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“‘Do you know what love is like, Rose? It’s like having a sky, a whole sky racing inside of you. Four seasons’ worth of sky. One minute you are soaring and then you are all thunderclouds and then you are deep with stars and then you are empty.'”

“When you love somebody… it’s really hard when
you can’t see ’em anymore…

but, right now, you and me, here… put together entirely from atoms… sitting on this round rock with a core of liquid iron… held down by this force, that so troubles you, called gravity… all the while spinning around the sun… at 67,000 miles an hour… and whizzing through the Milky Way… at 600,000 miles an hour… in a universe that very well may be chasing its own tail… at the speed of light. And amidst all this frantic activity… fully cognizant of our own imminent demise… which is a very pretty way of saying… we all know we’re gonna die… we reach out to one another.

Sometimes for the sake of vanity… sometimes for reasons… you’re not old enough to understand yet… but a lot of the time… we just reach out and expect nothing in return.

Isn’t that strange?

Isn’t that weird?

Isn’t that weird enough?”

a poem by e .e. cummings your homecoming will be my homecoming– my selves go with you,only i remain; a shadow phantom effigy or seeming (an almost someone always who’s noone) a noone who,till their and your returning, spends the forever of his loneliness dreaming their eyes have opened to your morning feeling their stars have risen through your skies: so,in how merciful love’s own name,linger no more than selfless i can quite endure the absence of that moment when a stranger takes in his arms my very life who’s your –when all fears hopes beliefs doubts disappear. Everywhere and joy’s perfect wholeness we’re

I have felt, lately, that I have no new words. I do not have new things to say. I have said it all already, even if I feel the desire to express the same feelings and thoughts over and over again. For when expression does not bring change, and does not bring some new revelation, then it starts to feel useless. Words do not feel as powerful as they once were. For words to be powerful again, they must bring life. And right now, I do not see the life I wanted my words to bring about. My journal sits unfilled. I started writing about my life first because it was new and wonderful and the emotions and experiences begged to be chronicled and understood and valued, and then later because everything was so hard and I felt so lost and alone.

I find myself returning again and again to the words C.S. Lewis wrote. “I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process. It needs not a map but a history, and if I don’t stop writing that history at some quite arbitrary point, there’s no reason why I should ever stop. There is something new to be chronicled every day. Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape. As I’ve already noted, not every bend does. Sometimes the surprise is the opposite one; you are presented with exactly the same sort of country you thought you had left behind miles ago. That is when you wonder whether the valley isn’t a circular trench. But it isn’t. There are partial recurrences, but the sequence doesn’t repeat.” If I wrote every day, there would be bright spots, but mainly sorrow. I cannot change that. But it feels pointless now to chronicle it, when I do not know when it will end. Perhaps I have done all the understanding that I can do. I am sure I will write about it again, when I am driven to, or when my thoughts produce something worth writing. I am a writer. I cannot help myself, when life reaches its heights and depths. I must record the words to keep from bursting.

For now, I will turn to the words of others. Books are my friends, I hide and find comfort in their worlds and people. They affirm me. They remind me of hope. And so, when words of a wiser writer reach my heart where it needed to be found or express  what I feel better than I, I will share them here. For after all, understanding is also a function of writing. And I, like everyone else in the world, long to be understood.

Do you ever wish there were

stress-o-meters for every person so that

when the level jumped into the yellow edging

toward red it would start

beeping so that everyone would know to just

back off?

 

Do you ever wish there were

better things to say than the flat, stupid

words ‘I’m okay’ which call for extra, evasive

explanation when pressed which cause

your bald friend in front of you to say ‘I’m

worried about you’ and you just force

a laugh, a playful

punch to his shoulder and say, ‘How

are you feeling?’ because he has

leukemia and what right have you to

feel depressed?

 

Do you ever wish there were

better solutions when you wake up and

just feel nothing but know that nothing really means

something means this awful ocean of

everything deep pressed down inside you

and you just

sit and stare at the woods of your backyard and feel

empty and pointless and realize that

you can feel like you don’t exist even when

you’re breathing thinking walking and that

sometimes feels the worst of all?

