Gasoline

I should not be surprised

That none of my hurry yields progress.

That working late leads to tossing in bed,

No reprieve after pushing too hard

In the first place.

It was not always like this.

I am the one who watched birds

From the bushes, who was so quiet

The creatures ventured out. I was the one

Who wrote longhand, and put the child to sleep.

Where is all that peace?

I call this eagerness for intimacy, “gasoline” -

But what are fossil fuels? An immediacy 

made over millennia, the cream of everything slow

And lived at life’s pace. Everything dead

And unwasted. I can burn up in seconds.

I can rebuild with a terrible patience. 

Now begins the long re-training, the painful 

Recovery of limbs; determined mobility

After every damning prognosis.

Someone knows I will not be purchased

As an ornament. Here is a lightning rod:

Never struck, never lied to. A nun in wolf’s 

Clothing.

--

Sin

I think what we are trying 

to say is, Tell Me I'm Wrong. 

The word you are looking for

has already been excised. 

Your vocabulary does not

contain it. The word, in fact, exists. 

Only it is

devoid of meaning. Now it is spoken

as a joke. As code for, 

"what those hypocrites

preach in their tent meetings; what the tight-lipped

whisper over tea."       It feels so far  

from genocide, from death row. Somewhere someone 

commits atrocities on purpose. Meanwhile, 

we amuse ourselves. 

We wear slippers, imagining

how we compare. 

                       Until, some night

a splinter in the mind

tells us we too

carry the seed. 

              Until we feel a menace

                        rising in the throat, enough 

to throttle the offender. 

I am the devil. 

We cannot call it like it is. We do not want to be rescued.

Only, some small

part of us is just,                         and wants to be damned. 

So we wander

hungry

for someone bold

enough 

to name it. 

--

I Understand This Game

Home, 3am

I understand this game.

You smile at me, and hide. 

Keep me awake until I split the blinds,

See the moon a lantern in the tree,

And go outside to silence. 

No cars on the road. No eyes. I stand

On the picnic table, my shadow on the corn. 

The Luckiest Girl Alive. I’m leaking. 

I remember how I wrote, 

there is a deep loneliness

I thought you understood, 

in our hush.

You were listening. Where does all the longing go,

When it is medicated? It is out here,

Flickering a hundred feet high, sparks

About to die. So small I gape to find them.

I am open. I am all ears. I see You,

In this space and darkness. I believe 

Velvet beauty will exist after I have staked my bets

And taste the bitterness. After I am shackled

And regret the getting. This wild, this whole mouth

Of You will kiss me. Show me. I know You’re there.

I understand this game. 

A truck brakes on the highway. I stare, aghast -

How completely the cloud bank

Covers up the moon. 

Our Early, Reprise

You said,

They’ll never love me for my face, and I said, 

I will love you for your face.

And you lay your head in the bend 

of my arm and I told you 

the old reasons. 

It was nothing you hadn’t heard before.

It was everything you needed to believe.

It was mother’s milk. It was oxygen.

You retched, but you grew still.

I thought you slept - 

then,
thank you,

soft as dawn.


That was how we whispered 

when your skin was raw 

and blistered and your sleep so fragile 

it was was broken by 

a shaft of light.

Sometimes I Am Stunned By My Dreams (February 14 2023)

"What if it was courage, not jealousy? What if it was courage, not jealousy?"

"I hate being a girl!"

She raved while thrashing alligators in the bog. Saving John Travolta, the man she loved, who had many many lovers. 

He was King Solomon. He spoke the poetry of Scripture. He was also stupid in his wisdom, and the world was made in such a way that she would never be free to love nobly. Always and forever she would be misunderstood; a woman, therefore motivated by the pettiest of emotions. 

She also doubted herself. Is the quality of love revealed in the object of its affection? If so, what of God? If so, she was a sorry creature indeed. 

Sometimes I am stunned by my dreams. 

By Foot, Starting Now (January 15 2023)

What is the real condition of humankind?

