Grandma/Dream-Pieces

Grandma

You are the comfort of twilight

and the brightness of dawn

the laughter of children

and the loyalty of mothers

You are the colors of a painting

and the strength of a mountain

the wisdom of a sage

and the playfulness of the wind

You are a lady, mother, grandmother

You are the fullness of eighty years,

a life rich and bursting,

a summer garden

year upon blessed year

Dream-Pieces

I wake

shaking off the dust

of dream-pieces

Sliding quietly

into reality

07.19.09/07.21.09

07.19.09

Our faces smile up at us
from the porch floor
bits of our lives
lying soggy, rearranged, out of place
amid the pigeon shit

What didn't we lose?

Unfair
life is unfair
don't you know I was already
dangling, precarious?

07.21.09

It's hot. Hot and heavy. I'm sweating copiously. There are fruit flies on my mangos, weevils in my flour, cockroaches in my cupboard, and burglars on my mind.

Why does it all pile up at once? Everything working together, building up force to knock me down flat. Deflate me.

Suddenly I'm off-kilter, disorganized, sad, nervous, unable to do the simplest things, my mind in some far away land. Isn't Nepal far enough? I want to go farther.

Post Office/Dirt

Post Office

I find love today
In unexpected places, in
Mailing envelopes,
Homemade aprons

I find love today
Tailor-fit to my lovesick soul
I have ached
And today I have found bright joy
Unexpectedly

Dirt (06.12.09)

Ten months of you, Nepal
In the cracks of my swollen feet
That scrubbing will not clean
Kathmandu, you will always be here,
Under my skin.

Garden

Garden

The song of earth
We recognize
It courses through us
Makes us dance, moving
To its rhythms

The texture of earth
We learn
It flows through
Our fingers, our toes
Rich with life
Wet with monsoon rains

The color of earth
We wear
The depth of its browns
The aura of its iridescent golds

In earth we see, feel, become
Alive with what gives us life
Giving and taking
Sowing and reaping
Our coexistence

04.24.09

It's cruel, the way loneliness deadens you, makes you forget how to be a friend, makes you feel forgotten, makes you feel like just a memory.

I always prided myself on my ability to thrive on solitude, leading no social-butterfly life. But aloneness is not loneliness...and loneliness is not aloneness. It seems that I've been given too much of both.

04.28.09 (Margaret)

Just when I am hearing the echo of loneliness, my own voice bouncing off these vast canyon walls...I hear another, very familiar voice: the voice of a friend. From a distance, yes, but oh how far the voice of love can travel. I am revived, a plant watered once again.

05.17.09/Soul

05.17.09

It's been 9 months since we landed in Nepal. It's been almost 1 week since my parents returned home after their 2-week stay with us. And only 2 days until I turn 25 years old.

It's amazing, or enslaving, how time and numbers order my life, especially these days. Here, where time is slow, I seem to trudge through hours until a day, a week is over. I find it hard to exist. And perhaps Nepal is teaching me (whether I want it to or not) to simply do that. Just exist.

It is another gentle, breezy evening in Kathmandu, and for the moment, I'm surprisingly in the moment. We sit on the balcony in silence that could never be awkward. We sit and exist together, because it seems that all we have is each other, for the moment.

Soul

soul loneliness
dry, dusty, wilting
faithless, insecure, thirsty
with a depth I cannot fathom

like the floor is falling away
from beneath my dirty feet
the sky caving in, ironing me flat
a hopelessness I cannot contain

a craving for what, I do not know
a hole I am forever falling into
Alice in Wonderland
a land full of wonders, yes
but somehow un-wonderful

04.21.09/04.23.09

04.21.09

Tuesday, 5:00PM.
Back porch breezes dry my just-washed hair
Abigail Washburn whispering songs into my ear
Drink in hand
Reflecting upon a most ordinary day
Willing it to come alive, or
Willing myself to see its life:

The silent growing of plants in clay pots
The blooming bougainvilla
The winds changing, hinting
At the rains to come
The dance of sun and shadow

