" Not famine, not earthquakes, not cancer....but we are the great danger" (C.G. Jung, The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man)
I am a compassionate person, however, when I read the headline about the earthquake in Japan and the tsunami that followed the other day, I was not horrified, surprised or sad. Does that mean I am not compassionate? I also consider myself a participant in the folly of being a modern human. I expect to pay for my behavior as a participant in a culture that clearly has an addictive relationship to consumption of natural resources. I make miniscule efforts to reduce my carbon footprint, but not to the extent that it would cause me discomfort. I still drive a car; I still use paper cups for my espresso drinks; I use non eco-friendly two-ply toilet paper because it works better, and I take for granted that the sun will come out every day. If it hides behind clouds and makes me chilly, I will turn a little dial on my wall and use up some natural gas to get warm again.
I think I have more compassion for Mother Earth than I have for myself and my human brethren. As I saw the photos of Japan, replete with horrible scenes of wreckage and distraught citizens, and felt acutely humbled but not sad, I wondered if I would feel differently if the earthquake had occurred in Oakland, California where my daughter and other family members live. I remember the earthquake in 1986 that collapsed one freeway on top of the other in Oakland and which caused immense damage to homes and buildings in the San Francsico area in addition to the loss of human life. I wasn't particularly sad or horrified because, well...it IS San Francisco and earthquakes will occur. It is not a question of if, it is a question of when.
Then I thought about the oil spill that destroyed coastlines and entire eco-systems north of San Francisco back in 1971 when two oil tankers collided spilling 800,000 gallons of heavy fuel oil into the ocean. I still cry when I see photos of humans wading into the toxic surf to rescue birds who strained for air and whose wings were unable to open to lift them from the oily goo. This assault to our environment was entirely preventable, yet the prevailing attitude continues to be cavalier. There have been many more oils spills since, all followed by lame justifications and minimization of the violence and destruction. We seem to fail in making the behavior-consequence connection in our desire for everything in our world to be easier, faster and cheaper in the short run.
Humans choose to build cities on fault lines and in flood zones; they choose to take their chances and densely populate areas where Mother Nature tends to become restless from time to time. What continues to surprise me is how humans behave as though it is some sort of horrible accident when an earthquake destroys a city or a wildfire burns its way through an expensive suburb or the ocean, whose power exceeds everything and anything a human can create, decides to heave itself onto the land and level a coastline. Gregg Levoy, in his book "Callings" writes: "Toni Morrison once described how the Mississippi River, had been straightened out in places to make room for houses and livable acreage, and how occasionally the river will flood these places. 'Flood is the word thay use' she said,'but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.'"
We are living organisms whose phsyical bodies mirror all systems in Nature, yet we seem to continue to think of ourselves as separate, as we build our homes and cities in flood plains or upon the earths fault lines and tornado zones. It seems we have a rather unrealistic expectation that the Earth somehow should accomodate our every whim and fancy despite how out of sync our actions are with nature's powerful rhythms and systems. Carl Jung wrote, "But our progressiveness, though it may result in a great many delighted wish-fulfillments, piles up an equally gigantic Promethean debt which has to be paid off from time to time in the form of hideous catastrophes" (C.G. Jung, CW 9.1, Par 276). For the most part, humans' orientation to nature has been one of conquest, not sympatico. We continue to insist Nature conform to our manufactured reality and behave as though we have been wronged when Nature acts as Nature does. The New York Times (Sunday, March 13th, 2011) had a front page article describing a tribal culture in the Phillipines which has managed to escape modernization and annihilation of its traditions and practices which are notable in their harmonious and reverent relationship with Nature. Such cultures have all but disappeared save for the Aboriginal cultures and others hidden deep in the forests out of the reach of land developers and other industries that have little regard or foresight in evaluating the costs and consequences of changing Nature's eco-systems.
Perhaps the massive earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, wild fires and other expressions of Nature are reminders of who is really in charge. And I am brought around again to the question of whether I would be devastated if I lost one of my children or a loved one as a result of nature's coughs, hiccups or out and out slaps across the face of humanity for its blatant arrogance. Yes, of course I would be devastated.I would be leveled and very humbled. But not surprised or indignant.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Powerful Voice of Silence
Unconscious Speaking
In our culture, we are battered with words often spoken half-consciously or unconsciously. Words fly out of our mouths at warp speed, pressured, unintelligible, mulched in with colloquialisms and delivered without thought as to their intended meaning. Our vernacular uses superlatives to shape beliefs we act then act out: “Hurry! Sale ends soon!” “Buy now! Don’t miss out!” Our behavior is in large part, an outcome of the way in which we use language.
“How are you?” with the reply, “I’m fine” is a common exchange. How often have we wondered why we ask unless there is time and desire to hear a genuine response? What gesture can we offer instead? Perhaps eye contact, a smile and saying, It’s good to see you.”
“Love you,” a wife says to her husband on the phone, a pregnant comma following. She waits for him to return the sentiment. “Me too,” he says. Satisfied, she disconnects clicking the “end” button on her phone. She said it to assure herself that some remnant of love still remained. He replied in a constricted way; love was missing and besides, there was work to be done. He would not or could not get into the landscape of his actual state of mind and emotion, not with her. She was his wife, he didn’t want to hurt her. The marriage crucible cannot become capable of holding truth unless its occupants intentionally subject it to alchemical fire to burnish it into high resonance. Suppose he had obeyed the urge to remain silent and say nothing? In the silence, she would have been given back her own words, an invitation to become conscious. And the crucible would begin to sing with fire.
Silence- the gentle teacher
A couple argues the same argument, each sentence beginning with the word, “why,” which usually invites a defensive response. The circularity and escalation of the argument has no purpose, its words running in a haphazard herd, raising egoic dust and blinding its warriors to any possibility of resolution. If only someone would lower their eyes, come to their knees and offer gentle silence. The body posture is surrender, the silence is the invitation. Silence invites one to return to the heart, to make an affective turn inward to mindfulness. Thich Nat Hanh writes, “Just embracing your anger, breathing in and breathing out, that is good enough…” The breath offers medicine to the paralyzed heart, freeing it from the bondage of misperception and destructive thoughts.
Too Many Words
In the turbulence of words, meaning and intent loses its place. The desire to listen and investigate assumptions is usurped by the need to be right. Reversing this pattern requires us to slow down our speech, carefully considering what we want to say and being economical in our use of words. Too many words turn the potential for poetic expression into noise. Allowing silence to fill the spaces between sentences opens the way for reflection and creative response. Taking the time to be curious, to check out assumptions and to choose words with care reduces the potential for reactivity and circular arguments.