What is the real character of God?

Is it possible to love and be damned? Is it possible to kill and be forgiven?

Is it possible to preach the Gospel without squeezing everyone's foot into cheap Nikes? Plastic. Made abroad in sweatshops. Is this the best we have to offer? 

Sometimes I am tired of materials. Relieved, a little, that I wear socks with holes and clothes from both grandmothers and Elisabeth Elliot. It's a lipstick economy. I take that back - a tinted lip balm economy. Five dollars to feel pretty. Someone could eat on that for a week. I used to, with a few basics at home. 

What makes me think people need art? Is it because I need art? Could I even live without music? I would learn. If I were blind, I would become a masseuse and a voice actor. And really play the guitar. Like water, not like candy. Help me live already.

Don't let me wait around for love. Don't let me shop for it, and consult my list. Help me live it and recognize it and multiply it and not give up when the world is overwhelming. "Make straight Your way before me." (Ps. 5) I can make war without even getting out of bed. I can pray for people I've never met. I can teach the birds to come to my hand. I can get there by foot, starting now. 

Retreat, September 10 2022

I want to go on a solo retreat.

To Adelynrood.

I want to be deeply silent for days. To be fed. To walk a labyrinth. To be off my phone, computer. No screens. I want to write letters, drink tea. Walk seven miles. I want to sing in a sanctuary. I want to feel my body shed its stress. This reminds me of Italy. Of the places I've rested before. 

Windows remember, as do doors...*

Purple Loosestrife. 

The chapel. That almond-eyed icon.

The slow, long notes with room to swell and blend. Finally confident.

I want to make, without fear. Not because the fire is under me, but because it is in me.

Why did I love practices so much? Play. Being. The discovery of sounds. Synchronicity. Shalom. I began to think the world needed me to push harder. But the world needs more Sabbath.

I need more trees, and poetry.

I need fewer things. 

Rest. 

You can't afford not to.

Who is my enemy? What do we do with our enemies? What do we do with our friends? 

How do I pray for a hundred people? How do I feed a multitude? Where are the wounds?

The widow's mite. The widow's might - surrender.

How much do you have? That's what you give. All I have to live on.

Freedom is having nothing. Floating.

Birdsong.

Opposite of soldier.

"Opposite of doormat"**

What are the stories I tell myself? About myself?

What do You say about me? 

I don't have to prove to anyone what I am, what I am not. You have already made the way for me. Misunderstood Messiah. Moshiach. 

Leafless. But the vines climb up the tree. 

God is right in front of me. Why would I text Him? Why do I search for signs instead of looking in His eyes? 

He wants to hold your body whole. How terrifying. 

The grave takes everything. What is essential resurrects. 

I want to write better letters. I want hours.

What do my feelings tell me?

My anger, my worry, my fear?

What am I hungry for?

What illuminates the world? Whose validation do I crave?

What gives me courage? 

Plucked away from survival, I'm desperately tired. Aggressively sleepy, like nothing else matters. Like I must sit still and grow a chrysalis, no matter what. 

Stiff. Dead to the world. Let the quiet things inside do their work. Enough. Here it will happen. 

No more outer effort. No more food. All I need now: to be still. 

* See Carolyn Forché , "Travel Papers"

** Danielson, "Good News for the Pus Pickers"

Life Together

A dream, January 2022

We figured out how to live together. 

Tossing down the carcasses of large birds

from the upper shelf. We made room 

for my luggage. I would use the curtain

for privacy. I would wear headphones. 

I would laugh quietly. I would go outside.

Neither of us would pass gas. Ever. Even 

into the mattress. I would not shed hair. 

Eventually,

we would resent each other. 

We would prefer the dead raven, and be dignified 

and silent. Sharing nothing but what we had to share:

the air. The kind you cut through. 

--

I know

what intimacy is. It is

to know

that look.

For better or worse

we are social beings.

We must keep warm.

It is wonderful 

to have someone to tell

your good news. 

