Month: May 2015

My mama crocheted….

Crotch-eting she would say.
She taught me how to do crow’s feet with string… on your fingers… its like a double ended broom…. It’s the only string on the hand trick I know. Pinch the center and make him walk, I would imagine the invisible crow made of string as my fingers walked him. She had a wooden man named Dancing Dan… impaled by an old wooden spoon, she would sit on one end of an old wooden fan blade and hold Dan out and tap that fan blade til it bounced… and Dan would dance and dance … get his arms swinging in unison… she would laugh and laugh.  Her laugh ended in snorts when she meant them and sometimes tears. I miss her big gruff voice. She taught me how to roll and not just cigarettes… how to flow. How to make a song out of nothing and host a decent party, to be aware, to know, how to know… how to grow. She taught me how to show … her flailing arms when she meant it and if she meant it meant she had already been patient long enough. She taught me how to see me… and all it took was listening. She listened to me. Entirely. Extracting and reflecting and allowing me to see me… and I never wanted to believe. She was my mother. Of course she will love me. But she wanted me to see me and be free with me…. She was a weaver. But she never made baskets. She had a way about her that seemed to always bring comfort… as a friend, as a daughter … she always had warm hands. Thick and warm hands though they were the same size as mine, they were much heavier. I used sit on her. If her lap was ever cleared of projects or elbow leaning, I would jam my knees into the sides of her chair and straddle her legs and curl into a child in her lap … even at 33. We played scrabble endlessly. Games. We could play the same game all day sometimes. I remember the days she would let me play hooky from school because she didn’t want to go to work, one time we went to Winns and she bought me a My Little Pony. I still remember the smell of the plastic of the gift that came just because. That pony was special because it was infused with the smell of the rain that day and how we watched my class do their P.E. exercises from the porch and the smell of her tea and the newsprint and I got to comb that pony’s tail … and take it all in. She taught me how to build a fire that starts and was always baffled at my abilities to actually get square pegs to fit in round holes. It was an anger issue at first, forcing things to work, but then I learned to ask. She taught me back door ways and escape hatches, back up plans and owning up. She taught me to write her letters, when the words were too heavy. Slipping it under each other’s bed room doors like secret messages down the hall. She taught me to talk in the dark if the emotions were too heavy and would stay up late with me … just to listen. We processed suicide together … we became children again. We learned how to play again by our own rules. She taught me … whomever screams loudest about it … takes it on. Which means shut up and accept if you don’t want to be responsible or be responsible. She taught me the art of poor. The rich in heart the depth in generosity. She taught me humor, even though she didn’t always catch the joke. She taught me weeping, chest heaving weeps in woe and to let go. She taught me how to make tacos and chicken fried steak with gravy… she taught me roux and meringue. She taught me water… drink water… always drink water… she taught me love. And heart. And hope.

She liked to crotch-et. Mosaics and dolls and gardening…  She made so many things… I am glad she made me.

4'x4' acrylic on canvas
Mama Crochets

Momma’s Heart

She always sent me blackbirds.
Wherever I would go.

Telling her the stories when I would come home.
“I sent them,” she would say.
“Just to check on you.”

“I know.”

I painted this a month before her heart gave way to new days.
Happy Mother’s Day Momma.

I miss your heart.

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Open Window

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Unscripted conscript

I fell naked to find

Bare hearts bear arms to the mind…

Assigned and signed…

Standing in wait  …

Agape

But never mis-shaped…

In kind and timed…

Agape

Sin serape…

It’s a love jalopy

Without a copy

By design

It’s divine

Bind all the softest bits

And stomp atop the landmines

Love is a battlefield

That makes you shimmy your tits

Shake your fucking armpits…

Shield the parts that don’t matter

And clatter to open your soul

Because the ones that can see you

Will just kind of know

The mountains it climbs. The chasms it leaps. Heartily. Listening.

Hmm 
Ommm
Hummm
Shhhhhh

Be 
Listen
To Truly listen
One must wrap in Humility
And tack Trust to the chest…
Tuck Hope and Truth behind your ear
Any Hate or Tension tucked below,… to allow
To know someone else’s truth without fear of losing your own.

H ear T

Open, O pen of ink, how thee opens me
Bold-heartedly unto all of thee
Learning a listening in free
Hearing everything
Cosmic Poems
Poet trees
Root
Be

Shhhhh
Ahhhhh
Mmmm
Haaaa

God is the becoming.

I learned words like god and pray at Unity church when I was about 5 or 6.
God Kids… we wore t-shirts that said that… for summer events…

What is God? I asked my mother one sunny day in our backyard.

She looked all around the yard and into the sun and back down at me and placed her hand on my chest and said… God is Good. I took it to mean that… if anyone or anything was good, that was god.

By the time I was 13, living on the border of Mexico, I understood a culture steeped in Catholicism. It came in layers… why do they have black stuff on their foreheads? What is a Sin and what does it mean to them? Who is Jesus? Is Jesus god? I like ghosts. I didn’t understand.

Surrounded by statues and murals and charms and idols of people that were captured in some sort of deep understanding that caused people to do strange things.  They seemed to understand God in more language than my mother ever provided.

Once it was time for me to enter high school, I didn’t want to follow into the school full of the bullies I had already spent 8 years avoiding. I didn’t want to go to school at all. Back then, it was illegal to not send your child to school, and it had to be a school within your district unless you paid for a private academy. Despite being on welfare, my mother scraped together my inheritance from my grandmother, to send me to a private school.

I’ll admit to being nervous of the social aspects of school, but honestly I was extremely fascinated to get a firsthand experience at this God I had heard so much about.  The book had great stories. I love all the characters especially if they truly were based on real people. But again… what is god? Jesus, really? He was a really amazing human. I like ghosts.

