Humanity from 10,000 Feet

As the planes dips and curves over the city below

All at once I am struck by the ingenuity and progress

Represented by the cars and the houses and the roads

Struck by the imagination and wonder

Which served as the catalyst for their creation

Struck by the flaws and foibles

Which inevitably occur in everything human beings touch

Perfect in their imperfection

Doing

The stress landed on top of the tension and both were covered by the anxiety. She was caught in the middle of a whirlwind of uncomfortable emotions.

There was work. There was home. There were friends. There was family.

Every one had an expectation. Every one had a need. Every one had a price.

She had run low on empathy. She was out of patience. And she certainly had no time.

But the demands were real and unrelenting. So she soldiered on, kept trucking, bucked up and any other metaphors that indicate getting shit done. Because that is what she did.

Sometimes she whined. Sometimes she moaned. Sometimes she stomped her feet. Sometimes she cried.

But she kept doing, because it was all she could do. She knew nothing else. And there were moments when someone would appear to do beside her. And there were others when someone would appear to do in her stead. Those moments were sweet. She savored each one for the light it brought.

It was those moments that carried her through the echoing loneliness of doing alone. It was those moments that reminded her of why she did. It was those moments that made the doing worthwhile.

Sad Sad Songs

She put on the sad sad songs and decided to wallow awhile.  It was self indulgent and fruitless.  It certainly wouldn’t help.  In the moment none of that mattered.

 

The wallowing gave a temporary reprieve from the pressing air.  There was a fiction of movement.  As though this was somehow moving on.

 

But she was not entirely naïve.  She recognized this as the junior high school response to heartache.  There was only so long this could fill any need in a grown person’s life.

 

The volume increased along with the wallowing.  The reprieve would only be temporary, so she may as well take it for all it was worth.  She could feel baselines in her belly.  She was tapping rhythm with her fingers.  She felt melody welling up inside of her.

 

She was tentative at first.  Her movements were subtle.  Her voice was a whisper.  She was aware of how this might look.

 

And she let the crest of the wave break on her.  She sang.  She danced.  She closed her eyes and gave herself over. 

 

Time ceased to matter.  Outside concerns melted away.  She was only aware of the sound of her voice and the beat of her heart.

 

And when she had poured everything out into the ocean of sound, she breathed deep and opened her eyes.

 

“Enough” she said to the empty room.

 

Stop

It’s too easy to give yourself away.  Every time you say you will not repeat the mistake.  But you do.  Because you want to believe this time will be different.  But it isn’t.

 

It may seem so at first.  You talk.  You laugh.  You believe you’ve turned the corner.  Come back to where it was good and you both felt safe.  But it doesn’t last. 

 

You give yourself away and then comes silence.  You feel unwanted, ignored.  Your heart tells you to reach out.  Your pride tells you to wait.

 

And days pass.  It hurts to think someone who told you they loved you doesn’t want to talk to you.  And you want to talk to him.  You want to hear his voice, share his world.   But you get silence.

 

Your friends are sympathetic at first.  Things come up they say.  Don’t read too much into it they say.

 

But as the same behavior plays out again and again, they become frustrated on your behalf.  It’s a game they say.  You deserve better they say.

 

And sometimes you believe this.  Believe you deserve someone who can’t wait to hear your voice, see your face, touch your hand.  Deserve someone who doesn’t take you for granted.  Deserve someone who is proud to be with you.

 

And sometimes you reply by telling them they don’t know the whole story.  How when you are together it’s wonderful.  How he’s not a bad guy.  How you understand why there is so much leaving.  How it’s not really his fault.

 

But you’ve given yourself away and now you can’t take it back.  The leaving is a choice and you are not being chosen.  There are games being played and you don’t know the rules.

 

You realize the effort you expend trying to hold things together is not being met halfway.  You realize you are a matter of convenience.  You realize you are only wanted some of the time.  You realize it’s the idea of you and what could be that’s of interest.  You realize he stopped seeing you some time ago.

 

You feel hurt, then angry.  Sadness replaces that and it all ends with acceptance.

 

You recognize your friends were right.  He’s not a bad guy.  He’s just not good to you.  He makes you sad.  He lets you down.  He tells you he loves you but treats you as though you are inconsequential.  He is playing a game, an unconscious one, but a game nonetheless.

 

And you are tired of playing.  So you stop.  And it isn’t easy because you still love.  But love isn’t enough anymore.

 

So you stop.  Stop giving yourself away.  Because there is no more of you to give.  Because you are worth more.  Because you can’t continue to care this much.  Because the beauty of what was has become overshadowed by the pain of what is.

 

So you stop.  And there is silence.

 

And freedom.

