Monthly Archives: April 2012

Apr 29 2012

The Sunday Blues

It’s a blustery cool day. Pine trees wave to me from the woods. I can see them through my kitchen window. They’re swinging their green arms up and down, like a bunch of women gossiping.

Dry leaves tear around the yard until they slam into something where they pile up and wait to be raked. The sun is bright, bugs in flight, bird feeders bursting with bright yellow finches.

I’m listening to music and decided to share a couple of the songs that brought tears to the edges of my eyes, a bright smile into my heart, with all of you.

 

Apr 28 2012

Son

I wanted you to find me worthy.  Knew

the night of conception that you were a son.

I waited, not patiently, for your arrival.

I did not like being pregnant. There was no glow.

 

My belly grew stripes, hips spread, to make room for you

my perky breasts tore through my seventeen year old skin.

Not for years after your perfect birth, would I be

able to look in a mirror without revulsion.

 

Two weeks before your delivery I was done with you

but I didn’t know that.  I tried bumpy rides, gulped cod liver oil

determined I was, to free myself of the blossoming burden

of motherhood.

 

The day you were born my blood pressure spiked

your blood and my blood too much for my

parched heart to bear. They broke my water

or was it yours? Reached inside me with a hook, tore

a hole. Ready or not, here you come.

 

You turned sideways, perhaps, looking in another direction

you changed your mind too. They say babies know

in-utero if they are wanted.  Oh how that sad truth

breaks my heart open to the joy of feeling today.

 

Moments before they planned to cut you from inside me

you turned back.  Looked down at how far you would have

to fall to meet me and agreed. Out you swam in a river

of blood, wet and wrinkled, already an old man.

 

The doctor was surprised when I asked to see the cord.

My legs still strapped in stirrups, he lifted the

the purple snake vein, I touched it gently.

The warm line between your life and mine, severed

thousands of years before that day.

 

Scrunched eyes squinting against the light

you cried out!  I could not answer you.

I knew when the nurse placed you in the cradle

of my arms that I was dead.  Some time long before

you were born I died.

 

You were four months old the first time I really saw you.

I took a pill for pain.  Something lifted.  A heavy presence

stepped aside and there you were.

 

A bundle, cradled in my arms, I rocked

back and forth, I stared.  Brown eyes wide

looked out of a face so sweet it made me cry.

Hello, I whispered, I am here.

 

Then the magic pill wore off.  The weight

of the world returned heavier than before. I tried,

I searched and stole and sold myself, wanting desperately

to live the way I was supposed to.  I stayed for you.

Never to have you again.

Apr 27 2012

There’s no Silencing the Soul

I received a letter every couple of weeks. Many times I unfolded his neat notes and dried flower blossoms would fall silently in my lap. Like tear drops.

His sentence was for three years. The charges were murky to say the least. Several weeks before the grand finale and the gavel fell, he called me in a panic. Leslie, you have to help me! They are charging me for things I didn’t do. He rarely told the truth when he was using, or about what happened when he was using, but I knew from the tone of his voice that this was real.

The next day I went to see his probation officer to see what was up. A big man. Stiff, pious. I decided to shoot straight with the guy. Explain the history of our family. Generations of drug addiction and alcoholism. Told him I too was on probation for similar charges. [I’d stolen a prescription pad from a local doctor and written my own prescriptions]. I learned that the truth is not always best. He basically threatened me. Said if I didn’t stop poking my nose in where it didn’t belong  he would make my life, the rest of my probation, a living hell. I believed him. But opted to try to help my brother anyway.

I called a state senator. I’m still amazed she listened to me. I again opted for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She had me fax her his records and after she looked them over she wrote a letter to the probation officer on my brothers behalf.  Because of the trumped-up charges Cody was looking at hard time in a state prison. Something I knew he would not survive. He was what you would call a petty criminal. All drug related. Strangely he never ended up getting busted for illicit drugs. All charges came down as a result of his addiction to prescription painkillers, tranquilizers and the like. Cody like spelunking the inner chambers of his psyche. Craved the sorrow of complete freedom from pain.

The senator suggested that I research federal prisons with drug treatment programs which I did. I found one in California and there was room for Cody. If we could get the judge to agree to it. When we all rose and the magistrate entered the courtroom, I was stunned to see that it was the same guy who presided over the trial when my parents sued Utah Power and Light, after Cody was electrocuted. It had been over ten years but I could tell the guy recognized my brother.

