Our Light

May 18, 2012—Our Light




I asked you today, “When did you know you loved me?”


When I knew, thinking back, it was like Norah learning something new


One day, it was just who I was now, hard to imagine before that


It was all leading up to you


To us


To her


That bounce in your walk


Your inability to hide your joy when I ran up to you


That confidence you had that you say was so uncharacteristic


Watching you sit at a piano


Hearing you sit with your guitar


Our first exchange with those cords


Laying against you, head on your chest, and your arm around me


Smiling, laughing, joking, kissing in the pitch black and pouring rain


We already knew each other before we met


Somehow


I wonder if our mothers ever walked past each other while we were in their bellies


Every detail I think back on, was planned, just for us


For me to be there when you were there


For me to know him and for you to know him


Every detail


To prove a oneness


To give hope


To be light


To be salt


It was all leading up to this


To us


To her


To share The Beauty


To give light

From Bliss and Blisters

From Bliss and Blisters (In the Making)...

Written shortly after our wedding, i.e early marriage/prebaby-- after moving to Sacramento. Maybe early Spring 2009.

"We are snacking on cold waffle bits from this morning’s breakfast out of a plastic baggy. The crickets in the two gecko tanks behind me are completely still and completely quiet, which is completely unusual. I think they might be coming up with a plan, via group telepathy, of course, to escape the certain death-by-giant-reptilian that mercilessly awaits them. They’re just standing altogether on top of the mock rock cave and half log that the bumpy, green ladies hide in, just standing there… being bugs. Bugs are eerie, especially when covered in calcium powder and standing so still they’re disinteresting to the cat. I am desensitized to cricket death. This is probably the fault of Hollywood. When we first got the geckos, before we were married, we would morbidly watch them pounce, pulverize, and attempt to swallow with brittle, twitching cricket legs hanging out of their mouths. I’ve always silently been grateful that the human process is more graceful and civil, at least from the point of the grocery store on. My husband is in the kitchen, gracefully making hamburger helper. I have to “remind” him to make a vegetable too… In real life, gravy’s not a vegetable.

“You’ve never had this stuff before?” he asks reasonably stunned.

I almost always play sous chef to his lead, trying to work quickly and help him stress about the timing of dinner a little less. Ninja Kitchen Jill works quickly and silently- putting perishables away, clearing the counter as he works, cleaning a pan or utensil, and always putting a large cup of water next to the stove while giving him the I know you need it look. Then she disappears in a brief cloud of smoke that rapidly vanishes with show-stopping sparks. He always feels like he accomplished all of this himself while cooking and I am more than happy to oblige him because it definitely helps him enjoy his creation more. So this is what marriage is like. Sometimes I think about how he’d get along being a bachelor. Would he drink unlimited quantities of apple juice? Would the grounds in the coffee maker grow penicillin? What would his refrigerator look like? Ketchup, 10-meat pizza, eggs, 7 containers of juice (all apple or orange, all open), 2-month old leftovers, stinky half and half that’s “still good”, cheese of some sort, beer. He does have excellent taste in beer, I contentedly and quite proudly admit. He’s not a Coors Light kind of guy, unless camping, when everyone enjoys diluted beer and calories don’t count anyway because, well, you’re in the forest. He carefully pours and savors each cold glass, telling me about the flavors, what it feels like on his tongue as he takes the first few sips, holding the glass or bottle out so he can analyze the color or label, or perhaps for some hidden camera running for a candid beer commercial for which he could potentially make thousands. He does this with wine too, even when I am having a glass with him. We have to have the same kind of glass or he’ll go nuts. He likes to share. He went to Kindergarten twice, maybe that’s why he’s so good at it. I like him. I guess I’m okay at sharing, too. I think I’m supposed to now. If I eat, he has to eat, even if I’m shaking and have the blood glucose level of dirt and he’s just had Thanksgiving, he’ll eat with me. I think it helps him somehow. He’s one of those people who, if he sees your food, he wants it. You people drive me mad. I was skinny and way too passive growing up, when the sheer, striking speed of my metabolism dictated to me that I should eat constantly. I used my elbows as weapons and mastered a mean growl so I could try to put some meat on my scrawny bones. Thanks to post-high school, baby-prep womanliness, my hips are now ever-so-slightly curvy and momma-ready. He likes it. I think I do too."

Storm

You cannot know the difficulties until you have one of your own. But here I am, alone, for maybe the third time since her birth, and it is pouring outside, for maybe the second time since her birth. The trees are going wild, nearly bending in half. The rain is coming down hard and it’s nearly horizontal. It’s getting loud out there. My windows are wide open and I am actually laughing with happiness.  The sky looks outrageous, absolutely, fantastically beautiful—the deep, deep grays, the billowing, heavy clouds, the bright, uneven, streaking sparks. I am actually in awe, actually shocked. Intimidated and calmed and overcome in my situational anger. It’s gone, and I feel ridiculous for having ever have taken myself so seriously enough to be that upset over nothing but my own humanness. I’ve been dizzy all day. Dizzy with anxiety and anger. It was worthless and undoing. But, just a few minutes after he left, with the baby, when the sky was clear and blue, and I knew I’d finally get some extraordinarily overdue time alone, he sent me a message that said “look outside”. I went downstairs. And, arms free, distraction free, I remembered how small I am, how free I am. How there is so much more out there. So many others, so many other deserts that need rain. How easy it is to forget that I am not the only one. I am not in the only desert. I have to write. I have to write when I am overwhelmed with good. I don’t know what else to do. I play my Radiohead station on Pandora and breath and write and watch and the flashes of lightning, the smell of the rain, the movement of the trees, all the noise of this storm make everything perfect. They clear the sky, wet the soil, test the strength of the things on the ground. And a song by Modest Mouse comes on my station. It’s called Dramamine. And I laugh. Because this, this right here, is Dramamine. I’m settled and grounded and leveled and calm and just happy. Just so, so happy.

