Popped eye, Christmas lights Tequila and lime, hairpin; hope
My father and I sitting in the greyhound station
For the umpteenth x’s 10 time,
He’s falling asleep and I am nervous because
I already miss him because
The city and childhood are two very far apart things because
This year my mom didn’t call,
And us
My sister and me, we
For some reason
Are still surprised.
Listen.
I don’t care to admit that it hurts. But the shock of remembering
That I have forgotten the sound of her voice
Will sting.
In the car my father said,
You have to stop blaming her.
You have to stop living your life like it isn’t yours
Like it’s some sort of effect
To her cause.
You are not your mother.
I cannot recall ever being this sad, this relieved,
To hear such truth.
Back in the 412. What a long wonderful trip. I had the best cabbie ever take me home from the Greyhound station. A bike riding political head who apologized for his road rage towards the hockey game crowd. A perfect welcome back for this little lady. And now, food. I am starving.
A couple weeks ago, I started incorporating meditation into my days. At first the practice proved to be scattered, so I saved the deep breathing and stillness for the “harder” moments–as in work stress(like working ’til 10pm), chronic pain stress(the to-brew-or-not-to-brew migraine), and random stress(bad dreams, such as this morning).
My first realization: damn, I suck at meditating. I had in my head a model of perfect stillness, and stillness I am not. But ah, there comes the art of practicing something you have never been stellar at–mastering it, even in your own little manic way. I have been reading article after article about the impact of meditation and yoga on chronic pain, and on the most basic of levels it makes sense.
I practically ran to sitting still this morning–as stated earlier, a horrible dream had me awake just after eight in the morning. One thing that makes my minutes of meditation successful: a straight back. I am a lady with a spine that slightly curves, shoulders that swallow just a bit forward, so sitting absolutely upright is a nice healthy challenge for me. This simple thing, of how I sit, puts me where I need to be to take deep breathing seriously. I breathe a lot faster than I ever realized, and of course I did not realize this until I slowed down and listened to how my body greeted and expelled the air.
I start by taking the deepest breath that I can.I close my eyes, I stretch my arms above my head. Before I try to clear my mind I think absolute awareness–feel every ache and physical sigh of the body while maintaining the straightest posture I can muster. Sometimes it’s downright laughable–how hard this is for me to do successfully. Sometimes meditation lasts five minutes; sometimes I can sit still for twenty. It is a start, and that’s all I need.
It’s funny–the peace you make when you clear your mind completely. I love how private it is. I love that I can learn how to be as still as I need to be. Some moments require more motionless than others. I love how I’m still not very good at it–lines of poems sneaking in and cracking smiles at my impatience. It is a little bit of work, and I love a good work in progress.
The wind was kicking up and there was just a bit of snow rioting from the sky when I found myself driving in my old neighborhood in Dayton. The houses I used to spend the summer scraping paint on? The historical ones? They are still half-scraped, painted kind of purple. I held onto the steering wheel a little tighter because I was cracking up so hard that my laughter was shaking me. It took me slightly too long to find Gina’s house even though she once ago lived right down the street from me. But I found it.We had sushi, and movies, and a cat named Pablo, and Lindemann’s–I cannot stress enough the importance of great company, good people, listening well, being heard, slathering A+D on a mending tattoo, family, drives on the interstate, standing in line for burritos, watching the football game with my father, wrapping presents badly, warm sweaters, bad radio, mismatched socks, cutting the engine for no reason but to stand next to what isn’t there anymore. Every minute of a life mine, and every one truly something.
my niece Maddie, the sweetpea of the sweetest.
migraine art; cap of sleeve.
A meth head, two monks, and a nomad with a pirate hat. And one huge burrito. Not just the opening line to a bad joke, but also the summary of my Friday bus trip.
in Pittsburgh.