When it was my turn to speak, his probation officer eyed me from the corner. I had no idea what the hell was going to happen after all was said and done. The guy was obviously bullshit because I’d defied his direct orders, but I proceeded to tell the judge what I knew anyway. After listening intently, he agreed that it would be good for Cody to enter a drug treatment program and that the institution I had researched was a good one.  Urged him to make the most of the opportunity.  As my brother shuffled out of the courtroom, chains around his ankles like a slave, he turned to me with tears in his eyes, mouthed the words, Thank you. I love you. The bailiff took him away.

Six months before he was released I got a letter. “I had a dream Les!  It was so real you wouldn’t believe it. I saw everything clear. When I get home I’m gunna get a job on a golf course. I’m excited Les! I have no idea where its gunna be, or how its gunna work out, but I know it’s gunna be ok sis. I’m doin good.”

I confess that I was concerned. I knew he’d done well and was excited to get out; get home to his son and on with his life. He had alot of strikes against him, including the fact that he only had one arm. The left one was amputated after the electrocution when he was twelve years old. I wanted to write back and say, Then so it will be! but I was protective of us both. Didn’t want to get our hopes up and then to be disappointed.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, the halfway house where he was to live for six months while he adjusted to life on the outside, was located directly across the street from a city golf course. He had a job there within a month of his release. He loved it and he and my son golfed as often as possible. Nothing held Cody back. With one arm [he refused to wear prosthesis], he was better than fifty percent of the guys he played with.

He did great for several months. We found him a nice little apartment in a funky safe neighborhood.  He spent time with his young son and also with my son. They fished all his secret spots. He came up to my place nearly every weekend. Looked after my son while I worked.  The three of us, all abandoned in different ways, playing house together. We shared meals and spent time. He and I took long walks. Talked about everything. I nurtured him and he was hell-bent on protecting me. Which at the time was not easy to do. Then, he had a few big disappointments in relationships he was hoping to repair, and disappeared.

When I finally got a call it was the hospital. In a coma, they said, unresponsive. Tried to find you. Been here for three days. Terrified and heartsick I hurried to his bedside. I was furious when I arrived to find that they hadn’t cleaned him up since he’s gotten there. The corners of his mouth, teeth, still sticky with the black tarry substance they’d poured down his throat to save his life. He’d soiled the bed. Just another John Doe drug addict. Tubes coming from every orifice in his body.

As soon as I took his hand the machines went nuts! He knew me. I whispered in his ear, “I’m here brother.”  He squeezed. Pink ladies and nurses scurried about to clean him and his sheets, the hospital garbage strewn about the room. I washed his face. Rinsed his mouth.

For days he was more out than in. Had several grand mal seizures a day. Didn’t speak anything but psychotic mumbo jumbo. When I asked about his prognosis all I got was, We don’t know.  He’d been without oxygen for some time when the police got to him. Not sure the extent of the brain damage. If he will recover.

The apartment my brother was living in was an old restored brownstone. The owners lived in the building. Told me the day they found Cody it was their cats who alerted them to his dire situation. They woke to both felines yowling at the top of their lungs and pacing the floors. Because Cody’d been acting out of character for a week or so before the overdose, they went to his apartment first. Found him killed over, blue as a corpse. Needle dangling from his arm.

Sitting with him day after day I found myself wondering about the soul and the body. I was curious about who, or what was responding to me. Every time I spoke to him the machines danced, sang out! But his body barely moved. I tried to get him to respond. He’d try but couldn’t get things connected enough to get his lips and tongue to form words I could decipher. Are they really separate I wondered, the soul and the body?  And if they are is Cody’s soul intact even though his body is wrecked?

I decided to test it out. I remembered a story Cody had told me about a profound spiritual experience that he’d had. It stayed with me because it was so obviously powerful for him that the day he told me I could feel his vibrational frequency increase, like a light bulb going from sixty to a hundred and fifty watts. I decided to ask him about it. “Cody. Cody. Can you hear me?” Beeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeep! “I want to ask you about something Cody. Are you listening?” Beeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeep! Remember the experience you told me about when you were ordained to the priesthood? I love that story. Can you tell me what happened again?”

