Author
thank you.
for speaking up,
when I know you’re afraid
of hurting me with hope.
for listening,
when listening costs you much.
for feeling,
when emotion isn’t safe.
for remembering, when it’s simpler
to just not.
for trying,
when even thinking about believing
feels impossible.
for loving, for all the moments you give me
that I can always keep with me.
I’ve always said that your silence
hurts me more than any words
you could say.
maybe one day,
you’ll believe me.
once, I asked you what you were afraid of, when it came to believing.
you said you weren’t afraid. at least, that wasn’t the problem.
in the moment, i couldn’t understand how that could be true.
now, i wish you could come back and tell me how you did it.
lately, i seem to be anything but unafraid. sometimes depression is easier
to explain than anxiety, sadness easier to describe than an often nameless fear
that just follows me everywhere. it’s so hard knowing my mind is spiraling
out of control and not being able to do anything but just watch it happen.
today was a day of too many spirals, for no reason at all. nothing happened.
no reason at all to be scared. but i couldn’t slow the spinning of my thoughts and my body
followed and soon enough i was babbling about all the things that scare me and the words
sounded more and more irrational as they spooled out of my mouth but i couldn’t
stop them. wound up and crying. trying to explain to confused people why everything
scares me. from family to friendships to failing my dog to losing all my jobs to being trapped
in a life i don’t want to theology to my future to disappointing people to always being alone to
what if i’ve been wrong about everything always and just didn’t know it.
i know it’s anxiety. i know it’s pain. and fear. and love. and a scary, too-big world
without enough you in it. i know it’s because
i feel lost.
but knowing doesn’t fix anything.
i’m trying to be more unafraid. to feel all my feelings but to work with the fear until I am largely
unafraid. i know i can’t get rid of it entirely. i know that fear comes with love comes with
living. but i can’t make decisions afraid. i won’t ever trust them, and they’ll probably
be wrong. the best ones are made out of truth, faith, hope, and love… but fear gives all that a run for it’s money.
but i’m going to keep trying to outrun it, even when it keeps pace with me, and sometimes overtakes me.
because in the end, i’ll win. in that small way, i already know how my story ends.
i just wish i knew more than that.
the day i told you i was scared was one of the most vulnerable moments of my life, although you didn’t know it.
i don’t like to reveal fear. i don’t think anyone does.
but since that day, i’ve had to do it a lot, sometimes involuntarily. i’ve gotten good at hiding it. but fear doesn’t hide
very well for very long.
but when i told you, you made me feel so much safer. i knew you were scared too. knew by the way you held me tighter
than anyone ever had. but because we were scared together…
i don’t have words for how much better that was.
how much better
that would be.
Some things change.
Things you don’t know about.
Things I wish I could tell you.
I have a dog now.
I adopted her in March, back when
She was a red-brown ball of three-month old fur
Big paws
Brown eyes.
I admit, I adopted her selfishly
I was tired of being alone
Of always being let down and misunderstood
Of being incapable of opening myself to other people.
Yeah, it was selfish. But I gave her
What love I have, and to her
It is more than enough.
Somehow.
Now- sixty pounds of muscle and love
Nibbles and licks
Pulling me out of the depths of myself
When I can’t stand being me
Anymore.
She anchors me in a world
I’m always lost in.
Some things change,
Like being done with school
Like being a professor
Like having seventy-five students of my own
Like being a coach
And having forty kids of my own, all
Stronger than me-
The impostor syndrome is real
But it’s too good to give up.
Things change, like making more art
Than I used to
Driving to faraway places by myself
Going to a different church than my family
Being more independent, but also more alone.
Some things change-
I don’t know
Where you are
How you are doing
Who your friends are
Where you’re working
What you’re studying
(If anything at all)
If you still miss me-
I wish this hadn’t changed.
Some things change, but some things…
Don’t.
I still miss you
Every day
Just as much.
A constant like the brightening
And darkening
Of the sky
The cycle of dandelions
Bursting gold
And going to seed.
Constant
Like my breath.
I had a dream last night.
I held you, you held me
We tried to let go
But we couldn’t
Because we didn’t want to.
Have you ever head a dream
That felt more real
Than your reality?
Mine are always like that-
Asleep or awake.
Things I wish would change:
Fear
Distance
The word “impossible”
Dreams that stay
Just dreams.
once you asked if you could read the notebook I was writing about us.
