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01 November 2012 @ 12:37 am
I was able to remember all my words and notes for the song I started yesterday that I was so excited about.

Ex-boyfriend, motives aside, works with me, and so was present for support and multiple hugs when I thought I was about to
absolutely lose it.

Friends found me online (because the internet is a miracle and this is proof).

There was a very small moment, after I saw the pictures of my ex-husband's new fiancee's beautiful ring and all the love they have that I didn't, and don't, that I got very broken and briefly understood why people do things like hang themselves, I think. Like it's not enough to fail at something, but you should punish yourself on the way out.

Such thoughts are unbecoming, but they're there in the seabed of me. In everybody, yeah? The weak, brutal, and poor places.

I feel better now, if a little glued-back-together. I think that's better than pretending I was ok.
Current Mood: tiredtired
Current Music: Amanda Palmer, "Another Year"
31 October 2012 @ 06:20 pm
My phone was stolen with all my recent songs on it.

And my ex-husband proposed to his new fiance (I never got a proper proposal) with a beautiful, unique ring (I never got a ring), in a graveyard, on Halloween. There are pictures of them reading the Halloween Tree together. He bought that book for me on our first Halloween.

I know because we're friends, and it's all over our mutual social networking sites.

There's an element of stab . . .twist at work here. Heck, maybe a couple of elements.

Lost my songs.

Watching someone else get the love and honor I didn't. They will be a lot happier together than he and I were -- I know that.

I know it.

I have wanted so many times to be a good wife and to be in a partnership and I've failed. I'm successful-ish now. I'm lovely, even if I forget. I have friends. I'm better with people. I've wrestled with my faith and if it's made some things weaker or more difficult, it's also rescued me from terrible things I used to believe.
I have not stopped creating. I have not stopped trying.

But good God, really?
Current Mood: melancholymelancholy
Current Music: Jessica Lea Mayfield
31 October 2012 @ 12:00 am
The rush I just got from seeing my story felicitously land on 2A of our paper reminded me that I love journalism. I get to use my words and my passion to share stories that matter. Everything inside me jumps up. Which reminded me that kicking back on a copy desk and settling forever is not something I can be okay with.

The rush I get from trading emails with Mountain Man reminds me that there are people out there who share my loves, make living an adventure, and challenge me intellectually. And so settling for someone who lives for work and the bar (or work and TV) is not an option worth noting.

The rush I get from looking for God and bringing my questions and griefs and rages and joys, through liturgy and community and books and alt-country songs and quiet mornings alone, reminds me that there is always more, and the more is somebody wonderful.

The surprise I find when I don't settle for the obvious or the clever in the next line of a poem or song, only to find that pushing into a weirder and less certain place makes the work more my own, tells me to push harder, spin possibility out more, and be a creator that risks the uncharted, again and again and again.

And at the crest of possibility I can find almost no greater joy.

If you pray for me, or hope: pray I keep adventuring.
Current Mood: ecstaticelated
Current Music: Lisa Germano, "From a Shell"
27 October 2012 @ 10:06 pm
Spent dinner break watching Dr. Who stumble out of a shower naked and, later, play football. The BBC is why I don't need a boyfriend.

Tomorrow morning I will crawl out of bed and haul my presumably tired self to St. Stephen's, where I've gone for the last two weeks and want to be again.

I love to sing, but suck at singing hymns. Mostly I just mouth along and feel vocally dry and stranded. That I can't sing the songs at St. Stephen's, but still want to go . . .that's saying something.

I think it's because there I hear the echo of a deeper song. The liturgy is full of grace and peace, the communion feels -- valid in an interesting way. Light spills through the high windows that border the exposed roof beams. The room is fairly plain. The smiles are warm and genuine. There's no hype, no one yelling at me to do things or talking about how we wretched beings can push ourselves more for God.

They read out parts of the story of Jesus every week, and talk about it after genuine reflection. They're LGBT affirming and their congregation has a reasonably sized queer contingent.

I can go hang out and be with God there, and not be alone.

