Weathered Home

Last fall, a person that I love joined me in a writing project with the theme: short poems inspired by lines of the same. This means that one of us wrote a poem, and the other wrote another poem borrowing a line from the previous poem. It recently re-appeared into my life, so I took it as a sign to share. Thanks for reading. 

Weathered soles hold up our
Weathered souls
Wandering steps
Self-possessed
Wondering, whether
This heel marks home for
Weathered souls upon these
Weathered soles

Yet, as leaves turn, weather learns,
Toward which way, or as some say,
An uncertain, whethered way,
For with each foot-fall weary,
Wake pieces of Earth, into
A trail of ancestral secrets
Waxed upon land, many years old,
Wherein healing magic lives,
From weathered souls, standing upon
Weathered soles.

This place, we call home.

Peeling The Onion

I sat down for lunch with a dear friend of mine a couple of weeks ago. We hadn't seen each other for some time, so we were eager to summarily divulge everything about our lives in the span of forty minutes. We each shared our successes and struggles in the same easy tone. "Oh, I changed jobs." "It was the first time that I saw my family in years."

As we traded updates, as children trade their most treasured toys, I confessed a question that was sitting with me over the last several months: if you know what will make you happy, what prevents you pursuing it?

I have been exploring my subconscious about this question for most of the year. My intention was to strive for a greater sense of freedom--releasing myself from my perpetual caregiver role, surrendering any self-definitions or identities in which I casted myself, shedding a structured schedule to follow the way of my own presence. All of this effort is toward loosening the suffocating grip of responsibility, my own "light shadow" which distances me from myself.

Yet, I disclosed to my friend sitting across the small metal table, I wouldn't always let myself get there. What stopped me from embracing what was good for me, what was satisfying, what was fulfilling? Why would we--and I--negotiate with self-sabotage?

She nodded in agreement, and simply replied, "It's like peeling an onion, Baby."

Since that lunch I've peeked at, picked at, and begun peeling layers of habit, comfort, expectation, uncertainty, anger, and pain. For me, the onion analogy is a description of a deeply-inward process of refining my fundamental self; a piece-meal transformation through exuberant trial-and-error. This unglamorous but necessary road has characterized 2013, which I can hardly believe is nearing an end.

Many of these layers are messily mundane. For example, earlier this year, shortly after celebrating twenty-eight years of life, I discovered that through my long-time stomach sickness that I developed a bad gluten-allergy. One which made me disoriented for hours with too much exposure. It took me almost six months to take it seriously! Now, I have a mostly gluten-free, vegan diet, but it took many congested days, yeast reactions, and nights out-of-commission to arrive here.

And some of these layers are leading me to unconventional choices. I'm slowly entering a community of people who have chosen to carefully shape their livelihoods. We aren't climbing mobility ladders, we aren't part of a single "profession," we call upon our ingenuity, creativity, and available resources to get by. We question and challenge the norms around work, what it means to us (and doesn't define us) and creating lifestyles to happily survive. I've long-talked about holding similar values, but only last month realized that while I like organizing and law, I love writing and healing. So, as a former paid organizer and current lawyer, why has it taken so long to make writing and healing work my priorities? I laugh out loud when I think about it--how obvious but not obvious it is.

I still don't have full insight about the hidden parts of myself or relationship to the Universe that immobilize me. After all, the layering of our own self-imposed limitations, and that of our environments, is a thick, useless moldy sheet, which some of us constantly try to pull away.

Admitting my self-sabotage struggle isn't an exercise of self-flagellation. I actually think it's one of the kindest self-inquiries that I have held for years. It's a challenge to do more toward my Purpose. And if anything has come of it, I've become better friends with myself by saying "yes" more often to that which serves me instead of making excuses to ignore parts of myself.  

Recently, I've also come to terms that I'm  most motivated when my lens of the world is reduced to the naked existential reality that our human experience is finite. In the past it was an occasional panic that would befall me every few years, when I would enter a state of hyper-reality for a minute, aware of the preciousness of every millisecond. The fear of not being here was paralyzing yet revelatory.

These days I try to induce the same without the panic everyday: What would it be like, Richael, to feel heart-opening splendor? What would it be like to possess a passionate urgency for the moment in front of me? Peeling this layer, and another layer.

Glow

Around this time, for the past two years, I've experienced trauma. August and September, in many ways, have become months when the worst unexpected came true, bearing open my most vulnerable parts, and demanding courage and resilience that I didn't think was within me.

Trauma, like all things-that-happen, occur some Place--a physical location attached to the feelings.