Innocent Monologue

**This wa a piece I wrote a a prep for an exercise in an improv theater group I work with.  It was an exercise where we to come up with a character and a story that fit a particular archetype.  My archetype was the Innocent.  This is what i came up with.  It’s written as a guide for performance, but something about the character struck me.**

 

It was my very first job out of college.  I had wanted to work at a newspaper for as long as I could remember.  I so excited the morning of my first day. I put on my new suit, the one my mother picked out for me.  I tried seven different hair styles, trying to decide which was more professional.  I was ready to go forty minutes early.  I puttered around the apartment and still showed up at the office fifteen minutes before anyone else.

 

The editor was a big guy and he was a bit…rough around the edges.  He gave me a quick tour of the office and showed me my desk.  He introduced me to the other reporters and told me to shadow one in particular.  She didn’t seem overly friendly but I was sure once she got to know me it would be fine.

 

Working for a small newspaper was hard.  I was the new kid and that meant the worst assignments.  Some days I would work for thirteen hours straight, starting the day in the office, conducting phone interviews, doing research and ending by covering town meetings in the evenings.  But I was learning a lot and that was really great. 

 

The editor wasn’t exactly nice.  I’d do one little thing wrong and he be all over me.  And the woman I was supposed to be shadowing was always teasing me.  I tried to laugh it off, but it really got to me.

 

For a while I let it get me down.  I started to think maybe I wasn’t cut out for being a reporter.  I tried working really hard and doing everything exactly the way the other reporters and the editor told me to.  That didn’t seem to make the editor any happier with me.  The woman I was shadowing made jokes about me needing my shoes tied or my diaper changed.

 

I decided it was their fault for not helping me learn.  I mean I was new to this, right?  And if I wasn’t getting better maybe it’s because they were doing a lousy job training me.  The editor never gave me any constructive criticism, he just asked if they had taught me anything in college.  And the woman I was supposed to be shadowing was worse.  She never gave me any advice.  She just leapt on every opportunity to make me the butt of her jokes.

 

I realized that I needed to keep trying.  Things weren’t going to get any better if I just threw in the towel.  So I kept at it.  It wasn’t easy and there were a lot of times I wanted to throw my hands up and walk out of the office.  But I didn’t.

 

One night I had to cover a planning board meeting.  I wasn’t really looking forward to it.  They were usually so dull.  But this night ended up being very different.  There was a presentation by a local developer regarding a new shopping plaza he was hoping to build.  Everyone had a very strong reaction to the proposal, and very few of them were the same.

 

The debate got pretty heated during the meeting.  I decided it might be a good idea to conduct a couple of quick interviews after the meeting adjourned.  I got a ton of great quotes.  I went back to the office and researched the developer and his projects.  I wrote piece that night.

 

The next morning I turned it over to the editor.  I knew it was the best piece I had written.  Even so, when he asked me to come into his office about an hour later I cringed.

 

“Well kid, I don’t know what to say.”  My heart was in my mouth.  I was convinced he was going to tell me it was no good, just like all my other pieces.  “Great work”

 

I was stunned. I knew the piece was good but having him say it made me flush with pride.  He patted me on the shoulder and walked me back out to my desk.  “Good job rookie” were his parting words as he headed back to his office.  The woman who I was shadowing looked up.  “Must have been a helluva piece.  He never gives out compliments.”

 

Something changed that day.  It’s not to say the editor never gave me a hard time again or the other reporter stopped teasing me.  But I understood my place in the paper.  I was the new kid, so I had to put up with some stuff.  I was paying my dues.  But now I knew that I was good at my job.  And more importantly, I knew that everyone else knew it too.

Winter Morning’s Rising

The weak milk light of midwinter crept under the curtains and up the foot of the bed.  The beam slid over the comforter, running over folds and creases, illuminating fabrics and creating shadows.  It eventually found a smooth cheek and eyes framed with long lashes.  The light caused stirring behind the closed eyelids.  It started with a flutter.  Then the eyes were open, gray and sleep blurred.

 

There was so much to do.  The day was laid out as soon as bedclothes were thrown back.  There was a schedule.  There were deadlines.  There were expectations. 

 

The eyes closed for a moment.  The sunlight made skin catch fire and eyelashes glisten.  The warmth seeped into the cheeks and radiated through the bones.  The bed was soft and welcoming.

 

“Just a few more minutes”  The words escaped through pink lips parted.  They started as a question.  As the sunbeam slipped into golden brown hair mused from sleep, the words became a statement. 

The Hawk and the Hare

It was brilliantly white.  The whole world was blanketed, settled in for the season, dreaming of spring.  There were few sounds in the crisp air of morning.  The brave winter birds sang their defiant songs, the wind whistled through the bare trees and her footfalls echoed over the field.