I was listening to Anais Mitchell tonight and worrying, like I do, that I won't find someone who experiences the music I love with as much joy and intensity as I do -- that this thing that matters so much to me, I'll never successfully share. And I realized worrying about that was taking me away from the golden sounds I had with me, already, right then.

So I told God thank you for giving me music and the love of it.

Because that's something.
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
Current Music: Anais Mitchell, "Why We build the Wall" (Daytrotter version)
26 October 2012 @ 01:53 pm
Just watched "Vincent and the Doctor," about (among other things) van Gogh. One of the things that distresses me is how much anxiety and panic attacks derail my life and place certain limits on it. . .seeing this beautiful, troubled man so honored by Dr. Who reminded me that I have a lot to revel in, as well.

And it told me that being a little bit broken doesn't make me a failure.

Dear everyone who made that episode happen: Thank you.

Current Mood: hopefulhopeful
24 October 2012 @ 09:05 pm
Sanity costs one-half of a .5 mg clonazepam tablet.

It's a small dose of chemicals, which means it's a controlled substance, which means it's hard to get -- harder because I still don't have health insurance with my company and no local doctor, because I'm waiting for health insurance to find one that's on their list.

It's the difference between not being able to stand the feel of my clothes on my body and also wanting to surgically remove the little fingers on both hands and also not being able to bear sitting at my desk for one more fucking instant but having nowhere to go . . .to a decent measure of calm: proofing, reading, getting work done, being able to sit in a chair and not want to cry because my entire body feels like a defective, size-too-small mechanical suit.

One half of one half of a milligram.

I am so scared this horrible thing will happen to me again and I will be helpless.
Current Mood: worriedworried
22 October 2012 @ 12:25 pm
Every time I get single I reconnect to my faith as a central part of my identity.

The other night I was talking to effiekitt about what sort of person I eventually needed in a partner, and I was saying someone who respects that I have a religion, and isn't combative about that -- "they don't have to care," I said -- would be enough. (She and I have different faith traditions -- worth noting here.) She said something like, "if they're going to be your special person, they do need to care."

It surprised me. I think because my own sense of worth is shaky enough that when I said, basically, I just want someone to tolerate this about me, I don't need someone to love me enough to be invested -- I meant it.

And here's a good friend contradicting me, and forcing me to look at my heart, and what matters so much to me, and think maybe in my most intimate relationship (the currently hypothetical one), it is important that I be able to talk about my loves and be myself. Without fear or shame or hiding.

When I don't date people I can share my thoughts openly with, I end up feeling decentralized. Confused, spinning, stressed. My values stretch and mutate and it's harder to be drawn into this relationship of love and trust and not clambering to get ahead that I believe exists -- and even sometimes find rest in. It's hard to be transformed, it's hard to grow, and I find myself more than ever a creature of only emotion and reaction.

Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
18 October 2012 @ 05:46 pm
Poetry and depression spiced with occasional rage. Copyediting, Insurgent on my iPod, gym, cooking meals, remembering to eat them, worrying at how much I eat and how my jeans fit. Wishing I could be more grateful. Numbness that stretches from my emotions out to my limbs, classic "your serotonin system is fucked up" symptoms.

Doing what I can anyway, because that's what you do, because this season passes, and you don't let your present fucked up self jeopardize your body or job.

Cursing. Waiting for the next good book, album, or person to roll over the horizon in a wave of shocking, dizzying brightness, and to be caught up in story again.

My gravity is believing Christ saw something in me that no one else did, including me. And that he does still. Thank God I don't have to feel I deserve it.
Current Mood: numbnumb
03 October 2012 @ 01:49 am
When I get to the base of my prayers in the face of inexplicable things beyond my own needs, there's sadness and there's love. I'm not that awesome in myself, so maybe the love is something bigger than me. Or maybe the love is a deep chord struck beneath all the mire and mess of my day-to-day selfishness, something essential that's remembered when I'm confronted by sadness: the impulse to give.