The Palate of Words
An artist stands before her canvas and considers her choices colors for a painting of a landscape or perhaps of a beloved pet playing by the sea. Nature’s own palate provides a template for the artist to follow and she mixes according to the sounds she hears and the multiple voices of green speaking through the trees and grasses. She backs away just breathing and looking at the canvas before her. Does it speak what is in her imagination? Does the work of expression sing in harmony with Nature’s perfect voice?
Words are often spoken without consideration as to whether they fit what the heart longs to express. Too often, the voice of fear with its many disguises and costumes steps onto center stage and silences the tender voice of the psyche (the soul) and the heart. Jealousy masquerades as loving intention, explaining insists that it only wants understanding when all it really wants is to be right and to defend its position, anger says it speaks “for their own good” or in righteous indignation at some offense. All of these are the faces of fear. And when fear steps onto center stage, love exits and waits in the wings for the two cannot co-exist.
Choosing our Words
Choosing words with care and with an undefended heart requires an affective turn inward. As the artist’s eyes and ears attune to how she may best offer honor and sincerity of expression in her work, so must we be mindful of how we use words.
The Way of Council, a book written by Jack Zimmerman and Virginia Coyle describe the four intentions of holding council in the Native American Tradition. Those four intentions are: speaking from the heart, listening from the heart, being spontaneous and being lean of speech. Speaking from the heart requires being able to distinguish what is truly of the heart from the many voices of fear. Speaking from the heart is always an expression of love. Listening with or from the heart means one listens with the whole body rather than allowing the ego to dominate, to think up a response or defense or explanation while the other is speaking. Spontaneity in speaking means trusting that what the heart wants to express is perfect even when it may seem unrelated to what has been spoken by the other. And perhaps most important is being lean of speech. As the artist takes her brushes and mixes as her senses inform her way of expression, she is careful and quiet before she considers which colors fit. Often, she must walk away and allow silence to incubate what is in her imagination for a time before she returns to her canvas. It is well that we do the same when using words to express ourselves. The fewer words and the more quietly they are spoken, the more clear and powerful the message.
In our culture, we are battered with words often spoken half-consciously or unconsciously. Words fly out of our mouths at warp speed, pressured, unintelligible, mulched in with colloquialisms and delivered without thought as to their intended meaning. Our vernacular uses superlatives to shape beliefs we act then act out: “Hurry! Sale ends soon!” “Buy now! Don’t miss out!” Our behavior is in large part, an outcome of the way in which we use language.
“How are you?” with the reply, “I’m fine” is a common exchange. How often have we wondered why we ask unless there is time and desire to hear a genuine response? What gesture can we offer instead? Perhaps eye contact, a smile and saying, It’s good to see you.”
“Love you,” a wife says to her husband on the phone, a pregnant comma following. She waits for him to return the sentiment. “Me too,” he says. Satisfied, she disconnects clicking the “end” button on her phone. She said it to assure herself that some remnant of love still remained. He replied in a constricted way; love was missing and besides, there was work to be done. He would not or could not get into the landscape of his actual state of mind and emotion, not with her. She was his wife, he didn’t want to hurt her. The marriage crucible cannot become capable of holding truth unless its occupants intentionally subject it to alchemical fire to burnish it into high resonance. Suppose he had obeyed the urge to remain silent and say nothing? In the silence, she would have been given back her own words, an invitation to become conscious. And the crucible would begin to sing with fire.
Silence- the gentle teacher
A couple argues the same argument, each sentence beginning with the word, “why,” which usually invites a defensive response. The circularity and escalation of the argument has no purpose, its words running in a haphazard herd, raising egoic dust and blinding its warriors to any possibility of resolution. If only someone would lower their eyes, come to their knees and offer gentle silence. The body posture is surrender, the silence is the invitation. Silence invites one to return to the heart, to make an affective turn inward to mindfulness. Thich Nat Hanh writes, “Just embracing your anger, breathing in and breathing out, that is good enough…” The breath offers medicine to the paralyzed heart, freeing it from the bondage of misperception and destructive thoughts.
Too Many Words
In the turbulence of words, meaning and intent loses its place. The desire to listen and investigate assumptions is usurped by the need to be right. Reversing this pattern requires us to slow down our speech, carefully considering what we want to say and being economical in our use of words. Too many words turn the potential for poetic expression into noise. Allowing silence to fill the spaces between sentences opens the way for reflection and creative response. Taking the time to be curious, to check out assumptions and to choose words with care reduces the potential for reactivity and circular arguments.
The Palate of Words
An artist stands before her canvas and considers her choices colors for a painting of a landscape or perhaps of a beloved pet playing by the sea. Nature’s own palate provides a template for the artist to follow and she mixes according to the sounds she hears and the multiple voices of green speaking through the trees and grasses. She backs away just breathing and looking at the canvas before her. Does it speak what is in her imagination? Does the work of expression sing in harmony with Nature’s perfect voice?
Words are often spoken without consideration as to whether they fit what the heart longs to express. Too often, the voice of fear with its many disguises and costumes steps onto center stage and silences the tender voice of the psyche (the soul) and the heart. Jealousy masquerades as loving intention, explaining insists that it only wants understanding when all it really wants is to be right and to defend its position, anger says it speaks “for their own good” or in righteous indignation at some offense. All of these are the faces of fear. And when fear steps onto center stage, love exits and waits in the wings for the two cannot co-exist.
Choosing our Words
Choosing words with care and with an undefended heart requires an affective turn inward. As the artist’s eyes and ears attune to how she may best offer honor and sincerity of expression in her work, so must we be mindful of how we use words.
The Way of Council, a book written by Jack Zimmerman and Virginia Coyle describe the four intentions of holding council in the Native American Tradition. Those four intentions are: speaking from the heart, listening from the heart, being spontaneous and being lean of speech. Speaking from the heart requires being able to distinguish what is truly of the heart from the many voices of fear. Speaking from the heart is always an expression of love. Listening with or from the heart means one listens with the whole body rather than allowing the ego to dominate, to think up a response or defense or explanation while the other is speaking. Spontaneity in speaking means trusting that what the heart wants to express is perfect even when it may seem unrelated to what has been spoken by the other. And perhaps most important is being lean of speech. As the artist takes her brushes and mixes as her senses inform her way of expression, she is careful and quiet before she considers which colors fit. Often, she must walk away and allow silence to incubate what is in her imagination for a time before she returns to her canvas. It is well that we do the same when using words to express ourselves. The fewer words and the more quietly they are spoken, the more clear and powerful the message.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
When the River Meets the Sea -Re-Vitalizing the Voices of Teenagers
When the river flows into the sea, it becomes part of something greater and the sea welcomes its arrival for this is the reunion, where the river sacrifices itself to become part of the infinite. The river disappears into the depths where there is no certainty of a destination, only a journey. As parents, we are connected by our experience of parenting with all its joy, all its mystery, and the times we are fearful and uncertain. Our children are their own beings, with souls that are being colored and carved by their experiences. We are their shepherds; we are their beacons, but they are not us and they do not belong to us. We are charged with being witnesses of their journeys to the sea where they will become part of the greater consciousness of the world soul. However, it seems our teenage children are trying to tell us something about how we are doing in our role as shepherds. The leading cause of death for teenagers and young adults between the ages of fifteen and twenty five is suicide, which should be shaking us awake from any illusions we might wish to maintain.
