I came home. It ended. Stripped and peeled, cracked and dry, my feet landed on familiar ground. All the color was still there. The faces I wanted to kiss and hold were there. We smiled at each other. We laughed and sighed. But I was nervous. When the faces looked at me I was afraid they would see evidence of how stripped I had become. I did what I could to disguise myself. I tried to adorn myself with the few pieces of color I was able to bring from the other world. I cut my long hair, bought clothes that weren't stained and faded, tried to erase any physical signs of how I felt inside. But I was just a skeleton with new clothes and a new hair cut. And in the end, after all that effort, I think my face betrayed me anyway. I wore and still wear scars and cracks on my face - evidences of trauma. Because the truth is that the damage was done. And being back on solid ground with the people I belong to didn't reverse the process I had been through.
I walked from person to person and felt a disturbing lack of joy. I looked hard at my home and at my friends. But I felt numb, and hard no matter what I did.
And just when I thought I would never feel alive or whole or healthy ever again, I cried. I was at my parents' house. It was sunset. The fall air was crisp and cool. The red and orange leaves shivered in the breeze as it threatened to blow them to their death. Without any particular thought in my head I walked outside behind the barn. I stood and watched the horizon spin away from the sun. I laid down on the ground and felt sweet gravity holding me down, heavy on the cold grass. And I cried. I didn't know why, and I didn't try to figure it out. I just cried. As gravity pulled me and my tears deeper into the ground, I looked up at the dimming sky and realized that those tears proved something. I wasn't dried up. I had living proof rolling into my hair and onto the grass that I was not dead. I closed my eyes tight and prayed that my tears would soak into my soul - that my soul would drink and drink and drink until it was no longer thirsty. And when I stood up, the earth had spun out of the sun's reach. I was alone again under emerging stars. I looked up and knew that gravity would hold me. And I knew that it was going to be possible to feel alive again.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Sunny happy days. Wake up go to a place of peace, familiarity, comfort, love, to know others as they know you. Smile, laugh, cry with people because you love them. Feel safe in every way. Know that you can do anything and even if you fail there will be someone there to comfort you, to catch you, to tell you its ok. Never feel alone. Feel the warm compression of belonging. Belonging. Identify with others on a deep level. Say this is who I am and this is where I belong. Crave little, for I have everything I want to the point of over flowing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And then it all cracked and began to fade. The crack came in the form of a phone call. My husband. We are moving to Sudan. I was asleep on the mattress on the floor. My eyes focused out the window into a huge, vibrantly green maple tree. Height of summer. Height of warmth. Height of contentedness. I hung up the phone and stared at the green maple leaves shuttering and shimmering in the morning sunlight. Tears blurred the tree into a blob of green color that moved like it was alive. I felt something crack inside. I cried. Not hard. Not weeping. I cried because I knew it was true. I knew about a thousand things would have to happen to make it true. But they would happen and it would be true. My soul knew it. And I cried for it.
I ran to my place of peace, my place of warmth and comfort. I ran to the people in it to whom I belonged. I cried with them. My soul told theirs that it was true. And their souls felt it. Mine knew that they did. But I was lucky. I got to take my time. I kissed every inch of my home. Every minute, every hour I was thanking it. I was storing away memories while making new ones, making sure I kept them as well. Summer turned to fall in the weather and in my heart. The colors in my life became more vibrant, more stunning with every day that got closer to a profound change.
How seldom we know that something is going to die, to change, to leave. How seldom we have the opportunity to give an obituary and a eulogy to the living. To say to them everything there is to say. To do everything there is to do. To give our respects to the ones whom we so deeply respect. I loved the living – the present – because I knew that it would be the past far too quickly for my liking. So I drank every drop of comfort, peace, belonging and knowledge as deep as I could.
When it had to end, when there was no time to drink or kiss or cradle, I left it. I said goodbye in a flurry of tears. My heart felt like it was breaking. My soul cried in a deeper way than my eyes would allow. I closed my eyes, with whispers of prayers ringing in my ears.
Then everything went dark. I felt as though I was falling through a vacuum that was sucking all color, all comfort away and out of me. Hope was detaching from me. I could see it all floating around me but when I tried to hold on to it, it was cold to the touch. When I tried to drink it, the taste was not sweet, but bitter. It taunted me. It was all so close, but I could not take it. I could not go back to it.
As I fell from one end of the universe to the other, everything I wrapped myself in was ripped away. I was left naked. A skeleton of mere bones. There was nothing left.
As my eyes tried to focus on my new surroundings, the vacuum settled. I was in a new world and in this world everything was different. I felt nothing of the things I had just tried to drink again. This place was harsh, uncomfortable and unkind. I stood still, looking around searching for something that was familiar, for something to cover myself with, somewhere to feel warmth and comfort, somewhere to belong. But there was nothing like that in this place. So I had to start to move and to live again. I began to walk but it was alone. I began to eat but it was alone. I began to drink the new things alone. The days were longer and more exhausting than I knew days could be. I tried to move through this colorless world the best I could. In the days I would walk with my head up, looking for new things, trying to give this place a chance to warm to me. But at night I would close my eyes and pray to not feel alone tomorrow, to feel something of comfort or peace. And in the morning I would wake up alone to do it all over again.
