Sunday, May 8, 2022

Lost in Translation

Sometimes I worry that all that I feel, what I want to say, and what I actually say is lost in the space between my heart and the words that come out on the page...or just out of my mouth - especially after a glass or two of wine. And then, to make matters worse, there's how the other person interprets the words and body language, through their own lens, experience, past, etc. Do we really hear each other? Can we feel each other, without that scared, protective wall coming up? Without rules and judgments and shame?

I wish we could sit down together and talk...really talk, alone, honestly, without anyone around to shape the words, and with clear heads and hearts to hear and feel what's really said. But will that ever happen?

I wonder what you think of me. Do you think I'm awful, shallow, stupid, silly, untrustworthy? Or do you think I'm deep, complex, caring, and sensitive, but perhaps a bit too ruled by my feelings? It shouldn't matter to me, but it does. Everything matters in your presence. Because all I do is worry that who I am and what I say is lost in translation, along with you. And something inside can't seem to let go. It doesn't matter what is, or what you say, or all the obstacles in the world, or how impossible it all seems, or how insane I feel. 

It scares me.

I feel connection and resistance, connection and resistance...resistance, resistance, confusion, guilt, elation, all at once until it nearly kills me. I fight it sometimes and then just want to laugh it off. And then I say things and worry later that I've hurt you, when that's the last thing I ever want. Perhaps I'm just looking for proof of something. But I'm fully there, taking it all in, laughing and loving and enjoying the moment. And it's all in the moment, being contained... just barely. I enjoy studying you, your complexity, your contradictions, and trying to figure out if there's anything I've lost on my side of the translation. Am I just the dumb girl who doesn't get it? Or doesn't want to? I wonder about the story behind each line in your sweet face and wish you could sit and tell me. If only I could capture your darting chocolate eyes for just a few moments and drink them in as I melt in the midday heat.

I'm so sorry. I wish I could be different. It seems so easy for you. Like in a blink of an eye, swoosh...resistance. It doesn't work that way for me, but maybe someday. Please be patient with me and whatever gets lost in translation between us.


Saturday, May 7, 2022

DISCLAIMER: My Code

Here's my code - believe it - it's true

I have no interest in calling you. (No offense, sweetie :)

Ever since I was a teen

from now and back to inbetween

I never did anyone's bidding, not even for myself.

I simply looked pretty and sat on the shelf.

And they would come because they wanted to.

And I was Ms-Loyal-to-My-Man, true blue.

Feelings might come and feelings might go.

And I would put them on paper, you know.

To get them out and not destroy my soul.

So calling you is not my goal.

I hope you would trust me enough by now.

How many times have I shown you how?

Yes, I've struggled, yes, I've stalled.

But count the number of times I've called!

Zip, none, never, nada.

That is a guarantee that I hope you comprada.

Why all the fear? I'll never know.

If I mean so little, just let it go.

I can't help but wonder: why all the fuss?

It sounds like someone is lacking trust.

In themselves and each other - I'm willing to bet.

Otherwise, why would I be such a threat?

I just need some friends. I DON'T want to steal.

I couldn't if I wanted to - that was the deal.

But I express my feelings however I want!

And if your name isn't on it, don't bother to taunt.

Why shiver in fear that I'm going to call?

I do not chase, NO MATTER WHAT - that's all!

I'll sit and look "pretty" for one worthy and brave

Who thinks I'm worth keeping till I'm gone to the grave.

No matter what I write, there's one thing I'm owed.

The right to my feelings. And the right to my code.











Tuesday, May 3, 2022

Forever Turning

To kiss or not to kiss
The day will soon be gone
To touch or not to touch
The day will become a week, a month, a year
The sun will cast a shadow across our graves
where cold lips and cold hands no longer have the gift to meet
The world doesn't stand still, waiting for us
It's forever turning
As raindrops roll off the leaves
And mangoes ripen on vines
And birds flirt and mate and nest
None of them are measuring their movements
But here I sit,
mourning for the scorched earth that doesn't get rain,
the immature fruit that falls off the tree and dies
I cry for all that is never realized,
lost in the world's turning...
namely us.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

I Am the Storm


Who am I after the storm

but a channeled whelk broken

on the bank of a distant shore.

