heaven is a treehouse

"The lighter part is the tree growth during favorable conditions," he explained pointing at the concentric circles in my chunk of wood. "The cells are larger, more porous because the tree is growing faster then. The darker rings are growth during hard times. The cells are denser and stronger." I was listening; trying to learn what he was telling me so I might put the important bits in the exhibit. I got distracted; I was making personal meaning, instead. I love it when nature connects with life as I've experienced it. It's more validating than realizing an old cliche is true. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Even the tree learned that one, year after year after year. I could count it in the rings.

I believe cycles are evidence of God. The revolving process of death and birth of that encompasses everything--all of us. For me it's easy to have faith in that. I know from my own life that after every season of sadness and anguish there has been a rebirth of something more uplifting than I could have imagined. I believe in that and that belief itself has saved me many times. I don't talk about religion or my faith very often. I find the most profound thoughts don't translate to words well. But once I was talking with a friend about death--the afterlife. He was agnostic, scientific, and logical; the type to scoff at the notion of a "heaven" but not to be too concerned about what happened after death. His brain would stop functioning and thus his ability to worry about it. I told him I believed. He looked a bit credulous and waited, skeptically, for my reply. "After each trial in my life, I've been reborn into something more beautiful." I explained, timidly uncovering myself. "I think death is the ultimate human trial, and heaven the ultimate beauty you pass into. It's just the next cycle."

For me believing in God or heaven is as simple as that. There's evidence right there, in the trees.

get what you need

As a kid I thought my father’s wisdom came from three places: National Geographic, since he often referred to their articles at the dinner table; “the office,” that mythical place he went off to each day; and, most importantly, song lyrics. When we asked him a question, he would often sing his responses to us. He sang with this look in his eye like he knew he was telling us something we wouldn’t quite understand until we looked back on it as a memory. You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone…as he palmed my belly and showed me how to do a strong kick in the pool. The dangerous kitchen, in the middle of the night when you get home…as he weeded through the fridge for leftovers to feed us for dinner. And his favorite, You can’t always get what you want…He’d interrupt our pleas with that song more times than I can recall. I remember fighting it off; trying to interrupt him with a frustrated “Dad! Dad! Come on…Dad!” I knew the lyrics well, and I didn’t want to hear what I knew was coming. But, he wouldn’t stop. He’d tip his head back and sing the song until he howled the crucial line: If you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need!

That song comes back to me every once and a while. My father’s parenting continues through the lyrics as I learn those childhood lessons again. I had fantastic parents, but sometimes I’m surprised that I’m still trying to learn the four-year-old basics. As many times as I’ve been through disappointments and unhappiness, my instinct is often to whine and fight. But it’s not fair, I want to yell. We’ve all been told that life’s not fair, and we know it must be true. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I still get mad when things don’t go my way—the right way. But I eat healthy and exercise, but I worked so hard on that project, but I’m so qualified, but I tried so hard and I wanted it so badly…I furrow my brows looking at the empty space where the gold star should be. Karma feels broken and my instinct is to rebel.

As I get older, the evidence against “fairness” is mounting—friends have died in tragic accidents, cancer inflicts healthy people, friendships are betrayed, benevolent deeds go unnoticed. As much as I’ve wanted the world to repay me my honest efforts and good intentions, I recognize it’s beyond my control. For me, that’s the really hard-to-swallow part. And maybe what my dad was trying to teach me all those years ago was in those moments—when you’ve done everything right and still things turned out wrong—the only thing to do is see the song though. Tip back your head and howl…if you try sometimes, you might find…

drama

I’ve started wondering about my writing; the stuff I do on this blog and the other scraps of things I’ve been working on. I’ve been worried that I’m overdramatizing, that I see layers of metaphor in everything, and that when I pull it all together it’s unoriginal and superficial. In my mind it’s moving and motivating--once I feel something I need to write about it immediately--but when I read over what I’ve writen I worry it seems juvenile and inflated. I think too much about what I’m trying to say, maybe. I actually wrote a post yesterday that was accidently erased when I tried to attach a photo. I decided not to rewrite it because I was feeling that insecurity and frustration.

I am reading a book about writing, The Modern Library’s Writer’s Workshop. It’s a direct and neat guide and well-written. I’m glad I picked it up this morning. The author, Stephen Koch, spoke directly to my insecurity about drama and my tendency to see and seek it. I wish I could send him a thank you note. Here’s what he wrote:

"Incredibly, there are people--smart people--who think a prim distain for drama is somehow a sign of “good taste.” It is more often a sign not of good taste but of artistic insecurity. Not knowing how far to go, the writer goes nowhere. Lifelessness is not a form of elegance you should persue."