I was very conscience of this Place, where last year's event happened. Often times, when I'm near this Place, I held my breath while I passed. Other times, I avoided it altogether. No matter what I choose, I am aware of this Place, reminded by the anxiety swimming in my stomach. I remember.

Tonight, as I sometimes do, I decided to pass this Place on my way home. I felt my feet slow from a city gait, to a southern slug, and then, they stopped. I stood in the exact spot that it all happened. Before, I didn't recognize the particular house it was near, or the split in the pavement--I just felt where it was in my heart, as if it was tied to an anchor and suddenly dropped into the center of the earth. I understood that it was here, where I was changed.

I stayed for a moment. I let the tidal wave of feelings wash over me: betrayal, anger, disbelief. The feelings was so palpable that I could taste them, and yet, the experience wasn't overwhelming. A breeze brushed my face. And almost as suddenly as I relived last year, I felt myself in the present. I smiled and I was OK.

While I still held feelings from before,  they were vague shadows of what they once were. I recognized that I had survived it. I thought, "could I be sure that this was the same place?" However, what I was really asking was "whether I was the same person who stood here before?"

And I am. I gave myself permission to recede into my surroundings, and reflect on exactly what allowed me to arrive at this moment feeling so strong. I understood that it was the tremendous quality of love in my life that beat back the haze of deep hurt from the past. Love saved me.

Love allowed me to ask and receive support from close friends for which I never believed brave enough to ask, or even rightfully deserved. Friends who generously offer their cars so that I can visit my parents; friends who run a distance races with me to support my personal goals, and then hike with me to re-visit my sacred, self-retreat spot; friends who apologize for being distant upon realizing that their resentful reaction to your happiness is wrong, and that it was on them to make amends.

Love allowed my family to show up during my hardest moments in surprising and unselfish ways; family who listened to private things of the kind I have never shared or believed that I didn't have the capacity to feel; family members who challenged their own confidence of their abilities to hold more and be more responsible for themselves, in light of witnessing my complete depletion. Family who reminds me that they love me everyday, and always have.

Love that returned me to the queer politics of love. A belief that inspiration and imagination are the only tools in our war arsenal; people who celebrate struggle, honor ancestors, and realize that lost campaigns can't take away laughter; communities who value the Beloved, practice integrity, and reject fear as reflex in which to live.

The promise of Love that inspired me to build the most loving romantic relationship that I've ever had with a partner who genuinely accepts all parts of me; a partner who asks to create trust with me everyday; a partner who possesses the kindest heart, held together by gentle bones, and holds me as carefully; a partner who is committed to transformation, dedicated to learning whether unconditional love exists and what it means, and who treasures working toward the hard parts of love, as much as the easy parts, because the reward of each other is so valuable.

The memory of Love let me surrender to the Ultimate Love. A deep, inevitable Love that gave me insight when I could barely open my eyes; trust when I didn't believe; and instill hope when I was drowning in my own morass. I followed goodness when doing so felt almost foolish.

A year later, there's no doubt that I've arrived and stayed in that Place because of Love. Thank you to all who made that Place more like any other, and a Place of my own power.

Emotional Memory

*Trigger alert: This post contains racially offensive language.*

Recently I had a very precious moment when how I related to myself no longer made sense. This moment didn't surface from a crisis, like a sudden spring of distress that rushed from underneath some deep, subterranean layers of myself. Rather, it was a quick, simple shift, which occurred like a switch turned on in a dim room. I had seen the collection of my experiences in one way, and now, here, I see them differently. The "this" became "that," with a snap of my fingers, and the most terrifying part is that it maybe the "that" was always so.

Several months ago I re-started therapy as part of my deep healing process. I originally began talk-therapy during college, once I had left home, but let it go as I discovered a "Sisters of the Yam" support group and meditation "spiritual community of friends" after graduation. I insisted, when I began to forge this new relationship with my current therapist, that my goal was to remember. I claimed that I couldn't recall significant events in my early life, and the fragments that I was able to unearth were the same traumatic stories that spooled on repeat from my mental library. I asked, "what happened to everything else?" I was certain that the anger that I discovered last year was a mask for a heap of repressed feelings, clawing through my memory cells to escape into reality. My mission was to re-construct my life by infusing it with new meaning. What was I missing?