 

Do you ever wish there were

reasons you could reach out to the person

you love rather than freeze when that song

plays in the coffee shop and you get up and walk

out into the cold or make some silly

excuse to go to the bathroom once twice because you just

can’t handle the sound wave memories

of him and his closeness and everything

you used to have?

 

Do you ever wish there were

days you could go to sleep again after

waking up because you went to church and then

crawled back and bed although

it’s not socially acceptable to go back to bed after

having emerged and trying

to explain to your mother that it’s like

there’s this ocean of sadness and pain inside

your chest and soul and you’re just trying

to keep the lid on but when you open it just

a crack for release the whole darn thing tries

to escape?

 

Do you ever wish there were

lists of all the ‘rules’ that make your life just

a tad easier like

don’t listen to acoustic music

don’t remember anything at all

don’t talk about work or school

don’t ever say you’re not okay

don’t step foot on campus

don’t get too close

which are all so obvious and easy to remember but

there are always others, hidden IEDs that

blow up in your face because you didn’t

even know they were a rule and now

you’re crying and wishing

you could go back a few seconds or minutes or hours to

avoid them?

 

Do you ever wish there were

things that made you feel like you

used to feel without the anticipatory

fear of that momentary light being

snatched away

things better than the

awful crushing sensation of driving

back onto campus for the first time in

six months even though you knew you

knew it was a rule but you needed to

break it anyway and

the fake smile waving your friend goodbye at

drop off and driving

away to the river after and striding in

determined even though its

February and feeling the

shock when the icy cold closes

over your head and emerging to

look at the silvery blue-gray world and remembering how

this used to inspire laughter and alive but

those days are gone and

the people are just echoes in your heart and at least

now it still makes you feel

awake like

your eyes work again?

 

Do you ever wish there were

roadmaps to guide you to the correct journey, the one

that tells you what to say what to do

what you should have said should have done

what you shouldn’t have said shouldn’t have done

what is needed and what is true

that leads you back to the person

you love?

the more I know about love

the more I can only compare it to

natural things, forces of nature

unfathomable, constant

powerful, beyond us

the mountains, blue

curving one after the other

steady

the flowing river, alive and beautiful

over mossy rock and through quiet forest

the tree, branching and green

rooted, reaching

rough and brown, alive

the pair of hawks, wheeling

feathered and fierce, borne on wind

wild and unstoppable

the more I know about love

the more I can only follow it to God

the more I know about love

the more I can only think about you

I’ve never seemed to care much about what people think. In fact, there are some who would say I think about others’ opinions too little. But actually, I often care too much.

I care so much about if other people accept me or not, whether they approve of me or not, that I try hard not to. But that doesn’t mean I’m secure in myself. Quite the opposite. And I think that’s the root of the problem—I find difficulty in accepting myself and not letting others’ opinion’s influence me. Just letting God’s thoughts define me.

But when life goes dark, you have to think about it.

Self-criticism can go a long way when used to push yourself to reach a material goal, or do better at work or in a sport. Analyzing your weaknesses and areas where other people seem better than you. But when it comes to emotions, matters of heart, I’m finding that kind of judgment can only ever be damaging.

I’m weak.

I’m worthless and lost.

No one thinks I’m beautiful or strong.

I’m stupid and cowardly for avoiding things that hurt.

I’m weird for not wanting things I should want. For wanting things I can’t have.

I’m wrong for not being able to be happy.

I’m crazy for avoiding things I used to love.

I hate the person I am.

When I’m feeling down, it is so crazy easy to think like this. In a way, it’s my mind’s attempt to get me to feel better, heal myself. But unlike physical problems, the “you’re so weak, try harder, be like everyone else, see what they think of you” motivation strategy doesn’t work. It can’t move my heart a muscle. It actually digs me deeper into whatever hole I’ve curled up inside.

And in fact, it’s nowhere near the way God sees me.

