Tag / love

by bcmiller2014

Dr. Chris

I won’t be seeing my friend, Dr. Chris, today.  Business just got too slow and the rent too high, so he had to close his doors.  For three years I’ve seen him at least three times a week, for several hours at a time.  Technically he’s a chiropractor, but for me he’s been so much more than that.  When I first arrived in his office, referred by a friend and desperate, I could barely get myself onto one of his tables so he could work on me.  I’d had a bulging disc that I’d been working on with a physical therapist, but I thought I could heal even more if I had chiropractic help as well.  I went to someone with a good reputation.  I was interviewed by one person and treated by another.  My theory is that communication went awry because with one aggressive move, that chiropractor turned my bulging disc into a herniated one.  Once the jelly is out of the doughnut, there’s no putting it back.  I could barely walk.  Keith would take me from home to school so I could teach, and then cart me back so I could get horizontal on our firm sofa.  If I moved suddenly it would feel like someone was stabbing me in the leg with a knife.  I went, in under a second, from being able-bodied to being permanently disabled.

I wasn’t very trusting after that.  Western medicine offered me the choice of cortisone injections into my spine until the cortisone would begin to degrade my spinal tissue, or permanent medication that had a list of horrific side-effects.  I tried the cortisone twice but it hurt like hell, had minimal productive effect, and caused my heart to race for days.  I tried acupuncture.  I think it helped a bit.  I tried sound wave therapy.  I don’t know if that helped or not.  My last traditional treatment option was to fuse my discs together, and my physical therapist did not recommend it.  He said that over time the fact that two discs were in an unnatural position would affect the discs above and below causing an eventual cascading failure.  Finally a trusted friend recommended Dr. Chris.

Chris Abrahamson is a tall, fatherly Swede, and the most gentle man I have ever met.  His prices were ridiculously reasonable and I immediately felt safe with him in spite of myself, so I decided to give it a shot.  The first time on the table, I could barely tell he was doing anything.  He was touching my spine but not with a lot of pressure.  I would have thought he was a fraud except that when I got up I felt a little better.  That was the continuing trend.  I’d go.  He’d be gentle.  I wouldn’t know why but I’d feel better.  Continuing treatment is necessary for maintenance and there’s never going to be yoga, running or any high impact activity in my future, but I can get around pretty darned well these days.  He is everything a chiropractor or any kind of doctor should be.  But here’s the thing, he’s more than that.

Chris is a genuine healer.  His calming presence is soothing to everyone who has come into his office.  I’ve watched it happen.  People are full of anxiety and stress, and when they leave they are relaxed and smiling.  Personally, I have an anxiety disorder.  I can have my heart racing when I’m thinking about flowers.  Part of the reason I went to see him so often was because when I went, it calmed me, even on really hard days.  I also have a hard time expressing how I feel, and so I carry a lot of my feelings in my physical body.  It’s weird, I know, but it’s true.  There were times when no one else was there and he would lay his big open palm on my shoulder or stomach and I would start to bawl my eyes out.  It didn’t bother him.  He’d just sit on a stool at the head of my table, his hand on my shoulder, saying oh so quietly, “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”  He’d hand me Kleenex and then when I sat up he’d sit next to me and I’d finish crying on his shoulder.  He always had a twinkle in his eye and when I was depressed he could always make me laugh.

Once Keith was out of town and I was at home and accidentally grabbed the handle of a skillet that had just come out of a 450 degree oven.  I could hear my fingers sizzle.  I was in so much pain and had no idea what to do because ice made my pain go through the roof, and all I could remember were old wives tales about burns.  With my remaining functional hand I texted him at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and he texted right back, “No ice!  Use a bowl of cool water!”  I did so and texted a couple more questions.   Then I tried to leave him alone.  Pretty soon I got an incoming text.  He was checking on me to make sure I  was okay.

When I needed emergency surgery he came and visited me in the hospital even though he hates hospitals.  He held my hand and got teary-eyed because it was right after surgery and I was a mess.  He really, truly cared about me.  It was so appropriate and so extraordinary to have a doctor as a father figure caring for my emotions as well as my body.  Maybe because it was another chiropractor who hurt me, after a while he only charged what I had on my HSA.  The way he treated me changed the way I view God because it changed the way I view men and fathers.  And I know I’m not the only one who has been utterly blessed to know this man and be helped by him.

Monetarily some may look at his life and think it small.  They would be wrong.  I have never met anyone who gave so much to so many, expecting so little in return.  This is, in my opinion, the definition of a powerful, meaningful, important life.  Without him and his generosity there would be so much more suffering in the world.

