Saturday, July 26, 2014

A Summer Saturday

Yet another day I don't want to forget.
Morning: gentle suckle, giggles and snuggle.
The drinking of coffee (it never gets old)
the chopping of squash, beets and assorted fruits.
Packing bottles, sun block, two-seat stroller
a dog water bowl, and lots of snacks.
It only took us an hour and a half to get out of the house
this time. Glory.
Neighborhood stroll:
stop at the local community garden
where two green thumbs taught us
where to look
and how to pick
green beans and cucumber
from the big prickly leaves
that look like lilly pads.
A stop at church to rehydrate.
What else is church for? Ask me tomorrow.
On to the farmer's market
where it suddenly dawns on us
that neighborhoods have brains
which sparks a conversation
about quantum entanglement, colonialism and sperm.
When am I not obsessed with sperm?
We buy cashews and tomatillos.
An old white dude tells a dirty joke to J.R.
and I laugh in an obligatory way.
I practice my sorry ass spanish with Arturo and Josephina
who are gracious enough not to shame my efforts.
Then off to Mill Race Park
where pups sniff, babes play,
birds make nests in amateurish sculptures
and waterfalls gush with cereal city pride.
There are marigolds and petunias
so vibrant it causes acute beauty zings
to erupt in your heart chakra before you can blink.
The linear path, a dog pound and medicinal marijuana clinic collide.
It's the North side.
A quick jog home.
Hot as hell; we're all sweating
so Joey pulls out the popsicles
before nap time.
A belated birthday boquet from grandma rests on the porch.
A congregant/ally comes over for care;
we breathe and laugh and make sacred each other's company
over a tuna sandwich, journal and beets with hummus.
A beloved friend drops off some home-made chai concentrate.
I mix it with milk, pull out Logan's home-made apple sauce from last week.
Mason jars are a staple of the midwest.
Love gets packed in glass and topped with tin here
like love gets expressed on the dance floor everywhere else.
Sweetness of the senses--
this home
this city
this place
this family
this day.
What a perfect way
to spend a summer saturday.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Love Beyond Text(ing)

"Reading and writing proceed from the same region of pleasure. That's what is mysterious. There is always the feeling that something has been found again, a fragment of human nature; or else that something has been saved. What fills me with joy is that this writing that was found again or saved with the instrument of writing is a life factor and not a death factor." 
--Helene Cixous "Rootprints" page 98 


I've gotten into the habit lately 
of copying, editing, and printing out 
everything you write to me. 
Because I must keep you, 
your spirit, your words, alive in the flesh with me. 
Tangibly. Us together object/lively--even if you are not "here." 
It's the only thing I can think to do 
in the harsh cruelty of our geographic separation. 
These printed devotionals are often emails, 
but sometimes text messages. 
I'm lucky when they come 
in hand written cards. 
You wrote me a poem once; 
that one got formatted and printed 
perfectly 
to fit on my altar. 

It hit me this morning: this is what the disciples did 
when Jesus died. It's the textual rendering of resurrection. 
Such rendering can, as we know, 
lead to reading legacies that spark 
social movements for justice, 
communal care-taking, 
personal devotion, and worship. 
They can also lead to faulty outsourcing of one's wisdom, 
fundamentalism and dumb-ass obedience 
to something no longer even slightly relevant. 

You know what my prayer is, Marjorie? 
As I look about these remnants of paper,
these scraps of testimony
documenting the years 
we've ventured together...
you know what my prayer is? 
That someone, preferrably young, 
fed up and confused
but strong, delicate and on-the-verge 
of becoming a womyn 
like Walker or Soelle or Rivera-Rivera
finds our correspondence 
and thinks to herself--
wow, look how the love between them
took on a life of its own which deepened 
only to deepen some more. 
Look at how it made them curious,
trusting and awe-struck, 
and how it saved them when
life crumbled into chaotic little piles.
Look at how their love gave them life.  
And then I hope she puts those texts down
and gets busy finding and doing love 
in her own ways with her own kind of lovers
inspired by, but not obsessed with, us 
only to pick our pages up again 
when she forgets and needs reminding 
that love has no script, no preordained form to mimic
only traces of its power in those who have gone before
and invitations in the desire we feel right now 
to take our impossible place 
on her delightful and terrifying stage 
for the sake of her eternal reign. 


Friday, July 4, 2014

I Was a Front-Row, Tenacious, and On-Time Student

She polks put-put golf looking holes in her play-dough
before turning it into an ice cream sculpture
then sings in hushed alto tones while tracing a helicopter
on a pad of bright white with a stick, golden brown.
"1, 2, 3, 4"
"a, b, c, d"
Head up from the lego table, eyes locked now:
"Your turn mommy!" She squeals, then proudly,
almost boasting, extends her pencil to me
like it's a unique, shining treasure
from a remote, distant, uninhabited island
that she voyaged alone to discover
so that I, and I alone, would be privileged enough
to receive this gift from her outstretched palm.

We are always taking turns and sharing our treasures.

He vacillates on the floor
between scooting, crawling, pulling up and falling down,
trying to discern, physically, with each shift and gesture
which surfaces are steady
which limbs are trustworthy
which positions lead to balance
and those that lead to crumble and thump and ouch.
Head up from the carpet, eyes locked now:
he reaches for me, from knees bowed, with both hands,
body so trusting, form so reminiscent of prayer,
that I tremble with the tenderness and responsibility of it all.

We are always learning how to crawl and be held.

When I am older, a womyn who has lived into my days
with hallowed fullness, body surrendering to the dust
from whence it came, soul retiring or having been gone
quite some time already,
and I am no longer able to tell stories
or charm people with my embodied whit,
please, if you love me, pilgrim,
remind my children
that I was a front-row, tenacious and on-time student
in the classroom of their lives,
and I studied hard, every moment school was in session,
sometimes observing quietly with curiosity,
other times questioning, hands in the air, the rationality of it all,
but most of the time taken aback with wonder,
by how each step of their development
retaught me all the gentle kindness I unlearned
in order to survive way too much pain
long long ago.

We are always taking turns
and sharing our treasures.
We are always learning how to crawl
and be held.

Tell my children that before they even arrived, I loved to learn most of all,
and from the day of their arrival, they were my greatest teachers.