This age range represents a pivotal time heavy with cultural expectations for maturity juxtaposed against the realities of each individual teenager’s emotional capacity. Teenagers try to match what the culture expects often at the cost of their self-esteem and sense of self-acceptance. Many teens struggle with body image, sexuality, economic disadvantages and learning problems, depression and severe anxiety, and they often cannot imagine talking about such problems in a way that will provide relief or resolution. The ones who cannot withstand the pressure they feel from peers, parents, the schools and the culture often drop out of school, use substances to cope with emotional pain, join gangs or, as we have all witnessed lately both here in Truckee and all over the United States, more and more teens are choosing suicide as the only way of ending their struggle.
During this time in their lives, teenagers balance expectations of the culture, schools, parents and themselves to choose the paths they will take as adults. American boys are required by law to register for the draft when they reach the age of eighteen. With a war going on, registering for the draft and contemplating possible death in a country thousands of miles away has the potential to be terrifying, yet our culture does not address all the implications of this requirement, selecting only to valorize voluntary military service as a means of achieving success or increasing self-esteem or guaranteeing a college education, if a soldier makes it home again. Many arrive home in pieces, their tender psyches reeling to return to the place left far behind on the threshold between childhood and adulthood.
For teens who leave the school system or who drift after graduating high school with no clear plan for the future and few resources, the world can seem overwhelming and inhospitable. There is little time to dream, imagine and to retreat, perhaps cocooning into a chrysalis for a time to let the lessons sink in. There is only the harshness and rigidity of a frenzied pace to know more, be more and do more. Despite the rumbling in their stomachs, their aching heads and emptied hearts, they press on because they are on this speeding conveyor belt with no “off” button within reach. Teenagers in our culture are a silenced population. They are given no clear role or voice during their most critical developmental years in shaping the world they will inherit; we offer them no part in political decisions that will impact them as adults and we do not give them enough voice in forums where decisions that will impact their lives are made.
The fact that bullying has become an epidemic is not surprising considering that children and teenagers embody and express what adults do not. We are a nation of fearful consumers and ravenous competitors, our eyes turned outward for food that never satisfies the deepening starvation for connection with each other. Our children receive the anxiety like radio waves, and they respond to the frenzied pace with the language available to them, usually behavior. We diagnose it rather than paying attention to what it says about the state of our culture. We identify them as the patients rather than examine ourselves and the world we have brought them into.
According to Angela Diaz, M.D. MPD, director of the Mt. Sinai Adolescent health Center in New York, the population of teenagers between sixteen and twenty four is the most underserved in the United States in terms of health care, preventative care, mental health services and dental care. They are legally adults at the age of eighteen, but unless they are in college, the likelihood is that they will get jobs that pay little more than minimum wage which is barely enough to live on and which do not offer medical benefits to employees. The mental health system has coined the term “transitional age youth” to describe the population of young adults who are suspended in the nether-region between college and adequate earning capability. Minimum wage jobs are inadequate in meeting basic needs let alone health care needs. These are just a few of the barriers that millions of teenagers who will inherit our country are up against.
Our educational system has put its resources and focus on preparing students to pass aptitude tests and less on developing imagination, creativity and the ability to navigate the complex problems of living in this competitive culture beyond high school. Most teenagers I come into contact with express significant fear about what happens when they turn eighteen, especially when they are average or below average in terms of academic performance and uncertain as to whether they want to go to college.
For teens with emotional problems stemming from lack of access to stable caregiving, economic stability and medical care and who have experienced trauma as children, the legal system becomes the de facto parent. Children who break school rules or the law due to violent behavior, drug use or truancy are placed either in foster care or juvenile detention. Many cycle through these systems over and over again until they reach the age of eighteen. Without experiences of loving, caring stable homes, or parents with whom they can speak honestly, these children are released from the juvenile justice system at the age of eighteen and are expected to go out in the world and live according to the laws and expectations of a culture they are unfamiliar with. Some will make it into college or vocational programs against all odds, but most do not. These are the young adults this society fails to recognize and offer resources for healthcare, social support and life skills education in a supportive, safe and nurturing environment.
Although none of this information may apply to you and your teenager(s), the possibilities for any teenager to fall through the cracks and land in the juvenile justice system, homeless or drug involved are statistically higher than they ever have been. That is why it is critically important for parents and teenagers to learn how to talk about the fears and challenges of growing up and out of the family and into the world. Statistically, male teenagers complete suicide more than female teenagers and the reasons for suicide remain the same as they were ten years ago. The CDC cites depression as the main cause and the leading mental health websites (www.nami.org, www.nimh.nih.gov) talk about treatment but do not go into the root causes for depression of which there are many. Because suicide is the leading cause of death for young people between the ages of 15 and 24, it is important for anyone who comes into contact with teenagers to learn the signs of depression and then to be able to effectively gather the people and resources together to be the shepherds and witnesses they need us to be.
The leading root cause for depression in teens has been called “failure to connect,” by the psychological community. Statistics evaluating depression among teens show that if there is just one person, not necessarily a parent, but a coach or a teacher or an extended family member, with whom they can speak openly and feel safe and who can offer them support and unconditional love and care, it often makes the difference between rebounding from depression or not. Other causes for depression include lack of acceptance by peers which includes bullying and violence, failure in school, substance addiction in the family, and sexual abuse.
Because no community is exempt from this epidemic, with smaller communities often being more at risk due to fewer resources or lack of awareness, For Goodness Sake in Truckee is collaborating with me and with teenage representatives from the community to develop a group forum where their voices will predominate. They will be the visionaries and creators of a forum where they can discuss and develop their ideas about where change is needed and how to effectuate it. This proposed group for teens and young adults be created by them and will be guided by their voices. In this forum, our adult voices will not prevail, but by invitation, we will be a witnesses and servants to the imaginations and creativity of our children.
For more information, please email either Andy Hill at For Goodness Sake at Andy@goodnesssake.org, or myself at kcpier@sierraagape.org.