His life has become an example of true success to me.  Even if I don’t make a lot of money I want people at the end of my life to say that I made every bit of difference that I could, loving people and the creatures of the world to the best of my ability.  I may not be a healer in the traditional sense, but I can be a lover of all through my research, my art, my words, and my actions.  I will sometimes fail, but I will keep recommitting to love because those with the most beautiful lives I’ve seen, like Dr. Chris, have done the same.  Hopefully we’ll go out once in a while for tea because man, I’m going to miss that guy.

by bcmiller2014

Sick

So I may be sick so

what’s new, what’s 
extraordinary, what 
makes me get out of
bed each day, after I’ve
cursed and snoozed the
morning alarm for at 
least a half an hour? I
was sick yesterday and
it didn’t stop me from 
going to the store or 
wondering if you needed
new socks. Being sick is
only temporary, no matter 
the end, so why change
today and leave life before
it’s done?  I’m not a 
microwave kind of girl. I’ll
stay in the oven until my
bits are crispy if it means
more time with you. 
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

Laying Hands

I used to wish he’d lay
a hand on me, to
hold or even thrust me
down into the ground 
as though I were a 
shovel with a sharp
edge splitting the earth
to make room for some-
thing to grow
up
in a tortuous glory
of green and 
amber light. 
He never did, of
course. No bruises
we could see, but
a waifish vine 
ascending by
itself. 

by bcmiller2014

Seagull Tears

She didn’t cry when the
seagulls died, or seemed
to, their nest uprooted
with a handy plank and
discarded in a slick black
trash bag on the roof. 
She didn’t cry then. She
cried later, when she couldn’t 
find her keys, and when 
she sat with friends 
discussing completely
unrelated things, and 
when she went to check
her email. Grief is funny
like that. 

The birds were
okay. Watched over as
they had been they 
never knew someone
checked every morning
to see how they were,
named their babies,
worried over flying
lessons. They didn’t 
know how much they
were loved, messengers
of hope in a concrete
landscape. At first
she felt stupid for
grieving. Idiotic birds
making messes. Most
people don’t even like
seagulls. But then she
realized, the loving was
in the seeing, and most
people are blind. 

by bcmiller2014

Belief

I find I’m coming to be an avant garde kind of Christian who may quite possibly be considered no Christian at all by people I do and don’t know. I persist, however, in believing in Jesus, so I myself am unable to fully separate myself from the term “Christian” even though I find some supposedly Christian views to be in direct opposition to the person I believe Jesus to be. 

I believe in God and I believe he is good. He made the universe out of an overabundance of love. I believe he made us and when he said we should have “dominion” over the natural world he meant we should serve it and care for it, or else the leadership style of Jesus means nothing. I believe Jesus is the son of God and provides a bridge between ourselves and father God, but I also believe that anyone who is truly seeking for God in love and truth will be able to spend eternity with him, no matter their faith background. No one can serve darkness with a pure heart, so I believe there are people serving the triune God who may not even know they’re doing so. Hell is only a place where people can go if they choose not to be with God. He will not force himself on anyone, so the only people who go to hell are the people who decide to do so. 

I adamantly refuse to believe that God allows suffering so our characters will improve. He does sometimes end up improving our characters when we’re in the midst of suffering, but that’s because he specializes in making good come from bad things. It’s not because he planned for disaster to happen for our spiritual “benefit”. Birth defects are not the equivalent of an ethics and moral compass lesson. They’re tragedies, as are the rest of the diseases, wars, social injustices and the rampant destruction of the natural world. 

I don’t know why he sometimes answers prayer and sometimes doesn’t. He’s a deity. I suppose it’s his prerogative. I do have to admit, however, that his seemingly unpredictable nature leaves me feeling insecure, even while I admit that in the balance between my knowledge and God’s, he will certainly win.  This is why I still think he is good. My understanding  is practically inconsequential when determining the character of someone who happens to be infinite. As such, he did create a stunningly gorgeous and bizarre stage on which our little human dramas play out, and for this I am grateful. I do believe we mucked up his original intentions for the place, although he must’ve known we’d do it. He made us anyway, which means he’s a hell of a lot more sure of his plans than I am. 

And by the way, I don’t see how the fact that something is divinely inspired (in this case, the Bible) means that it’s perfect. Artists and poets and musicians are divinely inspired all the time, and it doesn’t mean there aren’t any errors in the work. In addition, we have over a dozen versions of the Bible and each of them focuses on different things. We’d need to know Hebrew to have even a shot at a correct-type interpretation. The stories recorded were placed in a particular time and culture. How do we manage to take these stories and mold them into messages that promote discrimination, homophobia, mysogeny, and other acts that are not initiated by love, when Jesus was himself the embodiment of love?  He never became infuriated by anyone but the religious leaders of the day. I believe that if we’re really going to follow God, pride, self-importance, greed and cruelty must be abandoned. Pride is a big one, which I believe the church as a whole has tripped over for millennia. We can become so certain of our own views and correctness that we forget the main point of the whole story I think the Bible is ultimately trying to tell. Jesus himself gave us the most important rules to follow, which are to love God and each other. And what does God require but justice, mercy and humility (rough translation)?  These are my cornerstones.  