 

She stopped at the top of the hill and shielded her eyes with her hand.  There was purity to all the whiteness.  It made her feel as though the world was new.  As though it was all wide open.  As though anything was possible.

 

Movement caught her attention.  A hawk soared over the field.  Its flight was effortless and majestic.  There was an economy to the loping circles.  No wasted effort, no energy expended without purpose.

 

A very different quality of motion diverted her attention.  The hare bounded across the field.  Its zigzagging trajectory was erratic and frenetic.  There was an excess of energy in each movement.  It jumped to and fro without apparent direction.

 

Had the hawk seen the hare?  For a moment it seemed as though the hare’s progress had gone unnoticed.  But as she watched she realized the hawk’s circles were slowly growing tighter and closer.  The hawk’s vantage point allowed it to see everything.  It had the advantage of broad vision.

 

The hare was focused on its own progression over the snowy landscape.  It seemed unaware of its surroundings.  She wondered if she should try and scare it off in order to save it.  The hare’s point of view did not afford it the luxury of the big picture.

 

The hawk dove.  The hare darted to the side.  It was more aware than she had thought.  The hawk followed the hare’s changeable course.  The hare was too fast, too unpredictable.  The hawk rose and fell in a predatory spiral while the hare kept to its defensive escape route.  The movements were mesmerizing.

 

Then the hare stopped.  The hawk seemed nearly as surprised by this as she was.  It drew back as the hare pushed up from its huddled stance.  The hare was still, its white fur barely perceptible against the snow. 

 

The hawk hung above the hare for a time.  It did not dive or swoop.  It merely circled watching its prey.  The hare did not move.

 

She gasped as the hawk dove one final time.  The hare pressed itself to the ground and the hawk pulled up back into the wide open sky.  It made its way higher, becoming a black dot against blue sky.  The hare continued its interrupted trek across the field into the underbrush at the forest’s edge.

 

There was a calm in the aftermath.  She replayed the ballet of predator and prey in her mind.  It was one that both animals had surely participated in before.  This had been different. The prey had stood its ground and the predator had backed down.  It was a draw.

 

In the dazzling white of the winter morning it became clear.  The world did not contain forgone conclusions.  The expected outcome should not be assumed.  The world was constantly reborn.  Faith was constantly renewed.  Anything was possible.

The Room and the Restlessness

She rambled around the house without purpose or direction.  The distraction of the end of their relationship prevented her from successfully completing any task.  The laundry was half folded, the dishes rinsed but not washed, dinner started but abandoned.

 

There was no sitting still.  She moved through each room of the house, staying only briefly.  Each room but the room.

 

The room was small, taken up largely by the bed.  The bed was currently disheveled.  She couldn’t bring herself to make it.  The thought she might feel better if she stripped the sheets, washed the bedclothes and cleaned the room passed through her mind.  She took a deep breath determined to do just that.  The doorknob was in her hand.  She exhaled loudly and walked away from the closed door.

 

Her restlessness was consuming.  One moment she was furious, convinced she had been badly used and disrespected.  The next she was oddly relieved that things were finally settled.  Then a deep sadness washed over her.  The worst was the aching emptiness. 

 

She had taken to sleeping on the couch.  Sleep came in fits and starts.  Her brain would madly chase its own tail as she stared blankly at the ceiling.  When she did mercifully drift off, it was only for a short time. 

 

She knew things would get better.  She knew things were for the best.  She knew it was better to be alone than be with someone who doesn’t want to be with you.  She knew she would get past this and be happy again. None of this knowledge dulled the sharp edges.

 

In the late night early morning when all was quiet she was overwhelmed with the loss.  There had been so much potential.  There had been a lot of laughter.  There had been good times.  There had been friendship.  There had been love.

 

She found herself laying on the couch early in the morning, wide awake, brain racing.  She got up and slipped into her coat and boots.  The night was bitterly cold and cloudy.  The backyard was filled with a deep darkness.  She closed her eyes and breathed deep. 

 

As she stood shivering she went over the conversation in her mind.  Some of it she found perplexing.  Some of it she understood.  Some it was not about her at all.  She felt hurt and abandoned, but she also felt a peace in knowing where she stood. 

 

She would miss him.  She would miss his sense of humor and silliness.  She would miss talking to him about things that excited her.  She would miss his perspective.  She would miss the way he smelled and his eyes.

 

There were things that were true, that had always been true.  In that moment in the cold night air she could see them clearly.  She was ok.  She did not need a hero and had never wanted one.  She deserved to be seen as a blessing and not a burden.  She had a lot to offer.  She was loyal and true.  She loved deeply.  She was worth it.

 

She opened her eyes and exhaled.  When she moved back toward the house it was with purpose.  The laundry was folded.  The dishes were washed, dried and put away.  The remnants of dinner were cleaned up.