Elephant, July 13 2020

HOW DO YOU EAT AN ELEPHANT?

Surprise on Monday,

chewing glass and spitting blood

into the trash can.

Surprise, it’s not construction

but a small brown pony

looking like a stuffed toy,

broken, bloated in the sun,

at the edge of the front loader.

About to be cleared away

from drivers in metal cars

who don’t know if Amish children

in cobalt blue and coral

were cleared away earlier.

We drive on.

Hot leather bites bare legs

on the car seat.

Summer sets in, and sinks its teeth.

We remember the days of grief,

passions congealed, but reversible

by new offense, by fresh blood.

By the next evidence

of injustice.

There never was an innocent time

in our remembrance. Gardens are always

eager with their weeds. And the lettuce bolts

too soon. We look back and ask

whether we did anything good, or only made ourselves

impatient, and older. Hair unkempt, and pimples

in obvious places.

ONE BITE AT A TIME.

Devilish nymphs of lantern flies

suck the stems of anything green.

We try to smash them. We embarrass ourselves

in the attempt. One in four is too slow,

so we keep trying.

We chew the broken glass

mixed in the jar of salsa.

We spit beet juice and blood

into the porcelain sink.

We worry about our insides,

waiting to see what the damage will be

in the end of things.

There never was an innocent time

since we drew breath. It is almost

as if we asked for this. Building our webs

so slyly we forget which threads

are viscous. Prey to our own devices.

Shocked at the harm we do,

when all we’ve done is live

- like everyone else -

we use phones,

we drive cars.

Children shouldn’t be

on the highway with horses.

It really is a shame.

But this is what you get.

No use pretending

it’s the old days.

A moment of silence

to think about your feed,

and move on.

Pretty soon the elephants

will be extinct anyway;

all these rescues are corrupt.

Be glad you lived

in a day when you could witness greatness,

visit the zoo, breathe.

The water in a few places was still clean

enough to swim in, to feel light.

Frame this vista

and keep it for yourself,

to look at

and feel lonely in later,

when you forget the sticky crowds

and only see the blue, those hills,

not in memory, but in pixels.

Someone someday will earn your trust,

and you will show them your ivory tusk,

purchased at a steep price on the black market.

An investment,

because someday the elephants will all be extinct

and someone will need proof

they existed.

Damnation, July 7 2020

It ought to bother me. 

And I believe it's true, but I believe it like a child confessing to a lie - the admission will destroy me, and reveal a whole mess of consequences, and make me cry. 

"There is more beauty in truth, even if it is dreadful beauty." (Steinbeck)

You came to save. Please save. 

Woman Builds Her House, July 2 2020

Please fill him with hope and strength, wisdom and confidence, peace and joy, wherever he is. Help us find each other, and recognize each other, and keep our hearts, eyes, and hands open. 

Lord, I want a family. And I want to make a home, and share it. I want to make music, and dinner, and love. I want to commit to a place and its people. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, and see the Grand Canyon, and read my favorite books aloud. I want to pick up hitchhikers. I want to plant gardens and share what they produce. I want to babysit and run errands and make care packages, and go on retreats, and create, and create retreats for others. 

I want my body to be home. For You, always. And for a man, and for little ones. I want to accept and enjoy every change it takes on. I want to learn new languages, and re-learn old languages, like the language of music, and of touch. I want to learn how to really pray, and intercede, and speak up, and listen. 

Sister Prayer, June 28 2020

Quiet the voices. Silence the lies. Speak and be heard. 

We desire You. We know we were made for You, and nothing else can satisfy. Restore to us the joy of Your salvation. Give us concrete ways to work and grow and love others well. 

Help us to be faithful, even when others are flaky. Help us to trust Your faithfulness, even when we fail. Remind us that we have nothing to prove to anyone, that we are free and covered in Your blood, and belong to You. 

Help us to offer our whole selves to You, and all we have, and trust You to give us only more of Yourself, our true good, even in suffering. 