Counting out the beat of hours
The rhythm of a day
Of time that feels endless, empty
Of time that will add up
Will equal the sum that is
My life

I worry that I cannot always find
The beauty in my ordinary moments
In the passing of a quiet afternoon
In the lazy way the earth turns, slow
Waiting for me to notice
To turn with it, gracefully
To join the ancient dance of time

04.23.09

Overcrowdedbustrafficjammedimpossibly
in the mid-afternoon sun
scrunching, s h r i n k...i n g into
the seatbelt holder (broken, unused)
sequin-clad stranger sweating into me
exfoliating my shoulder
another stranger laughs
a shrillbushorn kind of laugh
patting my knees subconsciously
in her conversational enthusiasm
I sigh, try to breathe air
but find exhaust(exhausting) instead
stalecigarettebreathdirtunwashedhairgrime
I try to move
but sequins and sweat and seatbelts
surround me on all sides

04.15.09/Miss

04.15.09

I bite my nails
they taste like chili peppers
and fear

A dead kite dangles
from the grapevine
remnant of last October

Neighbors peel
carrot, radish, cucumber
vegetable rainbows

I have nothing to say to you,
Quiet Afternoon

Miss

Someday, I will miss fresh mangoes. Cilantro, juicy tomatoes, year round. I will miss the winter sun, the summer rain. I will miss the mountains around me, the flowers spilling over gated gardens. The scent of potatoes frying in mustard oil, the symphony of pressure cookers, pots & pans, puja bells. I will miss the slowness, the unruliness, the inclusiveness of the Nepali people. Turmeric-stained fingers, garlic-scented kitchens, tikka-stained foreheads and feet...these I will miss.

I must remember what it will be like...afterward. The reverse culture shock. I will not survive without these reminders.

Wonderland/Aasha

Wonderland

Oh Wonderland, where art thou? Land of rabbits, of imagination. Land of talking flora, mad fauna. Land of nonsense, of unbridled curiosity. Of a world inside a world inside a girl's little head. Land of Wonder, why can't I find you?

Aasha

Poems hide
beneath these rocks
on the path to our house

flowers are born
underground
we tread upon them softly

songs rest
behind our lips
waiting to kiss the dusty air
with ordinary, unexpected hope.

Thailand/Rain

Thailand

Sweating, salty, sun
I let myself go, melt in this
exotic heat
I savor these flavors, these
strange words, these beautiful
skies

I was surprised, hardly prepared
for this
glorious, pulsating place
and I am less prepared to
leave

Aah, my jaw has just unclenched
my stomach has lost its fire
I am actually breathing
inhaling, expanding, unshriveling
pretending that this won't
end.

Rain

Rain, Rain,
you've finally come!
Wash the dust, the filth, the sadness
away
(how I wish you would, Rain).

I wish there was a washing away
of the sorrow that cloaks me
I set foot on this sandy soil
afraid I will sink down
further into this earth
this earth of unending thirst

(how I wish you'd never stop, Rain).

03.10.09/03.12.09

03.10.09

Oh, these strange, quiet nights
When I am so full of hunger
For another soul to be
Just to be, nothing more
Just a soul with light to shed
On these strange, dark nights.

03.12.09

There is an earthquake in my stomach. I listen to its tremulous gurgles, my head curled down close, my knees in my dirty hair. It could be anything, damn it. A sip of water, a bite of fruit. It seems I'm just waiting to be preyed upon.

It seems the sun has fallen ill as well, casting weak, peach-colored hues in the middle of the day. I feel deserted, ugly, afraid, alone. The only sound I hear is the earthquake inside me.

03.04.09/03.05.09

03.04.09

aqua river

thirsty terraces

surround you

a long fall from here

in hills

where children play

in dirty toilets

where women bend in half

beneath their leafy loads

where men sing, argue

and bright clothing hangs

tattered, but hopeful

03.05.09

There is black smoke in my head

Lightning in my jaws

Stones in my shoulders

Fire in my belly

Mysteries in the soles of my feet.

Window Seat

I always get that shallow-breathing, clammy, shaking-in-my-boots feeling that I can never rationalize away.