Oddly enough, it’s probably not the way most other people see me either. So I’m trying to accept everything that I am right now, in this day, instead of obsessing over the past or future or trying to “fix” myself. It’s okay to accept the way I feel. As long as I don’t let it take over all my actions, make every decision for me, halt my ability to think. That’s one thing. It shouldn’t immobilize me or stop me from trying things that feel improbable or even impossible. It doesn’t mean I don’t seek hard after truth and challenge the way I see the world. It doesn’t mean I don’t do hard things, right things. I should always do that, but I should do it while not hating myself for how I feel while I do it. And my feelings are not always right… the feelings that say, this is beauty. this is love. this is goodness. this is pain. this is loss. this is longing, those are almost always true. the feelings that say, there is no hope. that dream is not possible. you should be afraid. you are empty and worthless. you should never try, those are almost always wrong. I should accept the fact that I feel those negative things while refuting them with what I do, how I act. That’s so so hard for me. I’m bad at it. But it’s worth it to keep trying to be better at it. But accepting where I’m at—that’s a powerful thing. It’s saying, I’m okay with the way I feel. And the way I live and try to fight for love and truth, regardless of how I feel—well, that’s important too.

No one can take that away from me.

Can tell me to love someone or stop loving someone.

Can tell me to live this way or that way as long as I’m striving to live what is good and true.

Can tell me what’s possible or impossible.

Can tell me whether to be sad or happy. Because I can’t tell myself that either.

As long as I let God define truth and goodness and chase hard after that, no one can define any area of my life for me. And I’m not wrong or sinful for being me.

Being kind to myself, when life is hard, when I’m not happy, when I’m stuck in a waiting I cannot change—that is one of the biggest and hardest things of all.

Here’s to giving it my all, no matter how much I have to give. It is enough.

I don’t think anyone

falls in love all at once.

I think it’s gradual

growing

alive

almost like magic.

but looking back

I can remember the moment

I began to realize–

Mario Carts

tickle fights

laughing as the projector

almost met its end

sitting close

everyone falling toward sleep

in the dark

feeling a little cold

feeling you wordlessly

lay your blanket over me

as if you knew.

quietly walking out into the street

looking up at the sky

this odd, incredible feeling

filling my chest

pushing at the boundaries

a feeling I had never felt

didn’t know what to do with

or how to understand

but oh so strongly drawn to

almost like magic

and I knew it had to do with you.

and as I looked up

a shooting star streaked

lighting up the sky behind the clouds

almost like magic.

and so I went to my room

wrote about the night

went to sleep

but I treasured that feeling

paid attention to it

and as it grew it changed

into something beautiful

and aching

and totally unexpected

almost like magic

definitely like you.

and beneath it all

my heart has felt it

ever since.

 

I’m on the train

heading south

heading to memory

to all I’ve ever known

to where I started from

where so much started from.

and you—

you are about to fly across the ocean

to a place you’ve never been.

I pray that good winds

will lift your wings,

I pray that if you’re looking for something

you’ll find it,

I pray that you’ll know what your heart tells you

and that you’ll have the courage

to follow it,

I pray that God meets you there

in ways you’ve never felt,

that you’d know yourself better,

deeper than ever before,

I pray you will come home safe.

I am always on your side,

always here to lean on

if you need it, if you let yourself.

I will always be waiting here

as I always am

and one day, if you want to tell me

I’d so love to hear

all about it.

At the beginning of my 18 day trip, I decided I wanted to write at least one poem every day. And so I did… well, almost. If I missed a day, I wrote a poem the next day about the previous day. And sometimes, there was just too much to write about for one poem, so I wrote two. These poems are mostly unedited, unlimited, uncensored, just as they ended up on the page. Many were scrawled in the nonsensical moments right before sleep. And yes, that’s a lot of words. But here they are.