Let us be women of dignity, strength, peace. 

What Would I Wish, May 29 2020

"True life is lived when tiny changes occur." (Tolstoy).

I am living true life. 

Please help me pray. Please help me love. Please use me only for good. 

Please give me ways to stand up for what is right. Thinking about Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, and so so so so many others. What if one day it is my son? What would I wish I had been saying and doing now?

The Day You Just Wasted - May 25 2020

When one thing ends, another starts. This is my whole future. Whatever tomorrow is supposed to be, please help me live it and not be anxious, ashamed for taking today slow or for any other reason. You have given me so much. 

"The day you just wasted is the day that someone who died yesterday wanted so badly to have."

This scares me, and it doesn't take You into account, but the truth in it should galvanize me. This is my one life. Will I live it to be sexy? To get whatever I want next? For a good reputation? 

Will I push hard because I'm afraid to stop? Will I be too afraid of failure or mistakes to push hard? Will I always be comparing? 

Free me, please, Lord Jesus!

Help me to learn what this time should be. To use whatever I have to worship You. Thank You, thank You, for never giving up on me and for all the ways You get my attention. And for correcting me, and healing me, and wounding me. 

Sweet Spot, May 23 2020

I'm savoring this sweet spot. It's how I feel about this time, in general. The last week has been pretty sweet. There's a kind of safety in unknowing - we can't do much, can't make any plans. So here we are. Reading, eating, gardening, painting, having phone calls, cooking, sleeping, watching K-dramas. Our troubles are fairly small. Most of my grievances are minor and petty. I have so much to be thankful for. Help me keep my hands open, live this time fully, and enter the next season with courage, sobriety, and hope. 

Bare Minimum, May 2020

It's easy to blame myself. And then exonerate myself. And return with, "You just don't want to acknowledge your laziness and lack of love. You've basically done the bare minimum as a friend".

I've tried to be encouraging, but have I meant what I said? How often have I shaken my head inwardly,  "Can't X just get over XXX?"
I have been relieved at our distance. I have been quick to think "not my problem". I do need to have boundaries, I'm no one's savior. Yet, is this love?
Is this how Jesus would see the sufferings, the sensitivities, the illnesses of others?
Please help, Lord. Show me what is true, and help me to accept it. 

Listless, May 8 2020

Dear Jesus, please help me. I feel very gray and stupid. Wanting things inordinately. Being horribly careless about other things and people.

I want to be able to shop at BB's and thrift stores and to borrow movies from the library. I want to swing dance and contra dance, and sing at church, and hold babies, and pet dogs. And I want to play music with friends.

I don't want to talk on the phone. And I'm itchy to check messages, but at the same time I don't want to reply to anything. And my food feels tiresome and monotonous. And my work feels the same. I don't feel much need for money, although I guess I'd rather make it than not.

It's cold and damp outside. I am such a spoiled, ignoble humbug. Please. Help.
Please stir me up to love again. Help me do the next little thing attentively, willingly, obediently, joyfully.

The Most Pathetic Love, May 1 2020

I'm in another spike of magnetism. It might be hormonal. But that's boring. I do need hope for  a little  romance in my life. And to not always look at it through snide, self-critical, self-conscious eyes. That's the most pathetic thing of all, and shows a weak affected sort of love, that can't stand to seem ridiculous. Please help me have a firm, bold, self-forgetful love. And to have hope that I can be loved that way, in return. 

Few and Far Between, April 26, 2020

How strange it is to find myself at a place of ill preparation and low motivation for everything I've really wanted to do. For marriage and motherhood. Adoption. For a career in art. Even for sustained, supportive, close friendship.

Is this what growing up is like? Discovering everything you want is hard, and you may not even like it, and the days your choice and your passion coincide are few and far between? I hope not. 

For Bread, Confidently, April 25 2020

Please cleanse me of my unholy ambitions and my fear of man. Of my wish to perfect myself. Please make me willing to ask for help and forgiveness. And for bread, confidently.