Something Beautiful. Rumi

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened.  Don’t open the door to the study
and begin reading.  Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

-Rumi

i don't know if i can say it enough: if you're thinking of someone, contact them. I was hesitant, and still am at times, to just write to say hi. But, time and time again, I've found that there's a reason why that person has come to mind. And, writing to say hi has never hurt anyone, as far as I know.

And though I may tell my loved ones too often that I love them, I'd rather err of the side of too often than not enough.

how addiction pisses on love.

i drove the three hours to anchorage the day before my flight from alaska. I don't know why I drove—Mitch liked for me to drive at the least convenient moments. On the way, he picked up my discarded Snapple can, poked various holes in it, put his mouth over the opening and breathed deeply. “This,” he grinned, “will work.” I immediately hated myself for getting that drink, as if my choice made any difference. He held the can like a trophy and I was so mad I was shaking.

I waited until the anger subsided and I could speak without showing how angry I was. “Can you wait to smoke up?” I am sure my voice was still a little strained. “Just, can you wait until I leave?”

He snapped, “Fine,” and threw the can into the back seat like a child, crossed his arms, and said he didn't know I had such a problem with it. As if all of our other conversations never existed. As if he never noticed that I left the minute he and his friends talked about getting high. As if I hadn't told him, before I left my entire established life in Hawai'i, that drugs were the one thing I couldn't—absolutely could not—deal with in a partner.

Perhaps, to him, those conversations never existed. We have a tremendous ability to ignore the things we don't want to acknowledge.

To the best of my knowledge, the can stayed in the truck. But there are still giant empty holes where I was alone that night. The hour I spent by myself in the hot tub while he was “talking to someone.” I remember his fidgeting, his impatience at times. It was our last night together—a night I knew would be our final night together ever—and sometimes it was like he couldn't wait for me to go away or fall asleep.

The next day he drove to the airport, and parked in the furthest possible spot from the airport doors. Neither of us cried. He said he was sure he'd see me again, and smiled when he kissed me goodbye. I lied and said I was sure we'd see each other again, too. Maybe we both were lying.

I walked alone across the parking lot, lugging my belongings with me. When I got to the door I turned around and the truck was still there, and I saw the spark of a lighter through the drivers' side window. My stomach... you know I can't say what it did. It turned to stone and dropped through my feet and through the concrete below and through that level and that concrete... It was one of the worst feelings I've ever had. I felt like crying and screaming and like I was making the smartest decision ever by leaving him. Maybe the best word for how I felt was desperation. I thought that, after so much waiting and not finding the right person and him not coming, that he was finally there, next to me, breathing forever.* A part of me was severing ties, and a part of me was incredulous I was leaving the man I thought I'd love forever.

I loved him with everything I had. I left my home—the only place that really truly felt like home—to be next to him. He was, and probably is, amazing. There were so many reasons to love him. I know he loved me, too. We just fit. We had the same passions and drives in life, we understood each other most of the time, and when we didn't get each other, we worked to understand. Everything inside of me knew that he was It for me.

Throughout our relationship, I called him “Advenio,” meaning “to arrive” in Latin. I was certain the Him had finally arrived. But over time, he was angry and mean and agitated—but only sometimes. There was a giant dark cloud over us when he would spit angry phrases at me as if I were nothing. I was no saint, mind you. I would react to those angry times, and definitely not with loving words. In the beginning, I was all open and loving and trying to understand and eventually he would come back to me. But I'm no stranger to drugs, unfortunately, and I always knew what was going on. I grew tired of the whole situation and eventually I stopped being open and loving. His withdrawals were hate filled and painful.

Like most partners to the addicted, I held on to the good. If he was The One for me, I would slog through the bad times and stick beside him. But I'd also made a decision that I wouldn't deal with addiction, so there were boundaries. Boundaries that were crossed too many times. That day, the final day when I was dragging my luggage across a parking lot because he couldn't even wait 2 minutes to get high, the last little string of hope was broken. To see our bond thrown aside by him because his addiction was more important—I can't say what that did to me. There is no fairy tale that tells you what to do in that situation.