Or call For Goodness Sake at 550-8981
This age range represents a pivotal time heavy with cultural expectations for maturity juxtaposed against the realities of each individual teenager’s emotional capacity. Teenagers try to match what the culture expects often at the cost of their self-esteem and sense of self-acceptance. Many teens struggle with body image, sexuality, economic disadvantages and learning problems, depression and severe anxiety, and they often cannot imagine talking about such problems in a way that will provide relief or resolution. The ones who cannot withstand the pressure they feel from peers, parents, the schools and the culture often drop out of school, use substances to cope with emotional pain, join gangs or, as we have all witnessed lately both here in Truckee and all over the United States, more and more teens are choosing suicide as the only way of ending their struggle.
During this time in their lives, teenagers balance expectations of the culture, schools, parents and themselves to choose the paths they will take as adults. American boys are required by law to register for the draft when they reach the age of eighteen. With a war going on, registering for the draft and contemplating possible death in a country thousands of miles away has the potential to be terrifying, yet our culture does not address all the implications of this requirement, selecting only to valorize voluntary military service as a means of achieving success or increasing self-esteem or guaranteeing a college education, if a soldier makes it home again. Many arrive home in pieces, their tender psyches reeling to return to the place left far behind on the threshold between childhood and adulthood.
For teens who leave the school system or who drift after graduating high school with no clear plan for the future and few resources, the world can seem overwhelming and inhospitable. There is little time to dream, imagine and to retreat, perhaps cocooning into a chrysalis for a time to let the lessons sink in. There is only the harshness and rigidity of a frenzied pace to know more, be more and do more. Despite the rumbling in their stomachs, their aching heads and emptied hearts, they press on because they are on this speeding conveyor belt with no “off” button within reach. Teenagers in our culture are a silenced population. They are given no clear role or voice during their most critical developmental years in shaping the world they will inherit; we offer them no part in political decisions that will impact them as adults and we do not give them enough voice in forums where decisions that will impact their lives are made.
The fact that bullying has become an epidemic is not surprising considering that children and teenagers embody and express what adults do not. We are a nation of fearful consumers and ravenous competitors, our eyes turned outward for food that never satisfies the deepening starvation for connection with each other. Our children receive the anxiety like radio waves, and they respond to the frenzied pace with the language available to them, usually behavior. We diagnose it rather than paying attention to what it says about the state of our culture. We identify them as the patients rather than examine ourselves and the world we have brought them into.
According to Angela Diaz, M.D. MPD, director of the Mt. Sinai Adolescent health Center in New York, the population of teenagers between sixteen and twenty four is the most underserved in the United States in terms of health care, preventative care, mental health services and dental care. They are legally adults at the age of eighteen, but unless they are in college, the likelihood is that they will get jobs that pay little more than minimum wage which is barely enough to live on and which do not offer medical benefits to employees. The mental health system has coined the term “transitional age youth” to describe the population of young adults who are suspended in the nether-region between college and adequate earning capability. Minimum wage jobs are inadequate in meeting basic needs let alone health care needs. These are just a few of the barriers that millions of teenagers who will inherit our country are up against.
Our educational system has put its resources and focus on preparing students to pass aptitude tests and less on developing imagination, creativity and the ability to navigate the complex problems of living in this competitive culture beyond high school. Most teenagers I come into contact with express significant fear about what happens when they turn eighteen, especially when they are average or below average in terms of academic performance and uncertain as to whether they want to go to college.
For teens with emotional problems stemming from lack of access to stable caregiving, economic stability and medical care and who have experienced trauma as children, the legal system becomes the de facto parent. Children who break school rules or the law due to violent behavior, drug use or truancy are placed either in foster care or juvenile detention. Many cycle through these systems over and over again until they reach the age of eighteen. Without experiences of loving, caring stable homes, or parents with whom they can speak honestly, these children are released from the juvenile justice system at the age of eighteen and are expected to go out in the world and live according to the laws and expectations of a culture they are unfamiliar with. Some will make it into college or vocational programs against all odds, but most do not. These are the young adults this society fails to recognize and offer resources for healthcare, social support and life skills education in a supportive, safe and nurturing environment.
Although none of this information may apply to you and your teenager(s), the possibilities for any teenager to fall through the cracks and land in the juvenile justice system, homeless or drug involved are statistically higher than they ever have been. That is why it is critically important for parents and teenagers to learn how to talk about the fears and challenges of growing up and out of the family and into the world. Statistically, male teenagers complete suicide more than female teenagers and the reasons for suicide remain the same as they were ten years ago. The CDC cites depression as the main cause and the leading mental health websites (www.nami.org, www.nimh.nih.gov) talk about treatment but do not go into the root causes for depression of which there are many. Because suicide is the leading cause of death for young people between the ages of 15 and 24, it is important for anyone who comes into contact with teenagers to learn the signs of depression and then to be able to effectively gather the people and resources together to be the shepherds and witnesses they need us to be.
The leading root cause for depression in teens has been called “failure to connect,” by the psychological community. Statistics evaluating depression among teens show that if there is just one person, not necessarily a parent, but a coach or a teacher or an extended family member, with whom they can speak openly and feel safe and who can offer them support and unconditional love and care, it often makes the difference between rebounding from depression or not. Other causes for depression include lack of acceptance by peers which includes bullying and violence, failure in school, substance addiction in the family, and sexual abuse.
Because no community is exempt from this epidemic, with smaller communities often being more at risk due to fewer resources or lack of awareness, For Goodness Sake in Truckee is collaborating with me and with teenage representatives from the community to develop a group forum where their voices will predominate. They will be the visionaries and creators of a forum where they can discuss and develop their ideas about where change is needed and how to effectuate it. This proposed group for teens and young adults be created by them and will be guided by their voices. In this forum, our adult voices will not prevail, but by invitation, we will be a witnesses and servants to the imaginations and creativity of our children.
For more information, please email either Andy Hill at For Goodness Sake at Andy@goodnesssake.org, or myself at kcpier@sierraagape.org.
Or call For Goodness Sake at 550-8981
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Dog Girl- A Story About Bullying
Before I entered the main hallway of Ellison Middle School in 1971 as an eighth grader, I thought my shag haircut was cool. I wanted to look like Shirley Jones, the mom in The Partridge Family television show. And I wasn't terribly concerned about the speed at which my breasts were developing; I hurried them along as quickly as I could with the aid of training bras. My mother asked me what I was training when I ask her for one. Mostly, they served as containers for the Kleenex I filled them with. I loved my mother and spent a lot of time with her, not because she made me, I wanted to. She'd spent much of my childhood very ill and in the hospital, so I wanted to redeem every second that was lost. I smoked cigarettes, but only the ones with pretty decorations on the filters. They were called "Eve" and I preferred menthol. I thought smoking automatically made me a part of the cool kids so when I lit up in the girl's bathroom with all the other girls, I expected acceptance.