I knew that this world was different and that I was different in it because of the stars.
Growing up my favorite time was at night when the lights were out and everybody was resting in their rooms. I would stay up and lurk around the dark house, trying to navigate my way around chairs and dogs blindly. The whole house looked different at night. I would let my eyes adjust and the house was filled with a light that was almost like a presence. It was as if everything rested – the sinks, the furniture, the floor; everything relaxed under a heavy peace. It was then that my mind would focus on mysteries that seemed to become clearer in the darkness. Some nights I would walk outside under the moon and stars and sit in the increasingly damp grass. I would stare up at the dome of the universe that felt as familiar as my bedroom ceiling; my own personal canopy of light and dark. I felt profoundly safe and full of wonder. I would lay stretched out under the expansive ceiling and sigh. The kind of sigh that is silent, but makes your whole soul move.
And now, everything was different. The sky became bigger in this new world. As the sun would set, the dome of light and dark would press down over me on my corner of the earth. I would stand outside under the stars at night searching for that feeling of warmth and safety. Instead I felt the curve of the earth pushing my feet up into the expanse. I felt how fragile gravity could be – if it let go for one millionth of a second, I would fall slowly and deeply into the nothingness above, below and within me. The stars spun as my heart began to weaken under their pressure. I would look down at my feet to be sure I was still grounded, not floating away to my death.
I felt cold. I felt stripped and exposed. Close to death with no one to grab onto my feet and pull me down. It was just me and the universe – the expansive nothingness above, below and within me.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And then it all cracked and began to fade. The crack came in the form of a phone call. My husband. We are moving to Sudan. I was asleep on the mattress on the floor. My eyes focused out the window into a huge, vibrantly green maple tree. Height of summer. Height of warmth. Height of contentedness. I hung up the phone and stared at the green maple leaves shuttering and shimmering in the morning sunlight. Tears blurred the tree into a blob of green color that moved like it was alive. I felt something crack inside. I cried. Not hard. Not weeping. I cried because I knew it was true. I knew about a thousand things would have to happen to make it true. But they would happen and it would be true. My soul knew it. And I cried for it.
I ran to my place of peace, my place of warmth and comfort. I ran to the people in it to whom I belonged. I cried with them. My soul told theirs that it was true. And their souls felt it. Mine knew that they did. But I was lucky. I got to take my time. I kissed every inch of my home. Every minute, every hour I was thanking it. I was storing away memories while making new ones, making sure I kept them as well. Summer turned to fall in the weather and in my heart. The colors in my life became more vibrant, more stunning with every day that got closer to a profound change.
How seldom we know that something is going to die, to change, to leave. How seldom we have the opportunity to give an obituary and a eulogy to the living. To say to them everything there is to say. To do everything there is to do. To give our respects to the ones whom we so deeply respect. I loved the living – the present – because I knew that it would be the past far too quickly for my liking. So I drank every drop of comfort, peace, belonging and knowledge as deep as I could.
When it had to end, when there was no time to drink or kiss or cradle, I left it. I said goodbye in a flurry of tears. My heart felt like it was breaking. My soul cried in a deeper way than my eyes would allow. I closed my eyes, with whispers of prayers ringing in my ears.
Then everything went dark. I felt as though I was falling through a vacuum that was sucking all color, all comfort away and out of me. Hope was detaching from me. I could see it all floating around me but when I tried to hold on to it, it was cold to the touch. When I tried to drink it, the taste was not sweet, but bitter. It taunted me. It was all so close, but I could not take it. I could not go back to it.
As I fell from one end of the universe to the other, everything I wrapped myself in was ripped away. I was left naked. A skeleton of mere bones. There was nothing left.
As my eyes tried to focus on my new surroundings, the vacuum settled. I was in a new world and in this world everything was different. I felt nothing of the things I had just tried to drink again. This place was harsh, uncomfortable and unkind. I stood still, looking around searching for something that was familiar, for something to cover myself with, somewhere to feel warmth and comfort, somewhere to belong. But there was nothing like that in this place. So I had to start to move and to live again. I began to walk but it was alone. I began to eat but it was alone. I began to drink the new things alone. The days were longer and more exhausting than I knew days could be. I tried to move through this colorless world the best I could. In the days I would walk with my head up, looking for new things, trying to give this place a chance to warm to me. But at night I would close my eyes and pray to not feel alone tomorrow, to feel something of comfort or peace. And in the morning I would wake up alone to do it all over again.
I knew that this world was different and that I was different in it because of the stars.