Yes. Thanks for the reminder.

losing my lunch

The right CD was vital today. I picked well and toggled between the three perfect songs as I walked across the Hawthorne Bridge. I was meeting my ex for lunch. Lunch is a very civilized thing to do; it can easily become emotionless and obligatory. It was his suggestion and, of course, I accepted because it would be perfectly harmless. Afterall, I’m completely over it, right? Of course I'm not, and the headphones are a dead giveaway. They’re a crutch for when you need a soundtrack to cover over the reality. Today I needed the perfect pump-up music to delude myself. If I admitted the “truth” (that I am of course not over him) I’d have to cancel. And there was no way I’d cancel--I was dying to see him. The music put the deliberateness in my steps, confidence pulled on as easily as my jeans and black wifebeater (god I hate that term, but it’s what I wore). It had been his...yes, yes, we’ve established I am not over him. Moving on... It was hot, my little planet felt shifted, the sun was a spotlight, and I was squinting in anticipation. A biker who looked nothing like him was riding toward me. I knew it was him. Months of being apart erased in 20 seconds. It felt like nothing had passed between us and that was surely a very, very bad sign. We hugged long, both of our bodies thinner from the wear of seperating--tactile evidence that something had passed.

He must have felt the heat too, because he suggested shade. We sat under a huge maple tree near the river and ate sandwiches--his with vegetables and hummus, mine roast beef on rye. We set them down between bites and covered whole topics--my family, his, his work, mine--before picking them up again for another bite. It went on like that for about an hour until we’d finished the sandwhiches that had actually begun to stale in the ninty-degree heat. We’d discussed everything within bounds, then, just before we had to part, I stepped out. “Do you miss me?” I asked plucking grass to avoid his eyes. He stopped putting his shoes back on. “Yes, very much. I think about you all the time.” His pause lasted until I looked up from my grass patch. “Do you miss me?” He asked, looking directly across the regulation space between us. “Yes.” I replied. I didn’t qualify it. I just looked back. There was nothing else I could say out loud.

I don’t remember much else about what happened after that. I was busy thinking out the possible conversations that might have come from my reply as he kept talking. I couldn’t hear the reality over my imagination. Looking back now, maybe that was the problem with us all along. I think he said something about doing the best we can with all this; figuring out what was best for us. The word best was in there for sure, but I couldn’t hear him. I was stuck in my reply; frozen in my yes and the trailing hopefulness still foolishly attached.

I don’t know what I think or feel about it all, even now. In a lot of ways lunch with him feels like eating street food in Latin America, I can’t tell if it was a good decision until it moves through me. Right now I’m still swallowing hard and hanging onto my belly. I’d like to say we did well, it was good to spend that time with him, and we might do it again sometime. The truth is, I don’t know. For now it’s hard enough just to try and take in the reality and see if I can hold it down until morning.

exfoliate

Saturday night was prom night--not mine. It's been 10 years since I went to the prom. It's that time of year and Saturday night was filled with kids outfitted for a night of faux, formal adulthood. I was out with friends at a restaurant filled with girls in overconstructeded up-dos and formal gowns with the bulges and lines of control-top pantyhose showing through. The prom makes high school girls think they need to suck it in. I think I weighed about 120lbs in high school and I remember wearing pantyhose like that, even after skipping breakfast for weeks before. I couldn't stop watching those girls. I'd like to think it's because that time feels far off; that I'm so opposite that place now. Frustratingly, I think the reality is I am still there with them, in a silky gown, eyeliner that I practiced putting on for weeks before, and wondering if he was wishing he hadn't overlooked me. It was even more frustrating because that morning had started strong. I woke up early and exfoliated. The clean face somehow made me feel more open to the world; more sure of who I was in it. Sometimes what I need most is the symbolic gestures. I rode the Max to the downtown farmer's market and bought chard, green garlic, lettuce, asparagus, rhubarb, pork chops, and a bunch of purple irises--treating myself to the things I wanted. I felt great being me and with nothing "put on." I felt like the woman I imagined I might become back when I was eighteen.

Then, Saturday night I realized (again) how much of my own history hangs on. Seeing those high school girls reminded me of how deeply I was carving who I would become back then. Or, more truthfully, how firmly I still cover myself in the same identity, even though it's outdated, unnecessary, and not me anymore. Something of that time in my life became the stuff I still can't scrub off. The he who helped me feel like I wasn't enough; the girls whose bikini-ad stomachs forced me buy the control top hose so I might measure up, the self who believed their invisible judgments. Those days were just the beginning of something I still struggle with. Sometimes I can say "fuck it" and other times I find myself in the same pit of self-doubt. It feels like that--a hole, but one I've climbed out before. I know a few ladders, but they usually involve getting someone's attention and approval and I know where that leads. But this time I know I don't want to use any of those old routes. I want to take myself someplace different.

I've had hard times holding myself in the uncomfortable moments before--lying lonely without reaching out, resting in awkwardness, admitting my own ugliness instead of disguising it. I've been having those moments recently. But now I am scrubbed down and it feels like an opportunity. I want this time to be different. I want to be different.