I did not look like any of the other girls, but I didn't think it would invite rage and contempt. My hair wasn't long and parted in the middle, I didn't wear dungarees that dragged on the ground, I wasn't ready for make-out parties and drinking Boone's Farm Apple Wine until I puked on the front lawn.
The first time I hit the concrete floor because a locker door was opened suddenly in my face was surely an accident. The kid said he was sorry, even though he was laughing. And the first time I walked onto the school bus and the entire bus began to bark and howl like dogs, I looked behind me to see if a dog followed me onto the bus. And then I realized they were barking at me. A foot shot out into the aisle and I fell, spilling the contents of the pretty new purse I got from the five and dime onto the floor. As I gathered my books and my makeup and the piece of toast I was saving for a morning snack, I felt the wet splatter of someone's spit on the back of my neck.
"SIDDOWN!!" the driver yelled at me. "We can't move until you siddown!" I tried to find an empty seat, blinded by tears and finally located one next to a fat girl. I was so skinny that I fit next to her even though she almost took up the whole seat. I held onto the side of the seat for dear life so I wouldn't slide off.
Of course I cried. I thought crying would let the kids know that they were causing me great pain and humiliation and that they would then stop. But it seemed they enjoyed watching me fall apart so they turned up the volume on the barking and howling. Each time I entered a classroom or got on the bus, the herd of bullies mobilized and descended on me to tear me to pieces. "Ugly dog! You SUCK!" shouted the boys. "Fucking ugly flat-chested DOG! You're so ugly you should kill yourself so we wouldn't have to look at you!!!"
How I wished I could die. I thought of how sorry they would be if I died. I imagined them all standing around my coffin as it was lowered into the ground. And sometimes, in the tiny moments I felt angry instead of sad and desperately lonely, I imagined all of them lined up in a row as I walked down the line slapping each of their faces as hard as I could while they were made to stand there and take their due punishment.
I went to the school counselor's office to tell her what was happening. None of the teachers stopped it other than to say something like, "Settle down and let's open our textbooks to page 197." The counselor gave me very helpful advice which was to ignore them. "Remember...sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me." If only I could have understood how not to be hurt not just by mass rejection, but by being someone so deserving of hatred. How did I become so easy to hate? Was it my hair? My pants? The shape of my nose or the fact that I loved my mommy and it wasn't cool to love your parents back in 1971?
I began to throw up in the morning. My mother rose up against the principal and the school truant officers who began to call and come to the house when I couldn't bear to go to school anymore, threatening to put me in juvenile detention. "She's not going to your school because it's a horrible place and I intend to sue you for every cent you've got," she would shout from behind the kitchen door. She was weakened by years of illness, depressed over being left for a younger woman by my father, and addicted to narcotics. She was still strong enough to be my most ardent and fierce protector, but didn't always handle these kinds of situations with the acuity and effectiveness she once would have. But she was all I had. She sheltered me and told me we would just sneak away to a place where I would never have to face those kids again.
I knew we couldn't just sneak away. And I knew they would be back the next day if I didn't go to school. So I just threw up and then got on the bus hoping I wouldn't throw up again before we got there. So I stopped eating breakfast. And I stopped eating lunch in the cafeteria, because the whole cafeteria barked at me, so I found a rarely used bathroom next to the gym in which to eat my lunch and smoke one of the pretty cigarettes I brought in my skirt pocket.
One day, I was bracing myself to enter math class and endure yet another round of barking and being told how pathetic my breasts were and how my face was so ugly that it made a dog's asshole look beautiful and one of the worst offenders came out to the hall where he saw me hyperventilating and leaning against the wall.
"We just wanted you to know how sorry we are for the way we have been treating you," he said smiling. "And we have a gift for you." Silly me. I thought maybe they were going to give me some flowers or maybe a box of candy. He took me by the hand and I blushed as if I'd just been asked to dance. And we entered the classroom where I was presented with a large box of Milk Bone dog biscuits. I looked desperately to the teacher to protect me as the eruption of barking became deafening, but he too was laughing, unable to contain himself. I wasn't one of his favorites because I was always behind, confused, dazed and drowning, afraid to ask for help.
So I disappeared into a dark place inside myself. We did move away and I never bothered to enroll in ninth grade. I crossed the street whenever I saw teenagers and carried that fear with me into adulthood. I returned to school halfway through my tenth grade year but dropped out again at the age of sixteen, unable to tolerate my chronic anxiety. By that time, I had developed a strong phobia of schools in general and was so far behind that I felt I would never catch up anyway.
My mother died two weeks after I turned sixteen and I found myself on my own shortly thereafter. My father chose his girlfriend when she gave him the ultimatum, "It's her or me." If not for a few people only a few years older than me who helped me grow comfortable in my battered and thin skin, I might never have survived adolescence. And when I learned to see beauty in my uniqueness as I once had before Ellison Middle School, I decided I could return to school and make up for what was lost. I discovered that my peers celebrated differences much more than they did in middle school and high school. Gradually, I was able to enter a classroom without acute nausea and a racing heart.
When my children went to school and were subjected to bullying and teasing, it was difficult for me not to react with all the pain and rage I once felt as a newly minted adolescent. But I did not half-consciously say stupid shit like, "Oh just ignore them...remember...sticks and stones..." I went to the school and sat down with my children and the principals and teacher and the bullies if I could manage to get them in the same room with me, and with the warrior bursting in my heart, I refused to tolerate it. Not for one second.
When adults create a hostile work environment by harassing other employees, it is grounds for termination. It should be no different in a school, where learning was once considered almost a sacred privilege. Adults in this culture do not do the best job of modeling celebration of diversity particularly in the corporate, military and educational systems. The archetype of Destroyer is invading our most fragile population and we cannot afford to be passive in bringing the Destroyer to peace. This is the responsibility of every child, every parent and every teacher who sees predatory behavior being perpetrated on another child.
I did not look like any of the other girls, but I didn't think it would invite rage and contempt. My hair wasn't long and parted in the middle, I didn't wear dungarees that dragged on the ground, I wasn't ready for make-out parties and drinking Boone's Farm Apple Wine until I puked on the front lawn.
The first time I hit the concrete floor because a locker door was opened suddenly in my face was surely an accident. The kid said he was sorry, even though he was laughing. And the first time I walked onto the school bus and the entire bus began to bark and howl like dogs, I looked behind me to see if a dog followed me onto the bus. And then I realized they were barking at me. A foot shot out into the aisle and I fell, spilling the contents of the pretty new purse I got from the five and dime onto the floor. As I gathered my books and my makeup and the piece of toast I was saving for a morning snack, I felt the wet splatter of someone's spit on the back of my neck.