1/7/18
journey, the world keeps on spinning

train lurching past
one two one two
train lurching softly
whisking me away from here

winter brown fields
hawk spread in air
alighting in an edge tree
a nest belonging to someone

ice, clean, ice, innocence
white blue ice
frosted mirror spreading
half frozen precarious beauty

trees, tall bare trunks
regal pine dark, close
thin snow gracing ground
bitter cold, glistening embrace

crisp sky, litter beneath bridge
bright splash of graffiti
primary colors bubble blocky
black outlined, playful

rowhouses, horizontal stacked
faded shades
tired, regal
sagging grey shingles

crying woman on her cell
blues and greens, scarf tied ‘round her head
tears, past caring who may hear
a daughter lost in childbirth
prayer, Jesus, please be here

quiet heartbreak
dark sharp deep
pang, something I know
I can be a hand to hold

my heart cries
with you, eyes water
a pain not my own
yet mine

leaving the familiar
chest aches with step into unknown
excitement, yes, swirls, small
but lonely, oh so lonely

empty seat next to mine
memories of your word and touch
as others’ homes
blow me by.

1/8/18
It’s snowing in Prospects Park.
Quiet bootsteps on semi-packed snow
The trees, the white path
The stillness
Remind me of the time
Perhaps a year ago exactly
When the three of us walked
Through forest snow
Fresh and full of awe
Hushed beauty.
I ache for you
Feeling quite alone in this new world.
But the Tigger onesies
Orange and yellow
Bright and odd
Two people skiing complete with tails
With their dog across the field
Make me stop,
And smile.

1/9/18
I tap her on the shoulder
she’s so glad to see me
I wonder if she’s seeing
the same person I think she is
can’t help it—
a grin splits my face too
and I laugh as her arms
wrap around me
and tighten like they’ll never let go
she says something to B.
about me being amazing
just for existing
how could she know
that’s just what I needed
to hear
just needed to see
someone’s face light up
just because I’m there.

1/10/18
I have always felt
that beautiful things
are meant to be touched
perhaps this is why
the branch of an evergreen
the veins in your forearm
and the thick painted pages
of this sketchbook
seem an infinite universe
at my fingertips
meant to be reveled in
with lit eyes
and a quiet smile
perhaps this is why
when I behold the moon
and the two people watching
below it
or the green, red, blue tree
and its treehouse
I can only think of you.

1/11/18
leaving home
always hurts
this messy apartment
the creaking wood floors
the leak in the ceiling
his warm, fuzzy hug
walking into the dark
causes a pull hard deep
but I’m too tired to cry
home is people
home is souls in connection
home is love
and that’s why missing you
is the greatest void
I can never fill

1/12/18
snow on green metal roof
black rock of wet mountain
swathed in mist
and white air
rain pattering down
making wide window ledges
cozy spaces
I want to crawl into
and disappear
I belong here
yet I don’t
it is beautiful
and yet I ache

1/13/18
you’re the musician!
the girl at the counter exclaims
I guess I am—
I’m just a girl
who likes to play her guitar
and sing
but when I pluck my courage
with the strings and vocal chords
and let the last note
of the first song fade
people clap.
soon, there’s a tip in my jar.
I’m getting into the music.
the night is dark and snowy
and bitter cold
I trudge back up the hill
feeling the knot by my shoulder blades
tighten and ache
from carrying the heavy case.
but when I open the door
my whole class erupts
in cheers.
why didn’t you tell us?
they say, like I’ve done
something big.
and for a moment,
I wonder if I have.

1/14/18
we name our heater Harold
Harold the Angry Heater
because he makes clanking
banging, crescendoing noises
that keep us up at night
although the room is icy cold
ice on the windowpanes
a cinderblock refrigerator.
the maintenance girl comes
and I go to lunch.
A. approaches me—
‘so she found a little alligator!’
she says, ‘with a hammer.
they’re going to rehome him
at 1:30.’
oh, Harold is an alligator.
not a heater.
perhaps he was just
trying to get out.
we talk to another student.
his heater is making noises too.
it must be an armadillo,
we say.
pushing along a little ball
with her nose.
plip-plopping quickly along
on little legs.
‘oh,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave her treats
and she’ll come out and play cards with me.’
we nod. that is the only
obvious solution.