Prince Charming didn't snort coke off his mate's back before he stormed the castle to kiss Sleeping Beauty. Lancelot wasn't too drunk to drive his horse. Cinderella's prince didn't take breaks to get high on his friend's couch and stare at the glass slipper. Addiction isn't talked about in fairy tales, or in polite conversation.

But it's there, peeing on the bushes outside of too many people's lives.

*Integrations, by Pablo Neruda

there is something inherently cruel about facebook robots. Not quite a week ago, my aunt passed away. She called me her "borrowed daughter", we share the same birthday, communicated (admittedly) sporadically, and over the last month she's popped up constantly on my Facebook sidebar, asking if I can suggest any friends for her. Especially, it seems, over the last week.

Better than Facebook friends, I can say, I have vibrant memories of her. When I was in high school she came to stay with us and cooked amazing Fijian/Indian dishes for us, imparted her family's secret recipe for DELICIOUS salsa to us, and shared her life. When I lived in India for a while, she told my mom she was looking for "Indian treasures" around her house to send to me.

When I visited her in Hawai'i, I told her I didn't have a bathtub in my house and that baths are one of my favorite things. That night, she drew me a bath in her giant pink tub, laid a variety of lovely bath salts out, and told me if the water ever got close to cold that I should run new, hot water. "Just enjoy yourself, don't worry," she said. I spent the night immersed in bubbles with a good book, and got my bath "fix" for the next several months. Life in Hawai'i isn't cheap, and she wasn't rich, but she wanted to give me something lovely. Something I still remember.

She also tipped over a bucket full of chicken in her Bronco while we were hurrying home to watch the playoffs, and she was agitated and forgot her turn and slammed on her brakes. I love that memory.

Like all of us, she had her own struggles. While she was not always an easy woman, she cared about our family so much. I will miss her, as I know many will. Her story will remain with us, and will be kept alive in us.

my roads in alaska

not thinking about alaska has been my favorite pastime since leaving. But, since it's the one-year anniversary of my leaving that state and the rain here just won't stop, I've been thinking about it a lot lately.

I drove the three hours from Homer to Anchorage the day before my flight out, in Mitch's unregistered and bare-tired work truck. There is so much to say about that trip, and I'll get to it eventually when I can tell it honestly. But for now, I remember that truck and the route that we drove so many times over my stay there.

When I got off of the plane from Hawai'i, I was certain Mitch wasn't there. I don't really know why, maybe because I texted him when I landed and he didn't respond. Maybe it was just nerves after taking such a huge risk without being certain of the outcome. Either way, I waited until every passenger had left the plane before I grabbed my carry-ons from the overhead compartments and shuffled up the aisle and out of the gangway. I waited until I was second in the long Starbucks line before turning and going to the bathroom to check my makeup and brush my teeth before getting back in line. I made it to the front and turned away again. I sat down. I paced. Finally, I got on the escalator and went to baggage claim. I didn't see him, and self-consciously walked to the carousel. He came from behind me, put his hands over my eyes, and said "surprise" nervously. We filled the awkwardness with menial chit chat.

His truck has a button/pin over the driver's side visor that says "I ♥ mountains" and a 75-pound brindle pit bull named Tank in the back seat. It was a pre-dawn flight, and on the route home the sunrise was so intense it turned everything pink and orange--from the still-snowy mountains and the glassy ocean inlet at their base to the grass on the side of the road. Tank decided he was a lap dog and crawled onto my legs, settling in and resting his head on the window sill.

We took a detour to find his favorite waterfall, driving around and around because he couldn't find the right road. It was well worth the wait. We tromped through the snow and branches to see the water rushing beneath us. He raced across a fallen log above the water to reach the other side, and I reluctantly followed, constantly nervous my feet would slip off of the slick bark. Tank ran, snout-deep in snow, back and forth between us. Our shoes were soaked by the time we returned to the truck, breathless and red-cheeked.

 Waterfall. Much, much prettier in person.