I spent most of my time at Loretto Academy in the hallways and nurses’ office.  Spying mostly, learning patterns, avoiding social interaction. I would read the fliers over and over on the cork boards and walk by all my favorite statues and spend inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom.

One day I saw a flier for EF Tours: Europe. Mostly geared more for the senior class trip, it was a free sign-up sheet for the meeting to learn more, even though I was a sophomore I couldn’t contain myself. Mom said it was the happiest she had ever seen me. I was absolutely dead set on going. The money we had left for the final two years at the academy was enough to cover the trip. So I chose Europe, with the realization I would have to attend public school on my return.

It’s life changing to see the world. I began writing, in Switzerland, after blackbirds… just after drinking my first beer. I began to see, life differently. I ate fresh rose cream in a garden in Canterbury, and even saw the Queen. I saw fountains in Italy and ate baguette in France. Oh so much bread!  I drank too much in Italy and our tour guide attempted to take advantage of me, but I got away thanks to Giuseppe the bus driver. I counted cats. I pet the cats… everywhere we went. We entered catacombs. We saw cathedrals that have been written about in sacred text and art… art as large as my living room wall… painted hundreds and hundreds of years ago. I wonder how long it took him I would stare. Was he cold while he painted? What did he eat the day he painted that part? I still don’t understand how they chiseled bodies so finely. So many Gods. It was all so good.

I returned to attend a public school, where I fell into the oddball clique; the collection of eclectic that had nowhere to be, seeking some way to be, mostly just being and bad deeding. Deviants to some degree, we pushed boundaries that were intensely self-developing. Enveloping passions and distractions, we were free.

Then college, to build up the ego and learn how to unlearn once you’ve learned it, so then you can become. Who was I becoming? It had only just begun.

Guadalupe Frida Kahlo Day of the Dead. Kafka… Williams… Ferlinghetti, Kerouac stacked… My father killed himself. I began painting the words that were too hard to find. Smoking everything I could smoke to ease my lung heaving mind. Sliding up and down social climbs and falling in love… with anything that would spark my insides. I tried to hide and found myself in motherhood and we began attending UU.

It wasn’t church. It was a gathering of friends that shared interesting thoughts on Sundays. I tried to settle in. Where is the god? What is god here I would wonder? It wasn’t church. It was good people being good to one another. It was god but I had forgotten.

My daughter was about 3 when I heard it. The call. I was in the garage pretending to be a painter again and I heard it. I wrote it down. This calling. To good, to gathering, to opening and changes.  The call, I wrote it … I woke to it, this spirit path. Writing. Giving language anew…  I could see again.  I wrote for hours on end, for days and days. Months. Filled legal pads in a night. Threw away pens. And then to transcribe them. I woke. To this goodness that felt like god.

I woke to the goodness that felt like god. And I have started to get more involved. Being good with intention. Finding good with intention, is god. Our church is more church for me now because we are all gods, or servants of goodness to others.

This past week I asked to help an angel in our community with her volunteer work and it led me to the old stomping grounds. To be in Loretto’s kitchen, the old freezer door with the giant push button lever and the filth of years around it.  The tiles in the kitchen were the same as the bathrooms I spent so many thoughtful moments within. I felt that old ghost again, the god. The wondering. The sacred space that always seemed so silent felt louder now. I was becoming.

Loretto Academy gave me a peek into the world half my life ago, only to call me back to show me the world again, and have me interact this time.  I was the observer seeking god outside of myself. To become the godliness, I became the player, the action figure in the act of good.

Rebecca. And Mathias.

Overcooked and underwarmed, leftover school lunch food, they ate it … and had seconds.
They ate that spaghetti like it was made by angels.

My friend introduced me to Rebecca before I really understood what our purpose was that day.
To feed the immigrants, she said in the phone, I will explain it when we meet.
She did explain it to me, and even still, it is truly a maze in understanding.

Cuantos años tiene? I ask her, in my shamefully bad Spanish.

Cuatro.

Y tu?

Veinte-cinco.

De dónde eres? My friend asks her.

Honduras. Y tu? She asks me.

Viven en El Paso todo mi vida, nací aqui…. Y …I’m treinta-cinco

She is eager to understand me, her eyes shine with life.

Que es el nombre de … I point to her son.

Hansel Mathias… pero, Mathias.

Ma-tee-ahs I say it twice and then forget to speak Spanish and ask her why she was there.

My friend translates to her.

Ah, she says, and her story goes into words I only catch a few of.  Peligroso… dangerous, and correr… Run.
How long did it take you to get here I asked her…  dos meses, pero Mathias se puso muy enfermo en México.

My friend asks of the child’s father.

SI! She continues, as my friend translates, he is the one that threatened to kill her if she didn’t give him their son. … so she ran.

What is here for you? A dónde vas  ? I ask her…

Un primo, en Kansas.

We were there that day… to feed her. To give her a meal before she embarked on her last journey into safety. Safety that I wonder, does it feel safe to her? To leave all that you have known and loved… a small town she described… a small town she lived in her entire life. To leave her family to start her own life with her son. Without really anyone. Does she feel safe?

We were there to give her a ride to the bus station, where she will make her last 48 hours into a tiny piece of her family and start anew. I hugged her. I told her she was beautiful and her son was too. I imagined… Hansel, and his breadcrumbs, and how Mathias had to eat them all… so his father wouldn’t find him.

My friend drove me back to Loretto …

And I got into my car, and returned to my life differently.

God is at Loretto Academy.

God is at Unity. God is at UU.

But my mother was right when I was five.

Patting my tiny chest.

God is the good

In you.