EVENINGS: 06.15.2013

Photo by HeatherandKyle

My friend Hank, known to many as Grandfather Great Blue Heron, died at 85 on a frosty Tuesday evening. Wednesday morning at sunrise, a Sacred Fire was lit in the tradition passed on to the community by a revered Odawa man and teacher. For four days the fire was tended round the clock. Saturday, when the sun set, so did the fire. It was Hank's request to have a Sacred Fire and home vigil before cremation.

I was working out of state and didn't hear the news until Thursday afternoon. I wouldn't be home until Friday evening. By the time I unloaded the car, ate some dinner, made tea to bring to the vigil, it was after 11pm. I was exhausted from my week, but it was the only chance I had to pay my respects as I was working another job the next afternoon.

So, I arrived in the night through the drizzled fog and walked the path up to the house, slipping a bit on the ice. I could see the fire in the distance. I would eventually get there, but I wanted to see Hank first. Through the kitchen and down a short hallway, I found the door with the picture of the Great Blue Heron. I felt a twinge of nervousness and fear. I can't say I've been around many dead bodies. I took a breath, opened the door and walked in.

The room was a necessary cold. Candles were lit. There was a table with photographs and special objects. Flowers and greenery everywhere. And in the middle, just as I remembered him, was Hank. He looked like he was sleeping. Is this what 'dead' looks like? He didn't look lifeless. He was gone, but also there. It was uncanny. The room felt vibratory.

I drew near. His eyes were closed and just slightly sunken. The 'windows' shut. When you can't peer into someone's eyes, other things become noticeable. I gazed and took it all in. He was adorned, dressed in his regalia. He looked peaceful. It felt peaceful. Any anxiety and tension I felt beforehand dissipated, as if it were a garment that fell to the ground and all I was left with was the naked moment. And then the grief welled up through my eyes. My breathing erratic through a shuddered chest. I found myself still peering into what was beyond the closed lids. Reaching for...seeking that place of connection.

The last time I saw Hank I was working at the cheese counter. Usually when he'd show up at the Coop, I'd walk around and give him a big hug and spend time chatting with him. He would light up and so would I. But this day I was busy. [What is busy anyway? Even as I write the word now, it looks like a foreigner. As if I am looking at it for the very first time and don't recognize the sequence of letters. Have I always written it that way? So unconsciously that I barely recognize it? Sometimes that happens with words. All of a sudden they are in disguise]. I have used busy in the past as a protection. As a way of keeping distance. That day, I did have a lot to do. My boss, a kind-hearted man but stressed when at work, was there. I was feeling the tension. And along with that I was in a shitty mood. A depleted shitty mood with not much to give. So I stayed behind the counter and so did my tenderness. After a short exchange, I said I had better get back to work. And then I noticed my actions affecting him. I wasn't my usual self and he looked perplexed and hurt as he walked away. I received instant emotional feedback. I felt it in my body and it didn't feel good. Busy should never trump connection. Why didn't I go after him? It was the last time I saw him alive.

Later, when I heard he wasn't doing well, I did send him an email. An email about how too often we don't express to the ones we care about how much they mean to us. How we go along, caught up in the whirlpool of life, thinking about people, having a moment with them in our minds, and then are whisked off to another moment. Never really taking the time out of our minds and into the eyes and flesh of another.We go through this life loving, hurting, forgiving, falling short, rising to the occasion. Sometimes we have no idea how much we impact one another. There is a conjunction of space, time and perfect moment that collide...and in that beautiful explosion there emanates an unseen force which can truly, deeply touch and even change a person's life.

When I put my left hand on his folded hands (they were very cold) and my right hand on his heart, I thought of the day at the cheese counter. And I felt remorse. I stood there peering into his closed eyes, eyes that would never open again, and cried. And then a strange feeling came over me, as if my burden had been swept away. I felt Hank gently chiding me with the customary twinkle in his eye. And then I knew I had to forgive myself. Because he already had.

I left the room and went to the Sacred Fire. There were only a few of us up at that time of night, taking comfort in each other and the flames. By the time I drove home and went to bed, I could hear the dawn chorus.

EVENINGS 06.14.2013

A Mini Epic for Isis

The day t’was long, the Goddess did smile

To see seven maidens prepare Lugh trials.

Lady’s Wood was green and robust with charm

Upon arrival, no perceptions of harm.

Herbs were soaking in spirits of vodka and gin

Games had been lain out to play to the fin.

We would play our games and lusty fun it would be

Then travel to the streams, our fate yet we would see.

Of the games much skill was required

Sadly, despite this, all went unsquired.

For tasks of length, arrows did we throw

For proving our strength, we worked with a bow

For exhibiting our minds, we would jump a stick

To hail our wit, Bardic insults we were to pick.