He couldn't wait to see my face, he said, when we crested the hill to Homer. You can see forever, he said. By then, the fog had rolled in and I couldn't see much but I smiled big and pretended. Three bald eagles were in the air above us--but, as I would come to find is common up there, they were haggard and losing feathers and slightly sad to me. We drove up a pocked dirt road to a yurt, abandoned pieces of wood and garbage scattered across the yard. I didn't care, I wouldn't have even noticed if he hadn't pointed it out later. The inside of the yurt was still slightly warm from the fire dying in the wood-burning stove in the center of the house. We talked, got dinner, and watched V for Vendetta. I was filled-to-the-brim-and-overflowing happy. I felt like I'd found my home with him.

 The view from the Yurt

Weeks later, we drove that route to pick up a part for the boat's engine. We stayed the night with his friends in the most awesome bus I've ever been in. We're talking velvet, fireplace, book shelves, stove... beautiful. The drive home took an extra 30 minutes because of all the moose on the road. 

The voyage from Homer to Prince William Sound, I was supposed to drive the route again, to get supplies to Whittier for the boat when it arrived. The captain thought I was disappointed but secretly I was excited--it had been too much time with Mitch already, and I was looking forward to some alone time. But, as a service to me, it was arranged that I could be a part of the crew while we left. I sat on the deck and watched the Homer dock recede, and wished I was in a truck on that familiar route.

 We had our favorite gas station stops, we got pulled over twice (while he was driving), we argued, we sang, we slept, and I grew to love that route. It's funny how roads can hold so many memories, and can play pivotal parts in our lives.

Anticlimactic as that is, now I have to go bed. So, that's the Alaska road on my mind.

Something Beautiful: K'naan

the first time i heard this song was on alaskan back roads, everything dark but the moon and our headlights, in a taxi driven by my (former) roommate--a man everyone called jesus because of his long hair and beard and his kind eyes. It made me tear up. Now, listening to it after so long, makes my heart feel like it's bursting into fireworks.



K'naan grew up in Somalia before his mother moved him and his siblings to Canada by way of NYC when he was 13. Thing is, at the last minute something went wrong and she didn't have enough money to take her children and a cousin who was coming along. She had to choose, and in the end, his favorite was cousin was left behind to live in the midst of war. Beautiful, beautiful music. Check it out.

Lyrics:

And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

How did Mandela get the will to surpass the everyday
When injustice had him caged and trapped in every way?
How did Gandhi ever withstand the hunger strikes and all?
Didn't do it to gain power or money if I recall

It's to give, I guess, I'll pass it on
Mother thinks it'll lift the stress of Babylon
Mother knows, my mother she suffered blows
I don't know how we survived such violent episodes

I was so worried and hurt to see you bleed
But as soon as you came out the hospital you gave me sweets
Yeah, they try to take you from me
But you still only gave 'em some prayers and sympathy

Dear mama, you helped me write this
By showing me to give is priceless

[chorus]

All I can say is the worst is over now
We can serve the hard times, divorce, it's over now
They try to keep us out but they doors is open now
My n*, Akon is gettin' awards and covers now

This is K'naan and still reppin' the S
Comin' out of Mogadishu and still draped in the mess
And no matter how we strong, homie
It ain't easy comin' out of where we from, homie

And that's the reason why, I could never play for me
Tell 'em the truth is what my dead homies told me
Ooh yeah, I take inspiration from the most heinous of situations
Creating medication out my own tribulations

Dear Africa, you helped me write this
By showing me to give is priceless

[chorus]
Nothing is perfect man, that's what the world is
All I know is I'm enjoying today
You know 'cause it isn't every day that you get to give

Something Beautiful

William Carlos Williams

Pastoral

The little sparrows 
hop ingenuously 
about the pavement 
quarreling 
with sharp voices 
over those things 
that interest them. 
But we who are wiser 
shut ourselves in 
on either hand 
and no one knows 
whether we think good 
or evil. 


              Meanwhile, 
the old man who goes about 
gathering dog-lime 
walks in the gutter 
without looking up 
and his tread 
is more majestic than 
that of the Episcopal minister 
approaching the pulpit 
of a Sunday. 
                     These things 
astonish me beyond words.