I said maybe. someday. some of it. you never did.
one year later I find myself compiling the outpourings of my heart.
over one year from then, I find myself with a book.
it is not always pretty. it is sometimes beautiful. it is always true. and it is always, always, about love.
but this one poem, from that very first journal… it’s not in there. it’s just for you. so here it is.
how we say i love you
happy trees
and baby thumbs
backward eight knots
and who pours their syrup wrong
terms of endearment –
you silly goose –
and teasing little arguments
(who really did
knock over the projector
anyway?)
fill me with giggles
and skip through class-filled
afternoon days
your finger’s mischievous
tap
on my nose
lighting up my life for always.
I wish you
clear skies
the sun on your skin
a brave heart
steady feet
a true smile
and – selfishly –
your hand in mine
once upon a time
you told me a story.
you said it felt like I was asking you
to pack your suitcase
and travel to the city I lived in
but you didn’t know if you would ever
make it there.
maybe I’m a fool.
maybe I’m crazy.
maybe I’ve screwed up one
too many times.
but I’m going to give you the same
answer now.
I will pack my suitcase with you
and go wherever you go
even if you never make it to my city
I won’t leave you behind
as long as you’re trying
as long as we go together.
maybe you never cared like I thought
you did–
but when I said I love you
I meant it.
I don’t care if we are always travelling
as long as I get to do it
with you.
just take the chance.
what do we have to lose?
another year, another
set of candles on
another cake —
(I’ve heard that birthday wishes
sometimes
maybe
perhaps
come true?) —
I make the wish for the third time.
you.
you.
you.
— (I’ve heard that occasionally
just incidentally
hopefully
the wish you make with one
breath, has a chance?) —
you want me to stop
wishing it, want me to stop
hoping it, praying it
wasting my breath on
dandelions and too faint flames and
bare footsteps in the night-dew
grass under the stars, wishing…
but I can’t help wishing
just like I can’t help breathing
because to stop wishing
you
you
you
would be to stop being
me–
(have you heard it too? that
once upon a time, in a land
far far away, perhaps
on a star with a boy
and a fox
and a rose
wishes
could
come true?)
I’ve gotten pretty good at crying
and driving.
Somehow walking out the door
after you walk in
doesn’t get any easier.
I’m angry, and it surprises me.
I’m never angry.
But still, I’m not angry
at you.
I would never have left you the way
you left me–
but you thought we were impossible.
I would go through any pain for you. Die for you. Do
anything to reach you.
You–wouldn’t. But I don’t think it’s because
you decided I wasn’t enough–I just think you didn’t
know how.
I am angry. Not at you.
Just hurting.
Because I love you.
And it hurts you too much
to look at me.
Here’s the trick to crying and driving–
you pretend it’s blurry because it’s raining
because it always is.
two years ago.
two years ago, to the day.
we climbed on two vans on a misty morning
and drove for the mountains.
it was cold. in the backseat I laid my head
on your shoulder. I was happy.
that night, we sat on the creaky steps surrounded
by handprints, red and yellow and blue, cradled steaming
mugs of tea and whispered as the rest settled into sleep
stacked into bunks and sprawled on mattresses.
we were happy just to be with each other, to sit and breathe
and be and know we were wanted by someone that mattered.
we asked important questions in the quiet. we would ask even more
important questions later. we would cross terrifying, beautiful
lines that could not be uncrossed.
by the end of the week, I knew that I loved you.
to be honest, I knew long before then.
two years ago.
two years ago, to the day.
I love you still.
clay on my hands, grey, cold
colder than expected, pleasant
against my skin. wedge the clay, palms
squishing it into itself, spiral, spiral
fold, drop, toss into a ball, hand to hand
pat pat, pat pat. slam onto center
of the wheel, wham down twice
with my palm. start the wheel
dip my hands in the water, luke-
warm, cup the clay and squeeze
squeeze, squeeze–fingers pressing
pulling it up, up into a shaking cone
pushing it back down, down, side
of my right hand pressing, left
hand supporting. thumbs press down, in
rhythm, slow, not too thin, not too
fast. pull out, pull up, knuckle braced
on thumb, fingers slowly grasping
caressing the earth into fluid
motion, making something out of
something that was once
something that was once
nothing that was breathed into
life a long, long time ago.
it is not easy this, spinning
balance, this finding the still point
exactly in the middle
and shaping everything around it
centered. it tips and wobbles and
lurches beyond repair and I
squish it all into a shapeless lump
and start again, clay squishing between
my fingers, until something
emerges, something that has
worth, something I can make
beautiful. but I guess this raw earth
this handful of cool, grey clay
has worth by simply being
by simply having the potential
to be something more–
and so it already is.
this is the first thing I’ve learned
for me and only
me and I breathe and it calms
the always unsteady sea inside
of me. and yet as I press and
smooth and cup and
shape, as my fingers glide over
nothing becoming
something, I cannot help but
think of you
and think of how I can’t help
wanting to give you something
beautiful.