Breathe.

Oh how quickly they leave me
they are nomads
resting with me
for just a few
short
breaths.

"Breathe with me longer"
I gasp.
But they have
no more
to give
me.

So I sit alone
breaths shallow
the air leaving me
as quickly
as it
arrived.

Stagnant

There is a point where life becomes stagnant.
Like when something burns on the stove;
the bitter smell lingers on your clothes
your skin
your hair.

I long for that rush of blood to my fingertips
that new excitement.
To discover some truth
that was hidden in the seams;
in the corners of reality.

There is something hidden there
in those dark places.
There is something behind
the veil that everyone talks about.
What if I can't even find the veil?

Satisfacton is bitter
like the smell of the smoke.
It lasts for what feels like one hundred years
and wears off in ten
and is gone for a thousand.

And I continue to search.
And I know the truth
I know the veil is there
but I want to touch it
with my fingertips. 

We sat there

A week later
at the shelter
the man
the man
sat in the front row

Red coat
striped scarf
and the kind face
of a wise philospher
he sat there

So I approached him
And looked into his eyes
and his eyes looked into me
and we talked
about love

we talked about abuse
about illness
about alchohol
about forgiveness
about community

And we felt the pain of abuse
the pain of illness
the pain of alchohol
the pain of love
the pain of community

And we felt God
and we felt forgiveness
and we felt community
and we felt
love

And we sat there
two broken children
with wounds still open
and we sat there
our eyes, our hearts. 

moved

I wasn't expecting today to be a monumental day.  I suppose I never see them coming. But when I woke up this morning, stumbled to the bathroom, and started brushing my teeth, I didn't foresee how much I would be moved these past twelve hours.

I attended our homecoming chapel this morning - my choir was preforming a piece.  I was upset that I wasn't able to go get breakfast between classes, and sat, slumped, in my pew on the balcony.  The alumni of the year was introduced with a cinematographyically impressive video. I watched, mildly interested. I wasn't expecting the words I grew up in an alcoholic home to fly out of her mouth halfway through the video. I felt my breath catch.  Every nerve shot a sensation throughout my body.  When tears ran down her face during her speech, my heart lurched and ached for her.  My beautiful woman, I know your pain.  I saw her later in the cafeteria.  I wanted to go up and talk to her.  I wish I had.

In my survey of music literature class today, we discussed Beethoven.   Here was a man beaten by his father in his childhood.  Beaten for making beautiful music.  Beaten by this brute, a raging alcoholic.  And suffered the rest of his life for it.  Never letting himself love, never letting himself forget.  My beautiful man, I know your pain.  I wanted to talk to him.  I wish I could.

Tonight, I brought my volunteers to Union Gospel Mission Men's Shelter - something I do weekly.  We sat down in a small, warm room, with my site partner and a guest from the shelter.  My site partner said his hellos, and proceeded to introduce this guest: a Montana-man, who had the appearance of a philosopher, round glasses perched on his face, scarf draped over his shoulders, and shoulder-length grey hair tousled about.  He told us he was a diagnosed schizophrenic, recovered drug addict, in the program for alcoholism, homeless, and was beaten by his father.  His voice began to break and tears streamed down his face when he told us of his first memory of his father beating him.  He made eye-contact with me as he spoke of how he forgave his father.  I felt his words penetrate into my gut.  I could feel myself gulping for air - reluctant to have to breathe in the first place. I didn't want to miss a word out of this man's mouth. My hands were white from clenching as he told more stories of his childhood.  I had an urge to put my hands on his shoulder and whisper in his ear it will be okay. I had an urge to go up and talk to him afterward.  I didn't.  I had two other opportunities.  I didn't follow through.  My beautiful man, I know your pain.  I wanted to talk to him.  I hope I will someday.
I have been moved more than I can describe.  My mind is racing, my soul is aching, and my heart is filled with - what?  What am I feeling? Love? Community? God?  Most likely all three. And yet, I didn't talk to any one of these three people today.  So why do I feel so moved?

Because they are out there.  Because I am not alone.  And one day, I will talk to the man at the shelter, and I may one day talk to the woman who is alumni of the year.  But, for now, I am going to sit here, on my bed, and listen to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. 

Please feel

Body
please feel
because this hurts
Because you've been told
this hurts

Mind
please feel
because this is overwhelming
Because you've been told
this is overwhelming

Spirit
please feel
because this is sorrowful
Because you've been told
this is sorrowful

Soul
please feel
because you are His child
Because He's told you
that you are His child

Cold Bathwater

I closed the door
reached up to my head
and began removing the bobby pins
from my disheveled hair

I looked at my face in the mirror
seeing it from someone else's eyes
I look sickly
Turning away, I removed my cardigan
peeled off my tights
unzipped my dress

I looked in the mirror again
As I finished undressing
The bags under my eyes
told a story in themselves
I look tired

 I squatted in the cold porcelin of the bathtub
And turned on the water
It came out, running through my fingers
the warmth felt nice
my fingers too numb to fully feel

And then it stopped running hot
I shut off the water
in the shallow tub
disappointed

I laid down
my back against the cold porcelin
strangely not warmed by the water
I began to shiver
and looked up at the ceiling

The cold hurt
but in a bearable way
my flesh was dissatisfied
but my mind was numbed by it

As I closed my eyes
I tried to forget about the cold
and my mind raced
So I prayed - please stop

I got out of the tub
and padded around the house
in my faded pink towel
I turned the heat up from fifty-nine
seventy is reasonable

I returned to the bathroom
with an old quilt
and curled up against the wall
the vent against my back

The water from my hair dripped
down my back
and the hair on my skin
stood at attention

And the warmth came
from that sacred vent
And my mind began to race again
Funny how the cold was a blessing

His hands were warm
His blood ran warm
when he held me
when he touched my face
when he bruised my arms

The heat decided it was time to turn off
and the cold returned
and I welcomed it.

A Foggy Night

I went to Gasworks tonight - a standard favorite of mine and my friend group.  When we reached the park, the air was hushed, enveloped in a blanket of cloud - the fog created some sort of protective dome around the park. This is our space, if only for tonight.

On top of the hill, we looked over Lake Union to the city scape.  Normally, you could see downtown Seattle in all its glory, with the Space Needle perfectly perked off to the right.  Tonight, only a few of the lower lights shone over the black water.  Tonight, the world was minimized. 

We could not see the stars in the sky.  It normally  amazes and overwhelmes me as I look into the starry night.  It almost frightens me.  Tonight, it wasn't there.  Tonight, the world was minimized.

I had less to focus on, less to study, less to see.  My vision was brought down to this small bubble enveloped in a cloud.  This is my mind.

I had been begging for God to clear up my mind; to make these foggy ideas clear.  And yet, I now see what a blessing it is for my understanding to be narrowed.  I now see how much I have been protected through all of this.  I now see how much more my head could be swimming - how much more the tops could be turning - if I saw everything.

The foggy night can still contain truth; but a truth that my weak human mind can actually grasp.