"SIDDOWN!!" the driver yelled at me. "We can't move until you siddown!" I tried to find an empty seat, blinded by tears and finally located one next to a fat girl. I was so skinny that I fit next to her even though she almost took up the whole seat. I held onto the side of the seat for dear life so I wouldn't slide off.
Of course I cried. I thought crying would let the kids know that they were causing me great pain and humiliation and that they would then stop. But it seemed they enjoyed watching me fall apart so they turned up the volume on the barking and howling. Each time I entered a classroom or got on the bus, the herd of bullies mobilized and descended on me to tear me to pieces. "Ugly dog! You SUCK!" shouted the boys. "Fucking ugly flat-chested DOG! You're so ugly you should kill yourself so we wouldn't have to look at you!!!"
How I wished I could die. I thought of how sorry they would be if I died. I imagined them all standing around my coffin as it was lowered into the ground. And sometimes, in the tiny moments I felt angry instead of sad and desperately lonely, I imagined all of them lined up in a row as I walked down the line slapping each of their faces as hard as I could while they were made to stand there and take their due punishment.
I went to the school counselor's office to tell her what was happening. None of the teachers stopped it other than to say something like, "Settle down and let's open our textbooks to page 197." The counselor gave me very helpful advice which was to ignore them. "Remember...sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me." If only I could have understood how not to be hurt not just by mass rejection, but by being someone so deserving of hatred. How did I become so easy to hate? Was it my hair? My pants? The shape of my nose or the fact that I loved my mommy and it wasn't cool to love your parents back in 1971?
I began to throw up in the morning. My mother rose up against the principal and the school truant officers who began to call and come to the house when I couldn't bear to go to school anymore, threatening to put me in juvenile detention. "She's not going to your school because it's a horrible place and I intend to sue you for every cent you've got," she would shout from behind the kitchen door. She was weakened by years of illness, depressed over being left for a younger woman by my father, and addicted to narcotics. She was still strong enough to be my most ardent and fierce protector, but didn't always handle these kinds of situations with the acuity and effectiveness she once would have. But she was all I had. She sheltered me and told me we would just sneak away to a place where I would never have to face those kids again.
I knew we couldn't just sneak away. And I knew they would be back the next day if I didn't go to school. So I just threw up and then got on the bus hoping I wouldn't throw up again before we got there. So I stopped eating breakfast. And I stopped eating lunch in the cafeteria, because the whole cafeteria barked at me, so I found a rarely used bathroom next to the gym in which to eat my lunch and smoke one of the pretty cigarettes I brought in my skirt pocket.
One day, I was bracing myself to enter math class and endure yet another round of barking and being told how pathetic my breasts were and how my face was so ugly that it made a dog's asshole look beautiful and one of the worst offenders came out to the hall where he saw me hyperventilating and leaning against the wall.
"We just wanted you to know how sorry we are for the way we have been treating you," he said smiling. "And we have a gift for you." Silly me. I thought maybe they were going to give me some flowers or maybe a box of candy. He took me by the hand and I blushed as if I'd just been asked to dance. And we entered the classroom where I was presented with a large box of Milk Bone dog biscuits. I looked desperately to the teacher to protect me as the eruption of barking became deafening, but he too was laughing, unable to contain himself. I wasn't one of his favorites because I was always behind, confused, dazed and drowning, afraid to ask for help.
So I disappeared into a dark place inside myself. We did move away and I never bothered to enroll in ninth grade. I crossed the street whenever I saw teenagers and carried that fear with me into adulthood. I returned to school halfway through my tenth grade year but dropped out again at the age of sixteen, unable to tolerate my chronic anxiety. By that time, I had developed a strong phobia of schools in general and was so far behind that I felt I would never catch up anyway.
My mother died two weeks after I turned sixteen and I found myself on my own shortly thereafter. My father chose his girlfriend when she gave him the ultimatum, "It's her or me." If not for a few people only a few years older than me who helped me grow comfortable in my battered and thin skin, I might never have survived adolescence. And when I learned to see beauty in my uniqueness as I once had before Ellison Middle School, I decided I could return to school and make up for what was lost. I discovered that my peers celebrated differences much more than they did in middle school and high school. Gradually, I was able to enter a classroom without acute nausea and a racing heart.
When my children went to school and were subjected to bullying and teasing, it was difficult for me not to react with all the pain and rage I once felt as a newly minted adolescent. But I did not half-consciously say stupid shit like, "Oh just ignore them...remember...sticks and stones..." I went to the school and sat down with my children and the principals and teacher and the bullies if I could manage to get them in the same room with me, and with the warrior bursting in my heart, I refused to tolerate it. Not for one second.
When adults create a hostile work environment by harassing other employees, it is grounds for termination. It should be no different in a school, where learning was once considered almost a sacred privilege. Adults in this culture do not do the best job of modeling celebration of diversity particularly in the corporate, military and educational systems. The archetype of Destroyer is invading our most fragile population and we cannot afford to be passive in bringing the Destroyer to peace. This is the responsibility of every child, every parent and every teacher who sees predatory behavior being perpetrated on another child.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
In lieu of truth... we choose to hide. In Memory of Austin Roberts
A local Truckee boy just barely into his seventeenth year throws himself off a bridge in a location where he is unlikely to survive. He knows he will hit pavement because he has probably thought about where and how so many times. Maybe he imagined it over and over again because he wanted to be certain there was no chance he would live. Those of us who have had suicidal thoughts as our occasional or steady companion in the darkest of dark times consider the finer details of carrying it out. "Will I live if I do it this way? And if so, who will bear the burden of my survival? I may be a quadriplegic who must be looked after twenty four hours a day if I live. No...that will never do. I must be sure I die."
I attended his memorial service today which was called a "celebration of life." A celebration of life seems far more appropriate when the deceased is 95 years old and life has been lived to its fullest potential, or when a disease has chosen the time of death. When death by suicide remains the only choice for ending suffering, a celebration of life seems a denial of what was true. This young man screamed for a message to be heard. Did anyone hear him? What was it that haunted him day and night? What made life so brutally painful that he chose to jump off a bridge in broad daylight on a Friday just a few days after his seventeenth birthday? And why is it that the topic of conversation at his memorial service was his preference for pasta without any sauce and the kind of socks he wore? When a teenager dies by a choice he makes after years of suffering shouldn't we be holding his suffering and at least making it a primary topic of discussion at his memorial service? Should we not embrace and tenderly hold his suffering as part of our own? Shouldn't we be talking about the bullying in schools that we close our eyes to and simply write off as 'stuff teenagers do'? What about the pressure he might have felt from our culture's relentless infatuation with academic test scores and grades? Shouldn't we be asking his friends what really happened and did we do them a terrible disservice by asking them to keep it light at his memorial service?