To my absolute surprise he opened his eyes, turned his head and looked right at me. Wattage increasing, I listened as he related, word for word, the exact same experience he had shared we me years before. He was animated, articulate. His words authoritative. Leaving no room for question or doubt.

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Apr 25 2012

The Confines of Contentment

I designed my garden stoned. Spent several days laying back in a lawn chair with my sandwich baggie of green, my pipe made of aluminum foil, and smoked everything but me, my paths and flowerbeds, out of my mind. The reason I was smoking from a homemade aluminum foil pipe is because I was planning to quit before it became a problem. I refused to invest in the habit, by purchasing ‘drug’ paraphernalia. I never did learn how to properly roll a joint. Most times I smoked alone. In secret. I mean the privacy of my own home. I ended up sculpting aluminum foil pipes for twenty years.

My garden turned out amazing. Locked inside, instincts keen for the most direct yet organic route,  I was able to capture the lay of the land. My natural walkways truly look like they birthed themselves. Like trails animals might create through the wood.

I loved being high. The first thing I did in the morning was drop in with weed. When I say drop in, I mean into my body. As soon as my cells were dosed in THC I loved being in my skin. Yoga and dope for me were synonymous. I really don’t know if I would have fallen in love with yoga in the way I have had I not been using weed. Smoke, stretch, maybe even masturbate, and then find something to do that didn’t require doing too much.

I didn’t like going out when I was high. Unless I was drinking and then it was a whole different ball game all together. Talking with other people pulled me out of myself and that’s what I liked most about being high. Feeling comfortable, content with me. I treated it like it was medicine which felt better than considering it to be an addiction. I dosed myself two or three times a day.

I found I didn’t like hanging out with people who smoked like I did. The majority of them [including yours truly], were disabled, mentally, emotionally and or physically; legally or otherwise.  I found that this had nothing to do with their social or financial status. It was basically the same across the board. Many of them were also depressed, unless they were high. Also alot of the time they [me] were using booze and other drugs too. Including prescription medications. Which didn’t inspire me in the least. Making friends with people who didn’t toke was out of the question. I was therefore lonely for community.

When I wasn’t stoned I found I could barely deal with my life. In fact, very little about my life felt like it belonged to me. Most of my choices had been made while I was high, or, so I could assure that I would be able to continue to get high. Which I had to do because I was so restless and resentful when I was straight.

The thing about green is that nothing bad happened [at least not on the outside of my skin], when I smoked. In fact I was so damn easy to get along with it was downright pathetic at times. When I was high I felt horny [oh boy does that feel delightful], considered cheating. The nights I wanted to make love, I smoked a little extra which helped a great deal with my inhibitions. Never gave why I felt so inhibited another thought. I didn’t have to. I got high and problem solved.

My husband and I did have great sex when I was high, if he didn’t know that is.  He refused to make love to me when I was stoned. The problem was I didn’t want to have sex unless I was high. That meant that his spontaneous desire was totally squelched. If he approached me when I was straight I felt my body fold up like the petals of a morning-glory at night. I made all kinds of excuses, even tried to talk him into getting high with me, which he never did. Intimacy became a real problem. Communication between our bodies impossible.

I’m an artist. High I loved thinking about all the things I was going to create. Talked about being a writer, all the time, but rarely got around to writing. Or rather, rarely finished writing anything I started. At least not anything meaningful. Which I justified by telling myself that meaningful was too heavy, arrogant even. I mean who the hell  do I think I am even considering that I would have something meaningful to say. Besides, then I might have to take responsibility for what came out of my mouth. Deep inhale; hold, hold, hold, awwwww, thank god for ganja.

After I stopped smoking I was truly afraid that all the moments, the real alive moments I experienced high would end. Worried I would never feel that ‘whatever’ contentment again. The naked freedom I craved. Marijuana also assisted in bringing me to consciousness. Helped open my mind. I experienced myself and the natural world in ways I never had straight. What if my mind slams shut was a real concern. It also helped me to sense some of my wounds. Then, just as effectively, it stifled the ambition needed to do anything about the wonderful discoveries I was making.

My first clean spring I was sitting in my garden. No, I was mopping in my garden. I believed I would never enjoy gardening again. I noticed that one of several ornamental grasses I’d transplanted the previous fall was not coming up. I thought I’d killed it.  Had been really rough when I was relocating it. My gardening compassion was not as readily available without weed. Turning my attention elsewhere when I looked back I saw the entire plant, green and full, as if it was there. Blink. Blink. Gone.