And who are you

but the soaring opportunist

who swooped down and plucked me clean.

Who am I after the storm

but a strung out string of seaweed

cast upon an island of unplanned beginnings.

And who are you

but Narcissus gazing at his reflection

in a pool of strategic plans.

I in self-defeat, you in self-enthrallment

so blind to poignant truth.

There are no random acts

in the order of the stars…

only predator and prey

exchanging a lesson.


The Gods have aligned with my thundering rage,

lightning tears through my veins into the purple sky,

10 months of tears form a torrential tantrum

drowning you in a tidal pool of mud and silt.

I thought I had no power; you thought you had it all.

But you are a channeled whelk broken

and I Am the Storm.

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Comfortable

It would be so easy
to be instant macaroni and cheese
sitting on the shelf in a neon colored uniform
with dozens of other boxes all the same.
Familiar.
Uncomplicated.
Always in demand.
Ready to heat and eat.
Overly processed by artificially colored instant American values
and covered in Velvetta "cheese food," one molecule away from plastic.
Bait for the busy and the distracted
and those with indiscriminate palettes.
Bland.
Predictable.
False.
Comfortable.
Offering little nourishment but gobbled down without reflection.
What is a box of macaroni and cheese to the Master Chef
but a shameful waste of potential
that leads to a trail of antacids?

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Why Settle for a Palapa When You Can Sit Under a Banyan Tree?

The Tree of Enlightenment by Amy Scholten

What does the word vacation mean to you? Freedom from responsibilities? A chance to relax and have fun? For me it’s an opportunity to increase my clarity and experience things more fully. It’s a clearing out process that happens when we’re in a more relaxed state and different environment. The word vacation ultimately means to “vacate” or leave behind.

This summer we vacationed on the small Caribbean island of Aruba, where my husband Brian has family roots. Once we got there, most of the cares of “real life” were blown out to sea on balmy breezes and washed away by turquois beaches. The biggest problem was a palapa shortage. Palapas are small beach shelters roofed with palm leaves. After standing in line and missing out on a palapa several times, we sought shade beneath a large, sprawling banyan tree instead. The tree sat directly behind a shelter where a young native couple sold tours and water activities to tourists.

With its multiple layers, bidirectional roots, and branches reaching into the great Abyss, the banyan tree is a symbol of the self and its journey toward enlightenment. Still, we grumbled about our fate. How had life become so competitive that getting a stupid beach palapa was even a struggle? With that thought, the balmy trade winds wooshed another insult in our direction: cigarette smoke. I needed no further proof that Paradise was an illusion. I looked over at our chain smoking palapa-less neighbor glued to his computer. Paul Fussel, author of The Dumbing of America, referred to people who couldn’t put their computers and cell phones down, even on a beguiling beach, as “connectivity assholes.”

My plan was to read for a few minutes and then head to the water to get away from connectivity asshole. When I finally shifted my attention off the secondhand smoke, I noticed that the banyan tree was constantly full of birds, birds that were always eating. It would only be a matter of time before we’d be “shat” upon, I thought, hapless and palapa-less, a spectacle for our fellow tourists and fodder for their humorous vacation stories. 

As I made my way down to the water, I sensed something behind me. And then a small and gentle hand suddenly held mine. I turned around to find a little black boy in diapers, smiling at me. He greeted me in Papiamento, the native language of Aruba. I recognized him as the quiet and serene child of the native couple selling tours and water sports.  So tender was the moment that all curmudgeonly thoughts of the day faded in a twinkling. In that instant, I was overcome by a feeling of being held in the arms of a loving universe. How miraculous that a child’s innocence and unguarded heart could be so powerful, like the warm Aruban sun melting layers of ice dams that had slowly been crushing my soul.