 

She stood in front of the door to the room.  The doorknob was in her hand.  A calm washed over her.  She pulled back her hand.  The room could stay as it was for the moment.  Now she could sleep.

The Machinations of the Human Heart Part 2

The heart is much stronger than we give it credit for.  It is capable of bearing incredibly heavy burdens and suffering shattering blows.  And through it all it retains then ability to love, even those responsible.  It has no use for anger or hatred.  It is an organ which perseveres.

 

The heart will forgive you when you push it to its limits.  When you have gone too far or given too much, it hurts for a while and then it heals.  In situations where it should give up on you, it stands firm.

 

The heart is a miraculous thing, for it is the source of joy and hope and love.  It should not be lightly given, nor should it be ignored.  It should remain open.  The greatest gift we can give one another is an open heart.

 

I have been afraid to be that open or give that much for such a long time.  That fear has darkened things meant to be light, saddened things meant to be happy and complicated things meant to be simple.  The world provides a plethora of reasons to doubt love and fear vulnerability.  The true challenge is not to succumb to the desire to withdraw.  Strength lies in believing even though you may not have a reason to believe.

 

In this blossoming year I am making a promise to myself to be the open, trusting and giving person I know myself to be.  I am promising to let go of fear.  I am promising to open myself to those around me.  I am promising to believe in love.

Roller Skating

On New Year’s Day, the Fiend went roller skating for the very first time.  There was all the excitement and anticipation of trying something new.  The rink was packed and the sight of all the other kids squirming impatiently to get going just increased this.

 

We finally got into the rink and went to get skates.  The Fiend was absorbing everything, the flashing lights, the loud music, the painted teenagers and the movement in the rink.  She was a bit hesitant but still open to the idea. 

The family we were meeting up with skated over and showed us where to stow our coats.  Then we sat on one of benches and put on the skates.  Right about that time a boy approximately the Fiend’s age did an epic face plant right in front of where we were sitting.  She turned to me and said, “Ok.  I’m ready to take my skates off now.”

I told falling was part of it, but it wasn’t so bad.  I told her the skating was a lot of fun.  Her response?  ”Falling is not fun.  Falling means you get hurt.  If I fall I could hurt my belly or my back or my bum or my face.  Especially my face.  That is not fun.”

 

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.  See the boy is back up and skating around again.  I think you should try.  I brought you here because I wanted you to try.” I countered, smiling encouragingly.

 

“So you are telling me that you want me to get hurt.”

 

My expression must have been priceless.  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.  I want you to try.”

 

The Fiend raised her eyebrows and cocked her head.  When she makes this face I know I am in for it.  “If I try I will fall.  And if I fall I will get hurt, maybe even on my face.  So you are saying you want me to get hurt.  On my face.”

I continued to try and reason with her.  She was not having it.  Our friend John tried to help.  He got her as far as the little practice area.  She clung tenaciously to the railing and scowled furiously at both of us.  “I can not do this.” she said.  She raised a shaking finger and pointed it at me, “I hate you for bringing me here.”  John released a bark of laughter.  It’s not as though I can blame him.  It was hilarious.  And he did try not to laugh.

 

Unfortunately it just drew her attention.  She moved her quivering finger and poked it toward him.  “I hate you for having the idea”.

 

We all finally came to the conclusion that we needed to leave the Fiend to her own grumpy devices and show her that skating could indeed be fun.  I hadn’t been on roller skates in about a decade, so I spent my first few rounds hugging the wall.  Just when I thought I had it I miraculously found myself on my ass.  I am fairly certain my tailbone is now dust.

 

Fortunately the Fiend did not see this.  I was surprised to discover her clinging to the rail on my next circuit.  I stopped and asked if she wanted me to skate with her.  “No, just keep skating and don’t look at me.”

She crawled along the wall, hugging the railing the whole time.  When she was about halfway around they declared backwards skate.  Brilliant.

 

John took her by the hands and skated backward pulling her off the rink.  She looked much like Bambi on ice.  I told her to pay attention to her feet and try to keep them under her.  She did and miraculously started to do pretty well. 

John made the mistake of telling her that right as they reached the exit point.  She grimaced and said, “No I’m not!”  At which point she looked up from her feet, pulled on her arms and drove her skates into John’s.  John’s legs flew out behind him and the both went down, John on top.

 

I figured that was the game.  We all decided to continue to skate, and the Fiend sat on the bench watching.  Then I saw her stand up, shake her head once and make her way to the rink.  She stepped out on the floor.  She held the rail with only one hand.  And she started to skate.

 

She still didn’t want any of us to skate with her at first.  Then she started to have fun.  Then she let John take one of her hands and me take the other.  We did four circles before they announced it was time to go.

She frowned and looked up at me.  “Already?  I was just having fun!”