1/15/18
1.
neon tutus
tights, legwarmers
side ponytails
red laser lights
floating across floor
arms moving
in silly beat—
I do not belong here.
not because
I wasn’t alive in the 80s.
not because
I’m too young to drink.
not because
I don’t have a costume.
not because
I’m awkward at dances anyway.
no.
I am not happy.
and this is why
I do not belong.

2.
sometimes hiding away
is the best thing you can do
for yourself
open the inner window pane
swing it wide
feel the freed layer of cold
seeping quietly in
see the almost silent snow
kids tracking sleds far below
pillow behind back
lean against window ledge edge
pay attention to your heart
comfort in familiar shows
hug stuffed animal close
and let yourself just be
whatever that may be

1/16/18
1.
really good poetry
is like breathing
like someone’s pouring starlight
into my lungs
I just sit with lips parted
like I’m waiting for a kiss
as goosebumps take me
in waves
and something burns a little
inside my veins
and yet, it cannot satisfy
when I walk into the night
bitter cold, the kind that bites,
icy grey slush under boots
I speak to you through the stars
and wish for an answer
to fill me.

2.
I look into the mirror
straight into my eyes
deep
and try to see
the girl that you saw
the girl I was then
the girl deep inside
the girl that’s the best me
the girl that’s whole.
it’s meant to be a good thing
but I fast realize
it’s too painful
way, way too painful
shattered chest blaring
‘extraction should not be attempted.’
oh yes, she’s still in there
she’s quite real
she did indeed exist
and it was wonderful
alive in color and movement
connected existence
but without you
she cannot come out.
I do not blame her
for her innocent refusal
her inability.
she shakes her head, shrugs
I cannot.
I nod.
I let her be.

1/17/18
snow sifts down
floating in a silver
misty sky
hovering
wet, large flakes
frosting every delicate tree
I stick my tongue out
to catch the falling cold
‘lazy snow,’ A. calls it
and she is right
the beauty surrounds me
I am walking in it
I wish to be of it
watching world through
flaking window pane
peeling white paint
fogging glass looking out
at magical shrouded evergreens
and down at children
dragging sleds
tracking through smooth field
stories swirl around me
the air is full of them
good and bright, dark and lonely
I cannot escape them
the voices murmur
asking me to feel
asking me to connect
asking me to remember
asking me to dig deep
to bring out handfuls
of the rich dirt inside
I am like a piece of pottery
thin and brittle clay
ready to shatter
from this aching
a string pulled taught
straight to you

1/18/18
1.
she says
‘your story idea
reminds me of The Little Prince’
and all of a sudden
I’m all choked up
I remember
magical music from the credits rolling
dark bedroom
you next to me
I remember
last residency
July
walking to the bookstore
buying a copy of The Little Prince
(and Mary Oliver’s Felicity)
reading them aloud to myself
the isolation of my bedroom
crying all the way through
a tear sneaks onto the page
a permanent warped puddle
I remember
placing it on my college shelf
unable to open it since
I remember
drawing baobab trees
taken over my scribbled black planet
no rose
no rose
no rose
I remember
dreaming up a story
of two kids looking for home
and finding it in each other
I remember
‘it reminds me of The Little Prince’
she says
my hands go to my face
involuntarily
my eyes fill up
‘thank you’
I say
‘that means so much to me’

2.
triggers
triggers
all around
he says cupcakes
I think cream cheese icing
she says
we had a tree of apple fritters
at our wedding
no cake
and I think of sneaking
a bite of yours
I am always
at war with myself
memories
hammering at boarded up
windows
I wish I could just
let them all in
but I can’t.