Last month our time to call back my inner-child had finally arrived. I brought a college scrapbook to session, and prepared to talk about my Life. We began speaking about my family's brief time in Billings, Montana, when I was about four. We left after a year and a half, unwilling to tolerate the racially hostile town longer than necessary. I related how my parents advocated for me when another little girl of color called me a "nigger," when explaining why she refused to sit next to me during story-time, and how my parents became a kind of peace activists in their own struggle against racism for our family, and the few other families of color that resided there in the late 80s. I conveyed these memories with a passionate pride that I usually reserve for topics other than my childhood.

As the hour went on I had traced through grade school my mother's fierce support as I wrangled against racial stereotypes, chauvinistic boys, and other mistreatment levied on young, queer girls of color, which validated my intuitive sense of fairness. I remembered my father's commitment to public service, embodied by over thirty years in the federal government, and love of history, which imbued my sense of collective responsibility and the intellectual necessity for context. Most powerfully, as I conveyed much of my early life, I shared how both of my parents, unlike so many, offered me freedom to define myself and my world. I was told "yes" most of the time, and was better off for it.

At the end, my therapist made three observations. The first was that I shared happier memories--ones that made me sit-up and smile as I remembered them, and from which revealed seeds of myself that I like the most. Happy memories were a balance to the difficult times about which I relived during past sessions. Nodding. The second observation was that I actually remembered a lot. I had, in fact, shared a number of specific events, despite my claim that I had spanning gaps in my memory. Interesting. The last observation was that although I didn't remember many details about what happened to me--I mostly remembered how I'd felt at the time. Whoa. 

Within an instant, I was a repressed, intellectual who put in years of work to harvest my emotions into a revealed, feeler-of-a-person who had always had a strong, emotional antenna, but simply didn't know it. Such things beg the near-overwhelming, existential question: Who is this person?

I'm sure that there is a lot more to dissect from our little exercise, which I have not even begun to truly understand. I can say, however, that it was a great lesson about the ways in which how I relate to myself really creates my past, present, and future. It reminds me that I must be less of a finite being with history--a story filled with static paragraphs and punctuation--and more like a continuation of selves shaped by quirky moments--a living musical score with a vast divine orchestra playing "I" and "me."

It's sobering reality to sit in, for now.

You/Me

we draw lines, here and there

with our mind's eye, far and wide

your fingers feel warm

your hands are soft

but I don't notice these things

when we reach and touch

each other

continue into the surface, the seconds and the stars

as seamless as the universe

intended us to be

here and there

far and wide

this hand that you held

is the seed of other seeds

ones that ripened tens of years ago

yes, it may be that

my seed was never sown

into the earth, as intended

yet this once brittle seed of mine

survived wintertime

bracing and holding

lying still, here and there

patient passing, far and wide

a truth: I never understood

how to draw lines, of the real kind

jagged, sharp, thick

across to break, form negatives

collapse throbs, an echo through

when love must dry from the well

that we built with these bare hands

together

an end that was made

because this no-more

I could stand longer

scarcely more, than the other no-mores

a distant flickering light

you and me

here and there

far and wide

some days I wish for

solitude's escape

from the burden of the cold

as I inherit spring

remaining on the ground

a choice: should I loosen

to bear

piercing sun overhead? or

to receive

food from the watershed?

these cracks branched on my shell

are lines that belong, drawn

here and there, far and wide

now I see, you and me

continue in the wisdom

of choosing to exist

forever

The Gentlest Gentleman

The Gentlest Gentleman*

When I lift your hand to meet my lips

It’s a reflex to your smile

We stroll outside with our arms linked

You might feel my heart’s hospitality

Welcome home

No need for a knight in shining armor

Descendin’ from a high horse

Please have me, a boi with a dirty apron

Preparin’ your favorite side of comfort

When I ask permission to touch your face

It’s a desire to know you whole

We let our fingers saunter, sway in our breath

I might feel your spirit’s revival

Testify, amen

Leave behind the poor ol’ damsel

Her distress as stale as her rescue

Pick me, far afield, the shape of a dandy-lion

Spoilin’ this dry tale with a loud, lurid roar

Here are pretty words for the prettiest girl

When plain words just won’t do:

I want to be your gentlest gentleman

With my first rule of tenderness

There is no show, no passed time

Because of a secret, you should know

‘Course, I’m polite as I was raised

Respect curdles in my blood

But I’ve been hurt—heartbrok’n hard

And I just want a little kindness

So that with this gamble, I’ll deal the right card

*This title is from My Brightest Diamond’s song of the same name, on the album, A Thousand Shark’s Teeth. 

This poem is dedicated to a very special woman in my life--Alicia Virani.

New Beginnings

...and I am no longer afraid of the fall of my own footsteps.