Growing up my favorite time was at night when the lights were out and everybody was resting in their rooms. I would stay up and lurk around the dark house, trying to navigate my way around chairs and dogs blindly. The whole house looked different at night. I would let my eyes adjust and the house was filled with a light that was almost like a presence. It was as if everything rested – the sinks, the furniture, the floor; everything relaxed under a heavy peace. It was then that my mind would focus on mysteries that seemed to become clearer in the darkness. Some nights I would walk outside under the moon and stars and sit in the increasingly damp grass. I would stare up at the dome of the universe that felt as familiar as my bedroom ceiling; my own personal canopy of light and dark. I felt profoundly safe and full of wonder. I would lay stretched out under the expansive ceiling and sigh. The kind of sigh that is silent, but makes your whole soul move.
And now, everything was different. The sky became bigger in this new world. As the sun would set, the dome of light and dark would press down over me on my corner of the earth. I would stand outside under the stars at night searching for that feeling of warmth and safety. Instead I felt the curve of the earth pushing my feet up into the expanse. I felt how fragile gravity could be – if it let go for one millionth of a second, I would fall slowly and deeply into the nothingness above, below and within me. The stars spun as my heart began to weaken under their pressure. I would look down at my feet to be sure I was still grounded, not floating away to my death.
I felt cold. I felt stripped and exposed. Close to death with no one to grab onto my feet and pull me down. It was just me and the universe – the expansive nothingness above, below and within me.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Squash Soup and Sad Truths
Around the Table. From Left to Right by Country.
United States, Kenya, Ethiopia, England, United States, Lebanon, Australia, United States. Around an oval table we sit in silence. My eyes are focused on a bowl of squash soup from which I take small sips.
The silence breaks between slurps,
"Where in Kenya are you from?", one of the Americans asks.
I look up at the beautiful Kenyan woman's face. She takes another sip of soup, sitting perfectly straight in her chair. I think for a moment that she has not heard the American.
More uncomfortable slurps. She doesn't look up from her spoon but finally, to my relief replies,
"Why do you ask?"
"We want to see if you're from the same place as Obama, " says another American whom seems quite humored by his response.
The Kenyan smiles politely and replies, "My family is from a small place in Kenya where some sugar plants are."
The American who inquired didn't know the place but seems to feel responsible for making conversation at the table and, truthfully, I am grateful for it.
"How long have you lived in Sudan?"
I can feel the others at the table relax as the Kenyan woman begins to explain. I grab a piece of chicken and sit deeper in my chair as she speaks.
"I have been in Sudan for 3 years and almost 4 months. My husband works for Tear Fund here in Khartoum, so that is how I came to be here."
"How do you like Sudan?"
Once again there is a long pause. I think again that maybe she hasn't heard. I look up and see that she is still sitting very straight, but her head is bowed lower, though she is no longer sipping soup. In fact she is smiling. When she looks up her smile seems to beg an apology.
"Sudan is a hard place. The people are... well, it's very hot here. You need to be very patient in Sudan. Sudan is a very hard place."
I look at her. She has been honest, though her small smile indicates she is sorry for it.
From there, this international crowd goes on to tell jokes of military screenings where men and women are tested in Sudan to see if they were really strong enough to endure the worst of the worst. There is much laughter but for some reason I want to cry.
So I look down and return to my bowl of soup and leg of chicken.
United States, Kenya, Ethiopia, England, United States, Lebanon, Australia, United States. Around an oval table we sit in silence. My eyes are focused on a bowl of squash soup from which I take small sips.
The silence breaks between slurps,
"Where in Kenya are you from?", one of the Americans asks.
I look up at the beautiful Kenyan woman's face. She takes another sip of soup, sitting perfectly straight in her chair. I think for a moment that she has not heard the American.
More uncomfortable slurps. She doesn't look up from her spoon but finally, to my relief replies,
"Why do you ask?"
"We want to see if you're from the same place as Obama, " says another American whom seems quite humored by his response.
The Kenyan smiles politely and replies, "My family is from a small place in Kenya where some sugar plants are."
The American who inquired didn't know the place but seems to feel responsible for making conversation at the table and, truthfully, I am grateful for it.
"How long have you lived in Sudan?"
I can feel the others at the table relax as the Kenyan woman begins to explain. I grab a piece of chicken and sit deeper in my chair as she speaks.
"I have been in Sudan for 3 years and almost 4 months. My husband works for Tear Fund here in Khartoum, so that is how I came to be here."
"How do you like Sudan?"
Once again there is a long pause. I think again that maybe she hasn't heard. I look up and see that she is still sitting very straight, but her head is bowed lower, though she is no longer sipping soup. In fact she is smiling. When she looks up her smile seems to beg an apology.
"Sudan is a hard place. The people are... well, it's very hot here. You need to be very patient in Sudan. Sudan is a very hard place."
I look at her. She has been honest, though her small smile indicates she is sorry for it.
From there, this international crowd goes on to tell jokes of military screenings where men and women are tested in Sudan to see if they were really strong enough to endure the worst of the worst. There is much laughter but for some reason I want to cry.
So I look down and return to my bowl of soup and leg of chicken.
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