From where I stood, it seemed his church wanted memorial attendees to remember his smile and his wit and his love for video games. Maybe his parents preferred to keep the rest of the story private and I honor their need for privacy in this time of great pain. Yet his story and his pain is also ours. While I want to remember this young man for his wit and his quirks and his choice of socks, I also wanted us to talk about the wounding caused by cruelty perpetrated by teenagers toward their peers, and the real harm it causes, especially to those more fragile than others. There was no mention of the darkness and struggle he must have awakened to each day, no mention of the tension he held in his heart that found no relief, even in the love his family had for him. I wonder what this young man really wanted us to know about what it was like to live in his skin. Maybe he couldn't bear the thought of growing up and being out in this world where the competition leaves little room for those who cannot toe the line when the clock turns eighteen. And there is no medicine to change who one really is, gay or straight, addict or straight edge, black, white and every color in between, Christian, atheist, Jew or Muslim. And when there is no soft place to be who one is, no embracing of difference and diversity, the softest place to land is death. Even when the landing is solid pavement.
I attended his memorial service today which was called a "celebration of life." A celebration of life seems far more appropriate when the deceased is 95 years old and life has been lived to its fullest potential, or when a disease has chosen the time of death. When death by suicide remains the only choice for ending suffering, a celebration of life seems a denial of what was true. This young man screamed for a message to be heard. Did anyone hear him? What was it that haunted him day and night? What made life so brutally painful that he chose to jump off a bridge in broad daylight on a Friday just a few days after his seventeenth birthday? And why is it that the topic of conversation at his memorial service was his preference for pasta without any sauce and the kind of socks he wore? When a teenager dies by a choice he makes after years of suffering shouldn't we be holding his suffering and at least making it a primary topic of discussion at his memorial service? Should we not embrace and tenderly hold his suffering as part of our own? Shouldn't we be talking about the bullying in schools that we close our eyes to and simply write off as 'stuff teenagers do'? What about the pressure he might have felt from our culture's relentless infatuation with academic test scores and grades? Shouldn't we be asking his friends what really happened and did we do them a terrible disservice by asking them to keep it light at his memorial service?
From where I stood, it seemed his church wanted memorial attendees to remember his smile and his wit and his love for video games. Maybe his parents preferred to keep the rest of the story private and I honor their need for privacy in this time of great pain. Yet his story and his pain is also ours. While I want to remember this young man for his wit and his quirks and his choice of socks, I also wanted us to talk about the wounding caused by cruelty perpetrated by teenagers toward their peers, and the real harm it causes, especially to those more fragile than others. There was no mention of the darkness and struggle he must have awakened to each day, no mention of the tension he held in his heart that found no relief, even in the love his family had for him. I wonder what this young man really wanted us to know about what it was like to live in his skin. Maybe he couldn't bear the thought of growing up and being out in this world where the competition leaves little room for those who cannot toe the line when the clock turns eighteen. And there is no medicine to change who one really is, gay or straight, addict or straight edge, black, white and every color in between, Christian, atheist, Jew or Muslim. And when there is no soft place to be who one is, no embracing of difference and diversity, the softest place to land is death. Even when the landing is solid pavement.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Really? You're going to F**k with me about this? More from "The Good Enough Mother"
She gets up at 4:30 to have her half hour on the treadmill in her living room. The house is still asleep, thank the good Lord (if there is such a thing). Then she has to get in the shower, get dressed and start making breakfast before her daycare kids arrive at 6AM. She took on more because they need the money. Some weeks they only have fifty bucks to feed a family of four and it just won't do at all.
In her sacred half hour, she dreams. Step by step, her shoes hit the strip of rubber on the treadmill and she breathes in a predictable rhythm. Her boy is a few months shy of eighteen and she knows she's in for a fight to get him placed in a group home. He is part of her, flailing arms, limbs that won't behave and big geen eyes fringed with thick black lashes. Seizures grip him in the night and she wakes up to make sure he hasn't bitten through his tongue. She tenderly changes the sweaty pajamas, cleans up the pee and slobber and tucks him back in. His clothes hang off a body misshapen by scoliosis and he struggles to stand up straight. When he's excited, he shakes his hands as if he might be ready to reach for the controls of his favorite video game. Sometimes, she wonders whether she wants her freedom from being a 24/7 caregiver or whether she feels she must give him up because her husband has threatened to leave her if she doesn't find placement for him the second he turns eighteen.
"Maybe I'll just take him and we'll leave. I handled him just fine before I married my husband. Seems like now I'm dealing with trying to make things okay for him and trying to take care of my son too. But I really am so tired..."
She fantasizes about leaving him on the doorstep of the government agency whose mission statement is to serve families with disabled children but whose actions fall far short.
"Here is is," she imagines saying. "You won't place him. Well fuck you. He's yours now. He's homeless cuz I got nothin' left." She says this to me while we sit on her sofa as all the babies nap to the sound of Sugarland on the radio. It's our little secret that she wants to run far, far away.
"He wet the bed three times over the last two days," she says. Her eyes fill. Then the phone rings and she picks up. It's the orthodontist's office calling about what they can't or won't do for her son who has a snaggle tooth that needs to be pulled or it will abcess.
"He is disabled, THAT'S why he's on Medicaid," she says rolling her eyes. She is used to fighting this fight day in and day out to get medical services, supportive services and other kinds of assistance for her boy. "We have really good insurance through my husband's work. But his secondary is medicaid. You don't bill them? Well then refer me to someone who will...You don't do that? Well who can...I have to call Medicaid to find a preferred provider? I already did and nobody...You're sorry? Really? Well why is this so difficult to bill the primary and then bill Medicaid for the difference? No I am not going to pay out of pocket...Can't you tell me who will just pull the goddamn tooth and bill the insurance? Yeah...okay. Fine. I will do it myself."
She hangs up and looks at me. "This is what I do eevery day every time he needs medical attention. You would think in this country that a child would not have to go without medical care. But it's always a struggle."
She dreams of days on a lake. She dreams of starting a business. She dreams of dressing up in leather and riding her Harley. "I have lots of ideas," she says. "But they die when my treadmill stops."
She has that frantic look again. "I am eating too much again," she says. "I once spent my days in the gym. I worked there and I worked out. I was so ripped. A guy with some big bodybuilding competition even offered to sponsor me and I said no. Can you believe I said no? How different would MY life have been."