What the hell was that? I said to myself out-loud. I felt my heart leap to attention! My mind suddenly astute I thought of my brother Cody telling me about his phantom pains, the sense that his arm was still there, after it had been amputated. I remembered having before and after Kirlian photography on my hands when I got my Reiki Master certification. My mind blown open after months inside the box of my belligerence, I started to weep. Peace blossomed in my heart and in my minds ear I heard, I’m here. Have patience.

That grass did grow. In fact it is one of the healthiest of all my grasses. I haven’t smoked since 2008 and my life is totally different. I still love yoga and practice every day. I am in better physical condition than I was in my twenties. I am by nature discontent and I am at peace with that. I was very surprised to find out that I’m quite mellow,  most of the time. I am creating new relationships with like-minded people. Rebuilding relationships I’d pushed away. I have also ended some I created and then nurtured, to keep from having to change. I write everyday and rarely talk about being a writer. I have even published a few things! My husband and I are getting to know each other and I am finally comfortable walking around the house naked.

Today when I think about dope which is hard not to do considering the political environment around it; my mind tends to go to things like, what better way to calm and control the herd. Get them to follow along contentedly. It is interesting to note that the battle around legalizing bud today, is not much different from the way alcohol gained its strong hold. I was shocked to learn that in the 70’s weed was around 7% THC and today it can be as high as 30%. Talk about numbing down. I don’t know what’s best for other people, nor do I have any judgement against anyone who wants, or needs, to get high. As relieved as I am to be free of the fired up beast, I am also grateful for the role marijuana played in my life. It very literally helped me to weed out my weakest links.

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Apr 24 2012

Everyday Magic

~

Saturday I took a walk through my neighborhood.  Each house separated by at least an acre of forested land. The streets are dirt. Not gravel, but rather, granite and quartz, sand and soil tamped down until it becomes nearly as hard as asphalt.

More times than not I walk looking down. Something I’ve been told I should try to correct. The implication; the answers are in the sky.

I look for special stones.  My favorites, smooth gun-metal grey granite, with milky quartz stripes. When I’m successful I tuck them in my pocket like a lucky rabbits foot, carry them home where I find a place for them.

Saturday I wasn’t searching for anything special when I noticed the shadowy fans swaying, swishing, up and down, mirror image branches above my head, beneath my feet.

Moving out from under the gnarled ghost like fingers, sun-bright, I notice the road sparkling. A dirt galaxy of mica stars, winking twinkles tease.

Then suddenly a gust of wind gave lift to paper leaves. Twirling in synchronized spirals they spun themselves silly, then scurried toward the forest floor and their next task at hand.

~

Apr 24 2012

Through the Artists Eye

After reading science and religion aren’t friends, The Forum, USA Today October 11, 2010.

What if what we focus on becomes true? Our thoughts like a painter’s brush, creating living pictures from what we are thinking. Life, our canvas, slathered in oily color, slow to set, as we add layers; scrap away images that don’t turnout exactly the way the Mind sees it.

Wouldn’t that mean both science and religion are true, in the truest sense of the word, or in this case, the brush stroke?

The danger I believe is when we surrender our palette, our magic, to either side. For that is when the Mind slams shut, and Inspiration, ceases to guide the hand of Imagination, where we create and re-create,  a world that is a Masterpiece.

The quote below I actually snagged from a comment I got on this post. Thanks Mira!

“All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree. All these aspirations are directed toward ennobling man’s life, lifting it from the sphere of mere physical existence and leading the individual towards freedom.”
~Albert Einstein

Apr 24 2012

Witching for Water

Through the ground

up

ancient water seeps.

Sentient source

conjured

with a twig, bending

like the finger of a crone

toward the earth.

 Here; the dowser assures

this is where you need to dig.

~

Apr 23 2012

SOS

In a black out

I reach for my son

soldier, in my war

on drugs.

I fumble

with the tiny keypad

on my phone.

I try

to type a note

to say something;

I don’t remember?

Grasping for him

has become

the only

predictable thing

I do.

Like calling an old lover

after too much wine

lonely; I hunger

for someone

who knows me

someone to keep me

from reaching

the point I reach

while I talk merrily

sipping poison

that erases memories.