I freely admit to being scared of God, which emotion I’m supposedly supposed to both feel and not feel, having both the fear of God and having been perfected by love which casts out fear. God is love, but fearing him is the beginning of wisdom. I know there are different translations of fear in this context which makes me refer back to my earlier statement about needing to study the Bible in Hebrew.  Figuring out who God is feels like trying to package the Milky Way so it will fit in my kitchen cupboard. He’s enormous and mysterious and loving and inscrutable and odd. If you don’t think he’s odd, take a look at those fish that live in the dark and are made of teeth, except for one glowing lure right in the front. Weird. So I guess the fact that I can’t figure him out is actually quite reasonable. 

I must admit, I like the idea of knowing him as a person, which some have interpreted to be possible. I also have to admit I feel very much like the main character in that old animated film called “Antz”.  The main character is talking to his therapist and saying something like, “I just feel so desperate to do something important with my life but I can’t escape the feeling that I’m insignificant.”

“This is wonderful!” the therapist replies. “You’ve made a breakthrough!”

“I have?” replied the ant. 

“Yes! The therapist continues, throwing open the window curtains to reveal the outside world.  “You ARE insignificant!” he says. 

Perhaps someday God will respond to this desire of mine to know him in what appears to me now to be a ludicrously personal way. If so, he will have affirmed his weirdness and a crazy streak of affection for minuscule things. I, however, cannot make this happen. No amount of studying supposed facts about his character is going to substitute for him stepping into my life in a perceptible way and saying something like, “Hey. What’s up?  What’s going on in your heart and mind?  Why don’t we go get some fair trade, organic tea in a compostable mug at a family-owned shop (because I don’t support child labor or slavery or racial inequity or wanton destruction of people or natural environments)?  I think I’d like that. 

by bcmiller2014

God and Babies

Well, in the middle of my time of existential angst, some of my dearest friends had a baby. So like life to send such a jumbled mix of light and dark all at once. He’s perfect, a little angel boy with long fingers and dark hair. His cooing sounds could break your heart. A gift, a new life full of possibilities, laughter and tears, he’s a treasure. 

And here I am trying to figure out the meaning of life, and the character of God. I know my friends think God is present, reliable, personal, generous and kind. And yet, when I read the Bible he seems unpredictable, occasionally brutal, and available to only a few. Yes, there are promises of good things, but there are promises of “trials and tribulations” as well. This world has fallen from perfection and there’s no changing that until such time as God decides to really intervene. I do not know how to reconcile the appealing idea that God is a perfect father who wants to have a personal relationship with me, with the picture of this unpredictable, far away God whose ways and thoughts are so far beyond my own that he is completely inscrutable. Of course he’s inscrutable. He’s an omniscient diety powerful enough to create the fracking universe. I feel like I’ve been sold a bill of goods, that he cares about the things that matter to my heart. It’s easier to relegate him to some distant position of indifference than to try to overlay a Daddy God with one who commands the slaughtering of thousands. I’m irretrievably confused and feel destined to remain so because I cannot simply agree with one camp and ignore the other. It seems as though both are true, if I take scriptures into account, which leaves me either doubting the scriptures or accepting the paradox in such a way that I distance myself from him to some degree. I had one unpredictable father. I don’t particularly want another. I don’t especially expect capital G God to take an interest in my personal affairs, but then I have to admit that at times providence has at least appeared to do so. 

Again, I find myself returning to fundamentals. What do I believe in?  Love, mercy, justice, humility, and more love. These are aligned with the words of Christ, who I do believe was the only perfect man who ever lived. Is this enough?  Even if I’m relegated to “fallen away” status by those more zealous and sure of themselves, can I live a full life in service to Love?  The fact is, I’d really like a perfect Dad. I’m disappointed that I don’t think I can trust him, and that the fact that he’ll suffer beside me isn’t enough for me to feel safe. We are not safe. That I know. 

Then I remember the baby. I think of his parents. I think of all the perils in life alongside all the wonders. It occurs to me that baby’s world is small and immediate. It consists of one moment followed by the next, eating, crying, sleeping, being loved. I’m no more important than he is. Maybe it could be enough to live now, loving and being merciful as much as I’m able and not trying to reconcile inscrutable mysteries of an enormous God. Maybe. 

by bcmiller2014

Painful Love

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. 

by bcmiller2014

Anniversary

Jason head shot

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. 

by bcmiller2014

12 Stories, 18 years and a Thousand Times

The men and women on the street 
are cheering and blowing those
things like kazoos that go 
by a different name. Some 
people are stuck in their 
cars for the fireworks display,
sitting helplessly in rows 
while the excitement happens
elsewhere. My cat is 
startled by the firecrackers,
his ears back, tucking down
his whole body and then 
jumping to the windowsill to 
see what can be seen. He’s
on the other side of the fireplace 
from us, where we’re doing the
same thing, 12 stories up, with
buildings blocking the view. 
I can’t tell if we’re glad to 
see the new year enter or
happy the old one is done. 
I hurt you, just trying to 
love, and you hurt me just
trying to be. We’ve done 
this, eighteen years now. 
I want your hand but
can’t find it. Maybe this
is the year we find each 
other, glancing over dinner
and seeing something new
we’ve seen a thousand times
before. I miss you when we
eat apart, at the same table. 

(Sometimes I really do try not to be too
Abstract)