Of the most fun, I’m sure all would agree

Was to wang a wellie...Hilarity I decree.

Yes much fun and sun was at Lady’s Wood

Prepare for ritual was all the task left that stood.

First the plan was to water we would travel

Now is where my story unravels.

In caravan fashion we set to the road

Swords, sarongs, and suits in our load.

Unknowing as to why we came here at this time

But some monsters too were savoring the clime.

We wanted to honor and offer and love

Not fearing what was coming, all this was above.

Seven maidens came to the shores of the pools

Looking foreign to the joyful fools.

Present there was a family of current thought

To cool their skin was all they sought

Approaching with wary wonder we came to the shore

A jolly hello from the monsters, nary a thing more

Until the glint of the sun did show Suzanne’s prize

Then his interested, it did arise

Banter and permissions were granted freely

So we carried on our plans with no concern, really.

Some of us climbed on rocks and some just sat

While one planned to enter the vat.

The water was chilled and the sword smacked it hard

having not witnessed before the “others” stood jarred.

They smiled and continued to jump into the water

Then Isis was ready to honor unknowing her’s would be their fodder

She asked polietly that the halt their splashes

Those monsters, they continued their bashes.

On going to please dieties, once more they were asked

Looking back though I think Isis was tasked

To test her endurance and faith to the Old Ones

because, us unprepared, the monster hurled shuns

He pointed his finger and yelled terrible curses

his bare ugly belly and lips forming purses

His family stood idled

His wife awkwardly smiled

Isis closed her eyes and presented herself to above

Offering her body to the Gods with love

She stood in the wade in brave fashion stood fast

I couldn’t stand by...how long could this last

Cannon ball and splash threatened her safety

and the words, worse from the monster so pasty

So us witches stood up preparing to flee....

Not Her, Not Isis, she was gutsy

Some of us insulted him back

others began to pack

I could see in the Monster’s wife’s eyes

This behavior was not a new disguise

Sadness and detachment she did portray

But the time had come for Isis to slay

Not with hate and not with fists

but with words and upward faced wrists

To this day what she said I can not recall

That is for Isis and her heart to befall

Wading out slowly she dressed at the land

Nothing did stop the monster’s angry hand

He shook it and screamed and splashed even more

Though we had gone he carried on....what a bore

We rode home in silence, saddened by the event

Nothing would stop us from ritual, we were bent

On having our sacred day not be ruined

How could I go on to ritual without my mind truant?

The sun was setting and the evening cloak the sky donned

The witches were dressing mentally moving on from the pond

Isis and I sat outdoors lighting orange skinned candles

I gently asked how she was faring after the terrible vandals

She closed her eyes and a tear trickled down

She smiled where I had expected a frown

She was quiet for a moment then she did speak

It was only then that I realized and my anger did pique

Isis, in my mind was invincible to that slander

but she was hurt by something to which I was a bystander

She was not mad at the man. It was a bigger thing than him

It is an epidemic, humankind’s openmind closing to grimm

That evening at ritual her feathers fell off to ashes

And from her heart feathers burst from the gashes

Isis grew that night right before our eyes.

Another day shorter as told by the night skies

I’m humbled to have been there and yet still not sure

Of my feelings even after recounting still hating that boor.

The honor of watching another witch grow is a gift

For certain, a memory I will not let drift.

EVENINGS 6.13.13

Truth coming to me.

Wandering thoughts. 

Eurekas. 

Loose ends meeting. 

The simple answers, the easy answers. 

The balancing, back and forth.

Playing guitar.

New discoveries.

How the patterns on the fretboard

translate into new meanings and shortcuts. 

The math present and visible.

Later, walking alone in the dark, 

under the streetlights and the dim stars. 

The color of leaves in the artificial light.

The rain falling down. 

The sound of it coming down on the petals.

EVENINGS: 6.12.13

We didn't have any lawn chairs, so we just sat down on the roof, sticky with loquat, to watch the sun setting. Sometimes we would pretend the lanai was in a tropical place, and if we tried really hard, the freeway sounded just like the ocean.

It was new to me, sleeping in the open air. And it was perfect. I never wanted four walls around me again. Except for on the extra-cold nights. And that handful of times the neighbors did things that didn't smell so great or sound so great. Or when I was on my period. I liked the walls, then; I don't know why.

The cat enjoyed the futon under the lanai, too. We would pile blankets over us and then he would curl up atop, like a bow on a present. It was all cat breath and gentle breeze.

He is gone now, and I wonder who sleeps under the roof of the lanai.

This evening I watch the sun setting through the trees, behind the hills, instead of through buildings and behind the fence.
I feel the gentle breeze on my face and go inside to sleep within four walls.