Calmer mon âme mon Seigneur, diriger mes yeux. Donner la direction à mon esprit. Je suis le vôtre. Je me rends.

Dramamine

Map Of The Problematique

That's The Way

Reacquaint

Oh, good, you’re here. Hi!



Uh...Hi. Can I help you?


We have a mutual friend. He talks about you all the time, but says you’ve lost touch. He said you lived around here, so I was stopping by to see if you’ve got a minute—he has so many good things to say about you, I just had to stop by. You and I actually met a long time ago. But had you moved away.


Um… I’m sorry, who are you again?


You don’t recognize me?! Has it been that long?

Some things Just Don't Work Quite Right

A pregnant brain.

A mommy brain.

Romantic birthday dinners... + infant.

Spell check when your grammar is no good.

2 am baby bottles full of coffee.

Strapless bras.

Communism.

Attempting to be energy-efficient in the desert.

Husband’s ability to stay awake after his favorite... ahem, activity.

Democracy.

Teaching your kid to say please and always giving the thing to him if he does.

Giving cat a bath.

Microwaving leftovers in the silverware drawer.

Not pinning/distracting curious baby hands while changing her poo poo diapy.

Getting angry at Oreos for being so delicious.

Running out of butter.

Using the lint roller on the cat because you can’t afford Clariton.

A Little About Love

I love that it takes a lifetime to get to know someone. That you can be transparent and enjoy sharing everything and still hear a brand new story, an old tidbit, or little secret even after sharing so much time together.

Love is the ultimate funny thing. It’s the most simple and the most complicated thing. And, of course, like anything worth anything, it is both desired and feared. It screws you up and settles you down and makes babies happen and makes pain hurt. It’s the root of everything—addicting, warm, odd, silly, understood, understanding, forgiving, fun, easy, overwhelming, fulfilling… It makes you crazy and protective and jealous and worried and hopeful and hopeless. It can make you hate loneliness or want to be alone. It makes you love new things, or mundane things, and daydreaming and listening. Great things can never be taken away—first kisses, the exhilaration of that person’s arms around you, their hands on your shoulders, their breath on your skin, the sound of their voice and look in their eye as you admire each other, what they look like laughing, that night you spent talking and flirting instead of sleeping.

You can always bring these things back. You can bring them front and center. And it feels like a hot tub. Without the water bill.

Giving your life to someone is far less binding than one would imagine. Love is no longer a blur, a search, a series of guilt, or like renting an apartment. Your investment goes into something that contains the story of you. You still get to be you. You still should be you. You are what makes you attractive. Finding a great love doesn’t change your memories. You still get those. Wherever you’re at, it’s so good to remember those memories that are only yours.

Peril On

I am in my car, eating a sandwich, middle of the day, baby in the backseat. I am rockin’ the Halo 2 soundtrack. For some reason I am really paying attention to this sandwich. Prairie sweet wheat. Roasted turkey with a paprika and pepper rub. Red greens, mayo, deli mustard, provolone, alfalfa sprouts. The kind of paying attention you do when you are really hungry and this thing surprises you with deliciousness. The kind of paying attention you do when epic music fills the small space of your car. It nourishes my hungry bones immediately.

Sandwich in hand, I am transported. It is just before dawn, light on the horizon, cool chill, foggy mist rising from the warm soil. My sandwich has a glowing sparkle, its brilliance catches my eye and I watch it. To my delight, and calm astonishment, it becomes a bow. So light in my hand, brilliant carvings in the rich, deep wood. I graze my thumb across the smoothness. I am distracted from the flawless craftsmanship by my nose—I am enveloped in a warm, earthy, vibrant aroma. Though I feel it before my eyes fall upon it, through the mist, I begin to focus on the towering pines surrounding me. I am in a forest. I have a mission. I gaze again at the bow in my left hand. I feel the slight weight across my shoulder, a leather strap binds my arrows to my back. I crouch down, looking to my left, to my right. I begin my journey to find what I am looking for. Moving slow, smoothly, at first, silent, prepared. I feel my heart elevate its rhythm and I move. I let my senses guide me, moving through the mist, crouched low, bare feet sinking slightly with each step into the moist soil. Forward. Forward. Silent. My right hand moves stealthily over my shoulder. I feel the thin, smooth, sturdy shaft of my arrow, pull it forward. Here I become the arrow, feeling purpose, feeling my path, prepared for battle. I am light, purposeful. I am aimed. I feel the tension, the pull, the preparation, the steady hand. I focus forward, forward. The air is crisp. The delivery will be intentional. The aim will be perfect. My archer is never distracted. My mind is clear. I breathe in.

I am released.

Forward.

Forward I cut through my path.

Psalm 127:5

[If you have the soundtrack, play it from “Peril” on. You’ll get what I mean by all this. If you don’t have it, you won’t be disappointed. It’ll do so much for the way you envision your battle.]

[That sandwich was really good… but perhaps you’re wondering, ‘What was in those alfalfa sprouts?!?!’ …Just my unhindered imagination.]