1/19/18
Skylar
grey fur
white splashes
velvet nose
so much less soft
than when you held him
so much more time
spent in my arms
a small soothing comfort
as I missed you
I said, I hurt so much
I will hold you close
I said, I remember too much
I will hide you in my closet
I said, I cannot breathe
I will hold you just for tonight
and tonight turned into weeks
tucked under my chin
clutched close to the hollow
of my chest
some thing inside begins
to unclench
just a little
just enough
a vulnerable kind of relief
a release of tension
I remember how
you kept him for two nights
when we were staying away
from each other
I remember how I took him along
on nights beautiful and hard
there’s still traces of pine sap
on his left bottom paw
it’s funny how something
inanimate
can become so much more
than anything I thought
it would ever
be

1/20/18
today the graduates
said goodbye to a place
and people
that had been their dearest home.
I felt with them but knew
it is not mine.
it is hard to find home
in a place
when mine lives in memory
pancake parties
in a faerie lit room.
it is hard to find home
in people
when my heart still rests
where I left it
in your hands.
and anyway
even if I’d never been there
even if I’d never met you
this would not
be my home.
and so tomorrow
I move on from here
and I am ready.

1/21/18
I pop the latches on my guitar case
one, two, three, four
sit cross-legged on the cold sidewalk
pull the strap over my head
begin to strum
push my voice to reach out
stretch over the streets
my hat is my tip jar
and I am surprised when
dollar bills tumble in
strum till fingers numb
warm them, a moment
then strum again
strangers stop
strangers smile
strangers say, you have a beautiful voice!
strangers say, aren’t you cold?
strangers say, do you write your own music?
I laugh, and answer
more comfortable with the strangers
than people I know
or feel like I should.
strangers owe me nothing
and I owe nothing to them
but somehow
we meet in the middle.
time trickles on
legs protest
as I finally stand
guitar back in its home
snap, snap, snap
snap
and I wait for the bus
ready to be just another person
who was here
and then was gone.

1/22/18
I wonder if I could be
happier as a wanderer—
freed from feeling like
I’m ‘supposed to’ belong
somewhere in particular
with someones in particular
perhaps people would put fewer
‘supposed to’s on me
perhaps I would but fewer
‘supposed to’s on myself
perhaps I could just let myself
be me
perhaps I could more constantly
find this in-between
the compromise
of living and wanting
because on this day
in this unrooted world
I am content to be in motion
I am content to ache a little
I am content with being
okay
with my joys and sadnesses
I am okay with just me
just for today
to be with friends
and be alone
to explore this city
that doesn’t know me
to let my feelings
do what they will
but not drown me
to feel both light and dark—
to accept myself.
and I want to hold on to this
this okay-ness
for more than just
today.

1/23/18
1.
last night we sat on the couch
two almost strangers
and became friends
sipping thick red port
I found I kind of liked—
sweet at first
although later it burns a bit
going down.
we talk honestly
words flowing naturally,
never forced.
we talk about holes.
about how sometimes a loss
leaves a hole you will feel
for the rest of your life,
and how it’s so easy to be
frustrated
with people when they can’t
fill the holes in the way
that one person did and yet
we expect them to—
no, not quite right,
we just want them to.
we speak of how
we should embrace many people,
many people who each help fill
one of the many facets
of who we are,
wondrous, complex
individuals.
they can’t fill the whole hole.
I should stop
being disappointed, feeling
let down.
we should notice how
their many spirits
fill up our many different places,
and who knows,
she says,
maybe we’ll find people
who fill up something
new.
we look at each other
with smiles that speak of more
than just happiness
finding truth, and safety,
in each other’s hearts.

2.
the unrelenting rain, downpour
floods the streets
sheets of water
whooshing up to get me
as tires sush through
indifferent to my walking there.
I find refuge in Turkish coffee shop,
used bookstore, Raven,
the museum where I read poetry,
where I step inside
the huge stained-glass globe
the world mapped out in light and color
frozen in the moment
of its making.
I am mesmerized,
encompassed,
the wond’ring inner child and
fierce knowing girl inside me
both stand together beneath the North Star
listen to the acoustics like a microphone
look at where you and I are, and have been,
and will be
and whisper,
those three words,
always those three words,
hoping the magical globe will catch them
and whisk them away to you.