The boy’s name was Kiko. For the next few days, I watched him and his family living and working close to nature. Kiko had great freedom for a tiny tike. He toddled down the beach by himself to explore, but always seemed to know when he had strayed too far from his parents. Fully engrossed in all his activities, he was an amazing swimmer and castle builder. Despite a dearth of toys, he never seemed bored, fussy or burdensome. His parents seemed equally serene. His father, Dawid, a tall, lanky young man with braids pulled into a small ponytail, often took the boy out on a paddleboard late in the afternoon. We eventually became friendly with Dawid and his wife Junaida. They were excited to learn of Brian’s Aruban roots.

One afternoon Dawid offered to let me borrow his paddleboard. I had seen only young people on paddleboards, and I had seen several fall off them when boats created waves. Though I felt too old and stiff to get up on one, Dawid taught me how. Awkwardly, I managed, kneeling and paddling and bobbing along into the sunset. The familiar started to shrink in the distance as the waves carried me into the vastness of an unknown ocean, challenging both my balance and my mastery of the oar. It was exhilarating and frightening to see my surroundings from an entirely different perspective. Once again I felt the universe reach out – this time through calming, caressing rays of sun that seemed to awaken an inner wisdom, focus and confidence as I navigated back to shore.

After hours in the water, I settled back under the tree to relax and read, but it was difficult to concentrate. Exquisitely beautiful and flutey-sounding bird calls kept coming from the branches above. I spent 10 minutes struggling to see what the elusive songster looked like. Suddenly, the bright orange and black bird flew down and presented himself right on my beach chair! From his appearance and song I guessed he was an oriole of some sort. Internet research confirmed that I was correct – he was a South American Troupial, a type of oriole.

The Troupial became a daily visitor, often accompanied by a bright yellow female to whom he was very attentive. I held Brian’s hand. “Two love birds in the tree and two love birds under the tree.” When Dawid, Junaida and Kiko left their station briefly, the mischievous Troupials rummaged through Styrofoam boxes of food left on their picnic table. However, they never “shat” on us.

Just as I attempted to return to my reading, a new character—a large, bright green iguana— made his debut. He too, was a “regular” who liked to pose for pictures. Two paragraphs into my book later, another “regular” caught my attention: a lanky young native man sporting long brown dreadlocks and a tri-colored Rastafarian hat. He strolled along the beach with a trail of eight multicolored dogs trotting obediently behind, bemusing many tourists.

As each day passed, Kiko, Dawid, Junaida, the singing Troupials, the posing green iguanas, the Rasta Dog Walker, and the chain smoking connectivity asshole were there on the scene. And then I realized something: we were there on purpose, one big eclectic happy family. The clearing out process had been accomplished. We felt healthy, whole and at peace, with the sun on our backs and life unfolding all around us beneath the banyan tree and beyond.


Would I go back and trade it for a palapa? Not on your life. 

Monday, February 2, 2015

You Are the Canvas


You are a canvas stretched across the frame of the Great Spirit. Your image fashioned by the paint brush of free will. Your color and texture composed of a palette of situations, relationships and choices…and sometimes fate…all unique to you, and all subject to interpretation.  It doesn’t matter if others don’t understand or appreciate your composition. You are of the Great Spirit. No matter what, you are loved.

But your worst fear is being a blank, white canvas…drab and insignificant, even when passionate crimson screams through the pores of your skin and bleeds right through your heart. Up from the depths of your soul is a bright Light that wants to shine into the jonquil sun. It is your birthright to shine, says the Great Spirit! But Light is the delicate flame of a heavenly scented candle. It blows in the winds of a world snared in its own concern and littleness. You must guard it from being snuffed out by oatmeal indifference and graying numbness.

Sometimes you’ll spin in circles or meet crossroads leading nowhere. Don’t drown in indigo tears. You’re learning. A splash of green reveals your innocence and need to grow, to ascend into opaque lavender. This need never dies, but something in you will die if it’s not fulfilled. Pick up your brush. Stretch beyond your reach. Step into a puddle of pink. Scream out to a world lulled and dulled to sleep. Make your brushstrokes memorable! “Fitting in” is a universal temptation but it pares the majestic eagle down to a gimping starling.

The child within you is an incandescent bright gold star. She knows the right shapes and colors if she’s left alone. Do not splatter random, haphazard streaks across your canvas in frustration. Remember that you are deserving of an artist of the highest order. You are the canvas.