(Spicy Indian snack stains my fingers turmeric. I shovel little bits into my mouth and find an assortment later: chickpeas, lentils and puffed rice in my crotch and resting upon my breasts.)

I pretend not to be a bumbling mess, but I betray myself every time.

I'm glad you got me a window seat. I hope I can see the mountains.

02.06.09

02.06.09

How to kill within me
All that kills
Without killing myself?

How to rid myself of
All that hates
Without losing feeling?

How to shed the skin of
Anxiety, fear
Without coming undone?

I want to forget my body
To remember the voices, the faces
Of the present moment
I want to forget
The self of my past.

White Tiles

White Tiles

You sit with me on the bathroom floor. It is the quietest place I can find, and I fill it with noise.

You listen (you always do) to my salty sobs, echoing against the tiles, bouncing right back to where they came from.

You tell me to breathe. It's easier for you. I want you to know that it hurts to inhale. It hurts to feel. It hurts to be the comforted, never the comforter. Sometimes, it hurts to be.

You breathe into my neck, slowly, steadily. You crouch beside me, patient, knowing, exhaling strength. I want to breathe you in, but I can't. Not today.

1.12.09/1.14.09/Wild

1.12.09

He opened the door
And watched her walk into rooms
Patterned with his habits
Colored by his dreams
Darkened by his fears
Lit, brilliantly, by his love

He opened the door
And watched her walk slowly
Through the museum of his heart
Touching the art on its walls
Slowly, slowly
Watched her memorize the
Textures, the colors, the shadows
The years of who he is
Watched her imagine
The years of who he will be

And she said,
"It's beautiful. I want to live here."

1.14.09

It is said that today is the climax of winter, the coldest day of the year. I feel it. In my bones, my slow-moving blood, my frigid extremities. I feel it. In my restless, aching heart. Even the sun is hiding its face from the world. Can I too? How wonderful it would feel to slip under, behind, beneath...to relax, forget, breathe, to stop the world and melt.

Wild

"Wild is anything that's not at home." I am not at home. I am wild inside. Wild with longing, with dreams, with the throb of suffering inside these walls of paper.

Alive/The Last Word

Alive

It is morning, and I am awake. The sun is making its upward journery, and I am alive. The world is moving, working, stretching, breathing, and I am a part of that world. To be still and remember these small wonders...to do nothing but contemplate and rest in a moment, in a single thought...is to be very much alive.

Oh, how hard it is to be this alive! My mind fights to live inside yesterday, tomorrow, to live anywhere but Now. To exist in a nonexistent place. I must wrestle it back and let it rest Here. It is morning and I am awake. Alive.

The Last Word

I am afraid of my memories losing their clarity, their proximity. I am afraid of losing my chances of feeling "at home". I am afraid of getting to the end and being disappointed. I am afraid of changing, as I strive for change with each breath. I am afraid of losing my already slippery grip on...well, what is it I think I have a grip on?

Maybe I need to learn that life is about losing, swaying, dangling, questioning, transforming...all those words that have no ending. Maybe I'm afraid of never having the last word, the answers.

By Heart/Speak Heart

By Heart

There is hiding-behind
There is sleep-walking
There is immersion

What else is there to do
with a world self-destructing
with a life, a billion lives
shrinking from light?
What else do you do with
the Shadows
but stay still under their coolness?

This is the way
I know by heart.

Speak Heart

Speak, heart
just loud enough for me to hear
tell me what it is you need
could it be such a mystery?

Speak, and I will try to
remember your language
the words are somewhere
locked in the contours of my
crowded mind.

Speak, and while I cannot
promise to understand
I will try to listen
to know the reverberations
of words spoken in the dark.

Crazy/Ashes, Ashes

Crazy

What does crazy feel like? Like this? Like wanting to escape your skin, your brain, your reality...or like not knowing what your reality is? Like hiding under whatever is closest: a book, a blanket, a smile, a lover, an apron, to take you to a better place. Like hearing many voices that all sound like your own, but you're never sure if they are...or if you even have your own voice. Like seeing life from a distance, scene after scene, because being there in person is too dangerous. Like knowing you have every chance, every reason to be un-crazy, to be happy...and still remaining inexplicably sad (except in tiny, glimmering bursts).