My deepest prayer, predicated on the belief that God is, and God is love:

Lord have mercy.

It's what I prayed when the Colorado shootings happened. It's what I prayed just now when I listened, again, to a vast and hauntingly beautiful meditation by Richard Feynman on the universe being extraordinary, macro and microcosmically. . .so extraordinary, he says, that why could you believe that God, one aspect of God, would come here, to Earth?

It's too simple, he says. His mind is so lovely it makes sense to me and hurts, that he'd think that. Lost in wonder and concluding that God wouldn't bother. Lost, in wonder, I conclude that God would. Because we're small. Because we're complex and intricate among, yes, so many other complex and intricate things, because it all matters . . .if I can be transfixed by the order and mystery of the physical world, why wouldn't an author and creator?

Why wouldn't God visit one of the stories? Become small to appreciate it on a different scale? Take on tragedy in a size that made sense to us, because we mattered -- we were made and couldn't be abandoned?

I see the wonder of the universe as it's revealed to me, as Feynman narrates it, and I believe in love. And then I hurt for him believing that somehow, in the face of so much beauty, we're . . . what? Not worthy?

I don't think it's about love. I think God is that magnificent, and that complex, and that incomprehensible, that coming here, in one aspect, is exactly what God would do.

And I listen to Feynman's beautiful mind and pray Lord have mercy for someone who struggles to believe they would be loved. Maybe it's naive of me, but to have so much and not have that . . .I'm not that big a person. My life is not that epic. But sometimes I touch something. I reach out and touch a mountain and feel it's part of a face, maybe. Or a depiction of a face.

And I think it's the face of the One who loves me.

Having touched and believed that, I couldn't give it up.
Current Mood: cheerfulamazed
Current Music: 100 Portraits
23 August 2012 @ 09:13 pm
Sometimes I become so convinced of the ineffably beautiful nature of my God that I address him along the lines of "hey, Handsome." --Because he's God, so he knows what I mean, right?

In the face of the continued extreme bad behavior of the evangelical right in America, I almost gave up on my faith the past few weeks. I haven't talked to anyone about this, but it's been a struggle.

Yet there's this unshakeable feeling of the IS-ness of him. It. Her. Deity.

I say "him" because Jesus said "our Father" when he was talking daily with a patriarchal group of people . . .just as, since He was speaking to an agrarian people, he used metaphors about harvesting and bread. The male pronoun is maybe not necessary.
I'm trinitarian, so definitely our God's Holy Spirit, body-less, seems less gendered and just more . . .person. (I hope I haven't offended Holy Spirit by saying that.)

But I think if God exists, God is bigger than our language. If God exists, God is better than our arguments and petty, rule-enforcing squabbles. If God exists, God is bigger than our fear of punishment, a perfect love that casts fear away. If I can conceive of such a goodness, than an ineffable God cannot be less than my conception. . .we live in a universe that is constantly expanding, at the moment. Surely to contain such a universe, God would be expansive, too?

Jesus was not afraid or ashamed to conceive of this God, and live and die in a way that, examined to its core and approached and attempted with love and humility, has changed history and can change lives. Changed mine, imperfect and awkward and damage-prone as I am.

So that's why I'm still saying hey Handsome as I curl up at night, wrestle through worries in waking up, smile in the shower or while driving as an unexpected thought strikes me just right.

Because He might be, and the idea of Him is good, and if what I'm really working with is an imaginary friend? --I've got the best one ever. I can live with that.

And in the dark hours, way beyond the hey Handsome, is me, nightmare-stricken and tear-stained, repeating the flipside prayer  of never leave me.

And I believe that I won't be left. My belief doesn't want to tear down your kingdom or tell you what to wear or how to act or legislate you. It wants to be loved, it wants to have meaning, it wants to want to love others and heal the world in some small way. It wants to slow down to offer kind words. It wants to try to forgive. It wants to see every good thing as a gift, and not a coincidence.

I can live with this. At the end of the day, for myself, I find it best.
Current Mood: hopefulhopeful