Gratitudes/1
gratitudes. grateful for these heart poking reflections i read from mark chmiel's blog. capable of much more than facebook pokes- a world of the ever present smile as we tag ourselves into the illusion that we are all just as happy as we believe in our mind to someday be possible. gratitude for mev and her life and witness. gratitude for the thought that she was imperfect despite the words of those lovely others who unknowingly pedestal her. gratitude for the acoustic music that reminds of the presence of simple chords together with quite voices that speak of true terror, loss, regret and hope that springs from the recognition that humans can create such sustainable beauty with only six strings and a bit of gods good gift of voice. gratitude for this pale blue coffee cup that reminds me that mama t did 'small things with great love'...and made it just fine. gratitude for the blue of my room as white transforms to the color of megans painting, reminding me to love more, and that she loves me more. gratitude for the hope of, and in, love. gratitude for thoughts that even though fr. mark warns us not to 'hope that' and thus attempt to control reality, that 'hoping in' must necessarily become concrete on some tuesday afternoon, bringing life in the most unexpected way...perhaps as we walk the dog and her 7 year old arms envelope me, attempting to use my tired bicycle arms and legs as a jungle gym. gratitude for satellites, and the metaphor them and i have created for 'seeking and encountering’ that kind of mev/mark love. gratitude for this cup of coffee, my drug of choice, that counters my tired waking up eyes unprepared for the potential confrontation with my father as we attempt to change around my room. gratitude for the obnoxiously yellow bandana embracing my curls, that, along with belden lane, reminds me not to take myself too seriously. gratitude for the privilege of owning such a scandalous camera, and hope that i might not squander away a potential gift out of fear of the violence of photography...loading, aiming, shooting...gratitude for the 'pasta sagrada', and those moments of the past that randomly surface to the present to remind me to celebrate this day. gratitude for the words of james meinert in nicaragua as i can feel the life pulsing through him in his 16 sentences from three years ago. gratitude for limited expectations for the next step towards vocation named quite aptly 'el paso'. am i to stay? pass through? set up? settle down? step…somewhere? i am not yet privy to the gift-struggle this new physical location might, in time, or perhaps suddenly and violently, bring. a desire to breathe life, and to be named. and this is why i go. this, and because if i don't, this tumor of privilege, sheltered from pain, the light dulled by the synthesized images of perfection on plasma, will surely leave me lifeless on the leather hospital bed surrounded by culs de sac of hidden life. not to belittle or criticize the reality that we each suffer and each celebrate life in her own way. but simply to breath in and out and realize that in struggle there is life and light, and we are called to be here, with, in, within and for each other. and this calls me off the couch and to ‘el paso’, to which i cry, desire, hope, hop and run towards in a last ditch effort to discover the shock of a defibrillator to resuscitate the life i once found on the back of a pick up truck, in el salvador, moving forward.
Untitled/1
what words compose themselves
to create forced meaning
into breakings in and breakings up?
and to whom do i owe the gratitude
for this scalding plane ticket
and to whom do i owe the gratitude
for uninformed recompense and snot filled sleeves?
whose suffering is most justified
does the judging scale tip towards
solitary motherhood hemmed in risk
or towards once anticipated love misplaced?
i juxtapose, mix and contrast
an endeavor assumed in vain
by these two blue veined hands
that once held his attention
what narrative would unfold
between us
and what habits
jammed into consciousness
from birth and place
would need be coaxed out, held
and gently structured by grace
yellow - adorning braids, ears and wrists
and i borrow moments
in the expansive dirt field
irreverently hoping
for him to change
white - cocooning shoulders, back pains
and his neck
and his arms cannot help but embrace,
yet his words avoiding the vulnerability of exposure
attuned to
to the necessity of grief
even if the scales do not tip in my favor
as two jagged pieces of plywood
keep begging the question
just as sparks allude to connection
and evade authentic manifestation
as the finite warrants