Ashes, Ashes

Cloves snap, crackle, pop
Between my lips

Breezes awaken
A garland of prayer flags

Ashes, ashes fall down
And prayers float heavenward

In the afternoon.

Athena/Tight

Athena

In the spaces between action
I find too little, I find a place to
Realize my naked fears.
In the silences I crave, yet avoid
I find too much, I find a place that
Echoes with dangerous thoughts.

I fill and occupy and consume and murder
The emptiness
But it always comes back to life
Rearing its frighteningly beautiful head.

I imagine that life is found
Outside quiet moments
I pretend to need distraction, diversion
When what I truly live on
Is the peace of Nothing and Everything
That is found in the spaces
If I will let myself go
There.

Tight

I do not like, know, recognize or want
This body
The eyes I know, the soul I recognize
It is troubled, floundering
Suffocating, indecisive

This is not new or surprising
The fierce longing, the ache for more
(The Nameless More)
The desperation to touch beauty
And the dark ghosts that numb it

It is me. I am that soul
Crouching inside skin, bone, fat
Afraid to be seen, but wanting
So much to just be known
Without explaining

The voice of my younger self
Still resides in me
Doing what she can to
Pull me into her web
But I can't seem to remember
How to speak her dark language anymore

I understand it, without question
I hear it in my head, my soul
But my lips are those of a woman
Who cannot go back far enough
To say those words again

So there is not peace behind these eyes
Inside this body
That is my burden
How could there be?

11.24.08/11.28.08

11.24.08

I come to these pages reluctantly, for I know that they will reveal me. I write words, but they also write me. They spell me out, in ways that I fail to see myself. Here, I am exposing, searching...and finding much more than I bargain for.

11.28.08

It's true. How can I possibly divorce myself from Their problems? Now I know. Knowing doesn't disappear. Ignoring knowledge doesn't reduce it or trivialize it. Now I don't want to know. It is what I call "safer" not to know. It is what I call "easier". But is it? Is it safer to reduce myself to my small world, my personal problems? Is it easier to constantly avert my eyes from suffering around me? And if so, why should my goal be "safe" & "easy"?

I am here now, knowledge in my hands like a gift I never asked for...or did I?

10.27.08/11.23.08

10.27.08

My selves keep resurfacing
some I'd never known before
Evolving Selves...
unsure, peaceful, restless, grasping
ready for freedom
aching to be known
but necessarily hidden, unrecognized

I worry that the surface
is too unsteady
that my Constructed Self
will deconstruct
quickly and without warning

11.23.08

Overprotective? Am I? I ask myself. I am catching myself protecting...me.

There is a tangible distance between body and mind, between thought and emotion. And for moments, when that distance closes in, the gap is filled, I suffer. And I shrink away.

Laugh, sleep, chop vegetables, surround myself with sound, light, music, strangers. These are the ways in which I protect myself from me. This is what survival looks like.

Why does my reality cause suffering? Why is it a force from which I flee?

In moments of reflection (dare I call it meditation?), I see absolute fear. I see years stacked upon one another, brimming with fiction, with disassociation, with many different versions of happiness, with answers for why life is the way it is...answers that speak no truth to my ears.

There are many shadows, and they do not amount to light, no matter how I wish them to.

09.08.08/10.02.08

09.08.08

Things must come undone, be recreated, redefined...
Our ideas of clean & unclean
Too much & too little
Fair & unfair
Rich & poor
Convenient & inconvenient
Necessary & luxurious
Ugly & beautiful
Appropriate & inappropriate
Need & want
Work & rest
Right & wrong...

Reality must change, is changing, whether we want it to or not. Ideas we had preconceived don't always work, aren't pertinent. The colors, the people, the essence of this place do not fit into the boxes we brought along. We cannot smooth them out, wipe them down, crop them to size, Americanize them. I am grateful for this. Frustrated and grateful.

It forces us to unclench our fists, let go, drop things. It compels us to speak another language altogether.

