means of meeting new people, and we were fortunate to find a faith community in which we seemed to fit.  

The church on which we settled was located in the heart of the University District, which has a slightly ragged vibe and is home to a lot of street kids. In the 60’s it was actually designated as an official area where the homeless could legally hang out.  The church leadership seemed humble and the people down-to-earth, and a lot of genuine, practical care was expressed toward those in the neighborhood. The sanctuary walls were and still are, I am sorry to say, a horrendous shade of peach, and the trim is kelly green with red accents. The building had been used as a Mongolian grill at one point, and there’s never been enough money to redo it.  

After church one Sunday there was a potluck lunch. Now, Seattle has a lot of remarkable qualities, and one of them involves the regional cuisine. We focus on fresh fish, vegetables, lovely gluten and dairy-free options, and plenty of international influences. Our specialties are coffee (of course), teas, chocolate, and artisanal breads. In general it’s quite fabulous. Our church, though, was a quirky little melting pot of hippies, students, professors and international visitors. While a Midwest potluck would consist of half a dozen casseroles, some chickens, part of a cow and the inevitable jello-based salads, we found our own potluck dishes were limited to fried rice, some chips and something that smelled profoundly of garlic and coriander. There wasn’t any soup for my shaky hands to deal with and nothing was exceptionally bad on its own, but it was a strange conglomeration. We’ve never been back to a potluck since. 

We lined up behind another couple. The  pair were engaging and affable and the wife was extremely pregnant.  We chose to sit together at a small table, and as we started to chat we began to notice unusual similarities in our stories. Linda and I were both born in small, northern towns in Illinois and majored in music for our undergraduate degrees. Keith and Jason looked like brothers and even wore the same wedding bands. Even more notably, both pairs of us went to Wisconsin on our honeymoons. Who else in the world would do that, on purpose?  I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with Wisconsin, but as far as honeymoon destinations go, it’s somewhere above Detroit but below places where you can’t drink the water.

With each revelation Jason and Keith grew increasingly animated and Linda and I began exchanging glances that said, “Oh my God!  How can there be another man who’s this energetic and expressive?!” 

Strangely enough, for the next month or so we kept seeing each other everywhere.  We’d pass on the highway. We’d bump into each other in a suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. They’d be sitting in a cafe that we’d spontaneously chosen to visit. It got to be ridiculous. It seemed divinity was determined for us to get together. 

After Linda had their first child, a baby girl, she and Jason started feeling isolated, themselves. They no longer could go out and visit with people in the evenings without getting a sitter, so they decided to try bringing visitors to them. They opened their little home to a group of friends, and we were included.  It was through this community with Jason and Linda, that for the first time I began to experience unconditional acceptance. Even when my facade was broken and people could clearly see how fucked up I was, hugs were waiting for me on the other side of our friends’ front door. 

Jason’s hugs were the best. He was always the greeter and every single time he saw my face, he was genuinely glad to see me. His put his whole body into his hugs, and wrapped me up in his acceptance. All I had to do was show up, which was sometimes quite an accomplishment. 

Often I’d be hiding in a corner, making myself as small as possible. Jason would inevitably call me out, and I always had wished someone would. I’d felt invisible and hadn’t liked it, even though I had no idea what to say or do to be different.  When I was with those friends though, I was wanted, and that was everything. I began to learn to let myself be loved, which was crucial on many levels.  It’s hard to love others on an empty tank. 

Those first few years here were some of the most dreadful, soul-shredding, family-building years of my life.  I never would’ve survived on my own, and there I was in a brand new, somewhat introverted city building some of the deepest and most rewarding relationships I’ve ever had. It may have qualified as a miracle. It’s possible that it saved my life. It’s certain that it saved my basic faith.