I look at her and remind her that she is the most astonishing example of strength and patience I have ever witnessed. I could no more do what she does in one day than I could fly to the moon. We talk about hunger and how to feed it. Right now it's with food. So what...when her time comes, food will be the last thing she will feed that hungry soul with. But once in a while, she can feed that hunger by standing up and maybe issuing a definitive statement to her husband when he complains that the furniture is dusty or that there is a ring around the tub. That's when she rises up and puts her hands on her hips. She looks down at him while he sits on the sofa in judgment of her mothering, in judgment of how she won't have sex with him on account of her being tired all the time and how the tub needs a scrubbing. And she silently walks into the kitchen. And then the sponge flies across the room past his face followed by a plastic bottle of Soft Scrub. She breathes out and shakes that honey blond hair out of her face and moves like a panther through the living room and into her bedroom to her closet. She digs around way in the back and something rattles. It's the buckles, all ten of them. She puts on those leather pants and the matching jacket without a word. And when all ten buckles are buckled, she walks past him out to the garage where her motorcycle waits. And she mounts it like an Amazon and rides into the night.
In her sacred half hour, she dreams. Step by step, her shoes hit the strip of rubber on the treadmill and she breathes in a predictable rhythm. Her boy is a few months shy of eighteen and she knows she's in for a fight to get him placed in a group home. He is part of her, flailing arms, limbs that won't behave and big geen eyes fringed with thick black lashes. Seizures grip him in the night and she wakes up to make sure he hasn't bitten through his tongue. She tenderly changes the sweaty pajamas, cleans up the pee and slobber and tucks him back in. His clothes hang off a body misshapen by scoliosis and he struggles to stand up straight. When he's excited, he shakes his hands as if he might be ready to reach for the controls of his favorite video game. Sometimes, she wonders whether she wants her freedom from being a 24/7 caregiver or whether she feels she must give him up because her husband has threatened to leave her if she doesn't find placement for him the second he turns eighteen.
"Maybe I'll just take him and we'll leave. I handled him just fine before I married my husband. Seems like now I'm dealing with trying to make things okay for him and trying to take care of my son too. But I really am so tired..."
She fantasizes about leaving him on the doorstep of the government agency whose mission statement is to serve families with disabled children but whose actions fall far short.
"Here is is," she imagines saying. "You won't place him. Well fuck you. He's yours now. He's homeless cuz I got nothin' left." She says this to me while we sit on her sofa as all the babies nap to the sound of Sugarland on the radio. It's our little secret that she wants to run far, far away.
"He wet the bed three times over the last two days," she says. Her eyes fill. Then the phone rings and she picks up. It's the orthodontist's office calling about what they can't or won't do for her son who has a snaggle tooth that needs to be pulled or it will abcess.
"He is disabled, THAT'S why he's on Medicaid," she says rolling her eyes. She is used to fighting this fight day in and day out to get medical services, supportive services and other kinds of assistance for her boy. "We have really good insurance through my husband's work. But his secondary is medicaid. You don't bill them? Well then refer me to someone who will...You don't do that? Well who can...I have to call Medicaid to find a preferred provider? I already did and nobody...You're sorry? Really? Well why is this so difficult to bill the primary and then bill Medicaid for the difference? No I am not going to pay out of pocket...Can't you tell me who will just pull the goddamn tooth and bill the insurance? Yeah...okay. Fine. I will do it myself."
She hangs up and looks at me. "This is what I do eevery day every time he needs medical attention. You would think in this country that a child would not have to go without medical care. But it's always a struggle."
She dreams of days on a lake. She dreams of starting a business. She dreams of dressing up in leather and riding her Harley. "I have lots of ideas," she says. "But they die when my treadmill stops."
She has that frantic look again. "I am eating too much again," she says. "I once spent my days in the gym. I worked there and I worked out. I was so ripped. A guy with some big bodybuilding competition even offered to sponsor me and I said no. Can you believe I said no? How different would MY life have been."
I look at her and remind her that she is the most astonishing example of strength and patience I have ever witnessed. I could no more do what she does in one day than I could fly to the moon. We talk about hunger and how to feed it. Right now it's with food. So what...when her time comes, food will be the last thing she will feed that hungry soul with. But once in a while, she can feed that hunger by standing up and maybe issuing a definitive statement to her husband when he complains that the furniture is dusty or that there is a ring around the tub. That's when she rises up and puts her hands on her hips. She looks down at him while he sits on the sofa in judgment of her mothering, in judgment of how she won't have sex with him on account of her being tired all the time and how the tub needs a scrubbing. And she silently walks into the kitchen. And then the sponge flies across the room past his face followed by a plastic bottle of Soft Scrub. She breathes out and shakes that honey blond hair out of her face and moves like a panther through the living room and into her bedroom to her closet. She digs around way in the back and something rattles. It's the buckles, all ten of them. She puts on those leather pants and the matching jacket without a word. And when all ten buckles are buckled, she walks past him out to the garage where her motorcycle waits. And she mounts it like an Amazon and rides into the night.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Hanging On
I hang on
when I really need to uncurl my fingers
and let my self fall
like a red scarf in the desert wind
floating fearlessly against the sandstone canyon walls
I hang on the hook like an old pink coat
with a frayed neckline
where you put me
when you have something better to wear
I sway slightly when you walk by
hoping you might choose me this time
I lean against the wall
brushing my threadbare hemline
against the tops of your boots
Just noticing the rough leather
against the softness of cashmere
and remembering the smell
of your skin on my pillow
One day you will take me off the hook
and wear me as if it was our first dance
and for the moment I forget
that you will hang me up again
It's just the perfect dance
round and round like a red scarf
floating upon the trustworthy wind
toward the sun and the moon
Until you decide it is time to stop
and I dance on alone
upon those waves of desert wind
against the sandstone canyon walls
when I really need to uncurl my fingers
and let my self fall
like a red scarf in the desert wind
floating fearlessly against the sandstone canyon walls
I hang on the hook like an old pink coat
with a frayed neckline
where you put me
when you have something better to wear
I sway slightly when you walk by
hoping you might choose me this time
I lean against the wall
brushing my threadbare hemline
against the tops of your boots
Just noticing the rough leather
against the softness of cashmere
and remembering the smell
of your skin on my pillow
One day you will take me off the hook
and wear me as if it was our first dance
and for the moment I forget
that you will hang me up again
It's just the perfect dance
round and round like a red scarf
floating upon the trustworthy wind
toward the sun and the moon
Until you decide it is time to stop
and I dance on alone
upon those waves of desert wind
against the sandstone canyon walls
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