10.02.08

I am learning myself like a language. So far I've got enough to get by, to survive. I can communicate with my heart in broken words, familiar phrases. I can understand myself in pieces, if I go slowly, patiently. If I take clues from outside myself--my surroundings, my friends, what I evoke in others--there I see parts of myself revealed, reflected, regurgitated back to me for better or worse.

But when there is no outside, only inside to see, there is much mystery. Within--my true self--is over my head. I haven't learned this part yet. Oh, there are moments, but how small they are! Like blinking, like a breath, like a shadow passing.

The only way of learning truth is to do it slowly, unrushing myself, breathing deeply, keeping my eyes open just a bit longer, even if I do not like what I see. It is then that I will begin to learn--from the inside--who I am...or who I am becoming.

08.20.08/09.07.08

08.20.08

I am hungry for home
For walking outside the front door
And seeing a familiar face
Hearing church bells toll the hours,
Announcing the solidity of time

I am hungry for my knees to see daylight
For wandering through market foods
And knowing how to pay for lettuce
And being unafraid to eat it

I am hungry for grass
For Ella rolling around int it, wild
Seeing dogs on leashes
Walking on actual sidewalks

I am hungry for sunny-side-up eggs
For cream in my Square One coffee,
A horse clip-clopping by as I sip it
The gentle scent of wind blowing through the windows

09.07.08

It is so strange to be living here. Nothing feels real. Or maybe everything is so real I don't recognize it. It is hard to swallow, hard to believe I see these things outside my window, that I step over these things with my American feet.

I feel so incredibly white.

How do I get used to being a minority? How do I behave, when I'm encroaching on someone else's very ancient territory? I feel so invasive, so rude, just by being here. What right do I have to take up space, create waste here?

There is no such thing as hiding here, no such thing as going by unnoticed.

Men bare voices, authority. Women bare their souls, their nursing breasts. Goats and chickens bare their guts. Children bare their naked bottoms. And everyone bares their spirituality. So much to see, hear, feel, sense. It bombards, surrounds, flies into my eyes like the dust from the unpaved roads. It is so present, so intense, and so real that I find it unreal.

Nevertheless, here it is, unapologetic, asking to be noticed.

08.09.08/08.16.09

08.09.08

We are in London,
having said our final good-byes,
feeling very small, tired, minor

We are in slow motion,
taking in the spinning, colorful world
ready (?) to dive into the sky again

Days blur, are loosely defined by
gate numbers, snacks
prunes, pretzels, candy, almonds
and public restroom visits

Are we dreaming?
Is it actually Wednesday?
Have we really come this far?

08.16.09

The sun rises, illuminates the Himalayas
Bells and birds and Hindus sing
Dogs speak their own language
Roosters make themselves known
Women beat rugs, sweep porches
Horns blow in the distance, like music

I wait for water to boil for my tea
I make quiet tip-toes across the marble floor
Dishes clang softly together as
I put them back in the cupboard

Masked men ride away on motorcycles
Gates slam shut behind them
Neighbors greet each other, namaste
Men and women go to market

From the rooftop, green gardens grow
Gentle monsoons feed their roots
I breathe in their oxygen
I breathe in this Kathmandu air
Wild, dirty, beautiful air

Birthday #24 (2008)/Lisa

Birthday #24

Today, I celebrate myself
I find beauty in the swing of my hips
And in the mysteries of my heart
I celebrate the years that have shaped
And reshaped me many times
And I take this day with careful hands
Holding its weight
Learning its textures
Imagining how it will look
Years from now
Imagining how I will celebrate myself
In the years that await me.

Lisa

You spill laughter and it is music
Your feet barely touch the earth
You salvage brokenness

Your beauty doesn't fit into boxes
You redefine, you recreate
You are fluid, uncontainable

You part seas with your eyes
Your colors shake earth
You resonate for miles

I need that.

And so does the rest of
this city, this state
this world that we navigate

Keep on
Earth-shaking
Peace-making
Resonating, recreating

Being.

Market Haiku (edited)

I.