Evenings 06.11.2013

sun sets

shades are drawn

light fades

eyelids get heavy

bellies are full

the day is remembered

with fondness and smiles

final giggles

escape their hosts

bedtime protests

one more glass of water

tomorrow is planned

today was good

blessings are counted

hugs all around

warm blankets are pulled

up to tiny chins

foreheads kissed

sweet dreams are wished

snuggles are plentiful

it is time for rest

tomorrow

more adventures await

EVENINGS 06.10.2013

Evenings are about talking to my neighbor by the lemon tree with bare feet and a mug of tea, and then watching the fog roll in and the little bit of sun go down and quickly shifting to a hoodie, scarf, and glass of wine.

Evenings are about waiting until the light has been swallowed up, so I can slide the curtains over their scrappy wooden rods from right to left, making sure no fabric gets caught on the little splintery pieces of wood. It’s laughable, because the curtains themselves are relatively transparent, but there is something about the ritual of pushing them from right to left that welcomes in the evening. Once they are sufficiently closed, I dance around the kitchen while taking little breaks to snack on something I chopped and piled on the wooden cutting board, every other turn dipping them into something spicy.

Evenings are about trying to find the perfect arrangement of lamps and overhead lights to fit the darkening. They are about talking around the kitchen table until we can’t see each other, and then shocking our eyes with the bright bulbs. We are interrupted with some squinting, but once we adjust, we start noticing different things about each others faces, and I fixate on the the stain on the kitchen table. Light becomes so concentrated.

Evenings in Michigan were about huge beers on the train tracks and eating fried pickles. They were about rehearsing lines from Oleanna in the bathroom mirror, and getting so deeply into her character that I freaked myself out. They were about discovering intricate recipes and deciding to figure them out in the evening, and then cooking deep into the night, instead of going to the 24 hour gym we belonged to. They were about summery back porch conversations, looking out over the tomato plants, discussing potential past lives, and the radicals we wanted to become.

Evenings have been about loud honks in the driveway, which meant there was a green Ford Taurus station wagon full of groceries bags for me to help unload. I had to unload them as quickly as possible, so my mom wouldn't complain that she was the only one in the house who ever did anything to help out.

Evenings are about smelling things more acutely: The cast iron is full of sauteed onions, garlic, and vinegar. The compost is ripe. The closet in the mudroom is moldy. There is BBQ 'd something happening in the next apartment. My perfume is too strong.

Evenings are about watching the long black tails of rats wind their way around the succulents and then seeing their little pink ears pop up by the pink flowers. I watch the trees shaking off the damp breeze and bounce back with relief and a specific kind of stillness.  

Evenings are about waiting for the sound of the adolescent raccoons to creep and chirp and snarl their way onto the roof that butts up against our house. The raccoons that Old Man George said used to come out in the evenings when he lived here, but he knew them only as ghosts.

Evenings are about welcoming my husband home after a night of work, by hugging him as soon as he puts down his produce filled backpack. His breathing is labored and his skin is humid from that last stretch of his uphill bike ride. His heart beats out of his chest and into my chest. I press closely, so I can hear it thunder. I feel more awake and ready for the night, which is now ours.

Evenings have been about walking around the city taking pictures, and watching people flood into bars, yoga classes, and psychics. They are about remembering how many choices are built into our daily lives, and how sometimes my choices feed into me taking pictures alone in the evening.

Evenings are about recapitulation and writing the top 10 moments of my day, and if it seems the day was hard to distill or stretch into top 10 moments, the evening is about figuring out how the next day can be more memorable, more pointedly unique than the last.

Evenings 06.09.2013

“It was a moth. And a man. At the same time.”
“That isn’t real,” you insisted.
“But the book is based on a true story. It says it is.”
“That isn’t real.”
“Still, it freaked me out. Walk me home?”
“Of course. But that isn’t real.”

You pedaled your bike home a little faster that night. The Mothman Prophecies, real or not, had gotten under your skin, just as it had gotten under mine.

We spent most evenings together during that scorching Pensacola summer. You’d bring a sack full of baguettes from the bakery dumpster near your house, I’d splurge on 49¢ Faygo (cola for me, grape for you) and we’d follow the train tracks over the bridge to a small beach that overlooked the bay. The water gently ebbed and flowed around our ankles as we laid in the sand, searching for the UFOs that were often spotted in the skies above neighboring Gulf Breeze.

That’s how we stumbled upon the meteor shower. 100 per hour, at the peak. There were no words to describe the magic of being on that secluded beach with stars falling all around us-- in the sky, but in the water too-- so we laid in silence that was broken only by the whistle of the train, as it rushed along the tracks above our heads.

The wind from the train whipped through the humidity and rustled the leaves of the bushes behind us, startling you. You hoped I wouldn’t notice, but when you turned your head to look at me I grinned and squeezed your hand a little harder.

“The Mothman isn’t real,” I teased. Still, that night, we walked home a little faster, stealing looks over our shoulders.