Carroty bracelet
Flowers wild & cherries sweet
Humanity thrives

II.

Grass-fed mini skirts
Eating up the bearded men
Famish hovering

III.

You are a rare bird
Fly into my birdless world
Sing your lovely song

Untitled/Necessary

Untitled

There is light in the world today
making its way into
spilling over onto
invading the space of
the heart I know is in me

And I am afraid
timid of the
sickened by the
inching toward the
sunlight I know will awaken

Inappropriate, laborious
tears that disassemble
tears that recreate
the heart I know is in me

Necessary

The worst is when I'm being awkward and
I. Can't. Stop. It.
Or when the silence is mine to fill, but I come up empty-handed.
Or when I break down, down, down
And pull out a smile on command
(It's necessary).
The worst is feeling so much feeling
The best is feeling so much feeling.
Sleeping, playing dead keeps me stable
(It's necessary).

Fast Forward/Wednesday

Fast Forward

I wake up with the sweat
Of dreams heavy
On my skin

The world was ending
I saw it right outside
My window

Heaving, sighing
Too wet, too melting
Into an unimaginable nightmare

I wake up with the burden
Of earth heavy
On my back

Wednesday

I find a quiet Wednesday
I try to fill it with shoulds
They keep escaping, becoming echoes
Of a good idea

I find the quiet frightening
Quite frightening
What could be, should be, precious
I rush to kill
The killing, after all, is loud, quick
The opposite of quiet

I should...says who?
I could...but why?
I would...and yet I will
Bury the loudness
And find the quiet of
Wednesday, the voice I want to hear

Market: Spring 2008

It's Friday. That means John will give me a Wendy Jo cookie and tell me a story about his granddaughters, one I've most likely heard before. Jim will buy unsalted cashews quietly, smiling. Fernando will give me an apple and teach me a word of Spanish. Lisa will float into the building, beautiful, joyful. Mike and Stellar will make ordinary things extraordinarily funny. On this particular Friday, Tom will wear the brightest yellow pants. Ever. And Skip...oh, Skip. He will fill our arms with hugs and our ears with exuberant kisses.

I love this place, this give and take, this interaction with such brilliant humanity. I love the sound of apples dropping into my cloth bag, of familiar voices asking familiar questions. I love watching shoppers awkwardly balance produce, milk jugs, flowers, money. I love Earl's whiteboard poetry, and the slow, meaningful way Edie places potatoes in my hands. I love the smell of freshly ground peanut butter, of brewing coffee, of earth, of verdant soil. It infiltrates the air of this place.

I take it all in with gulping breaths--a desperate attempt to preserve it within me. I want these sights, sounds, tastes, smells to settle into my lungs, my belly, my bones. I want them to fly with me across the world. I don't want to lose them. If I must leave, at least let me remember these small, familiar joys.

Kathmandu Moon I&II/Mirth

Kathmandu Moon I

The waning moon beckons
The dog howling
The people toiling
The night grows
Inside my heart.

Kathmandu Moon II

It is here tonight
Or perhaps I am here
Tonight

The end of another cycle
The moon waxing full
Of secrets, and ready
To deliver them

I shudder and sigh tonight
I am here
Regaining consciousness
Ready to deliver
My well-kept mysteries

Mirth

There are small mirths:

The first birdsong
The magic of wine
The making of love
The fragrance of earth
The golden skin of summer

Basket Casket/Nameless

Basket Casket

But my life will not all fit into one basket!
Arms and legs and hair
And yes, pieces of my heart will hang out irreverently
Drop all over the place

I cannot hope to be contained.
I simply will not be squeezed in, held down,
Broken in places, just to fit

Nameless

This body quakes, aches
For nameless things
It yearns for what...what are these
Shapeless, perfect, floating
Things

This brain clouds over
Gets thick & heavy on my neck
So full of unusable words
Tiny ideas, tidbits of what...what are these
Things, legion, myriad

This heart thrums, drums out
Of rhythm, making
Illegitimate music, cacophonous melodies
That make my ears vibrate
And turn cold and ache
For so many, too many
Nameless Things.