I heard once that all your cells, from skin to blood to brain, regenerate at least once every seven years--you are literally a new being every seven years. I guess it's just the memories that hold it all together to make a lifetime (for better or worse). It's easy to say you've stopped caring about what others think of you and how they see you; I find it's much harder when it's inexorably connected to how you've always seen yourself. Maybe it takes more uncomfortable, exfoliated moments than I've let myself have to stop caring about how you appear--that what you need is to just wait it out until the truer self can carve something new. For now, that's what I'm trying because--although it may have taken me ten years to realize--I'm definitely done with those fucking hose.

generous helpings

"Woah, $58. Is that okay?" asked the man at the meat counter after he flopped a second flank steak on the scale. "Yeah, it's fine. It's my birthday and I've got great friends." I was throwing a party, afterall, and treating my friends and myself to a fantastic night was exactly the gift I wanted. "Wow, I guess so. Lucky friends." he said. "I think you should put a jar at the door and take donations." I laughed and scooped up the two brown-wrapped steaks and wheeled my already-full cart off to load up on extra tomatoes and avocados.

The party was better than I ever could have planned. My sister came in from Vermont as a surprise, my brother grilled the steaks to perfection, and my different groups of friends were making new friendships among themselves. There were introductions and fresh conversations. You know how they say when you learn new things your brain actually carves new pathways? It felt kind of like that--new pathways. The energy was so engaging that no one even noticed my parents rolling their large suitcases across my front lawn and walking in the front door. And somehow during the hugging and hellos with my parents, I didn't notice my friends had lit candles on a cake. And there I was, in my little house flanked by my parents, surrounded by my friends all packed in shoulder to shoulder as they sang to celebrate my birthday. It was a top-10 moment in my life so far.

My brother and sister's visit was too short, but my parents were here for a week. Their flight left early this morning. The three of us spend nearly the entire time putting a patio in a little gravely spot next to my house where the driveway had been busted up a few months ago. It was hard work and expensive, certainly nothing I would have been able to do on my own. But my parents were truly tireless and over-the-top is the only way to describe the beautiful patio they helped me create. My parents generosity overwhelms me on a regular basis. Last night we had dinner there--on the patio under a swollen spring moon. We ate steaks, purchased from the same guy who had sold me the flanks exactly a week before. My father ordered three NY Strips and told the now-very-familiar-with-my-life meat counter guy the story about the patio. "Wow, what a birthday present," he said. "Lucky girl. You guys want to adopt a 47 year-old male?" I blushed at his comments; I feel almost embarrassed at how much good has come my way this week. I am very, very lucky. My generosities to my friends and family feel insignificant to what I've been given. There's no need to leave a jar by the door. I know how much I've got--it's a fortune.

rest up

This is my dog, Charlie. He's been mine since Valentine's Day when I picked him up from the Humane Society. Strangers gasp at his beauty--I'm serious. When they ask what kind of dog he is I've started answering "he's a black dog." The Humane Society and the vet have him down as "Hound Mix, 78 lbs."I may be biased, but I think he's the most beautiful mutt I've ever seen. He's at home now, probably still lying with his lazy jowls on the front porch in that same patch of sun. Lucky dog. We were up late last night frosting and sprinkling cupcakes. I think he's resting up because he knows tonight's the party...

doing

"There's always two guys," my friend told me as we hoisted and hammered his new cabinets in place. I was helping him all day Saturday, eventhough I had a long list of my own housework to do. "One speaks English. He cuts the deal. The other, his buddy, doesn't speak English--he's always the better craftsman." He was talking about Mexican day laborers; the guys you can pick up on Burnside Avenue near the I-84 overpass. I pass them everyday on my way to work as they wait in a cluster on the sidewalk for trucks to pull up. A few have backpacks, but most have nothing but the logo-splashed t-shirts on their backs. They swarm the truck and the most tenacious pair get seats in the cab and head off to a day's work--ten dollars an hour. My friend got my help for cheap last Saturday; I worked for spicy chicken wings and two cans of Pabst.

I don't think they'd fit in my bug, but I would've loved to pick up a few day laborers this morning. Although I've been doing non-stop (okay, except for the Tuesday night drunkenness) nothing seems to be getting done. My brother arrives tomorrow morning, all my friends show up in the evening and my parents will be at my house by 9:30--TOMORROW! I'm throwing myself a party. My to-do list has three pitiful lines drawn through a long string of ambitious tasks that just won't get done in time. Okay, one of the tasks was "pedicure" but this week, even that feels like an effort. I need the silent craftsman. I wonder if he can do French tips...

my side

This morning my credit card is still at the bar. I stayed too late last night with three friends and at least that many pitchers of microbrew. I drank enough to completely forget the tab…on a Tuesday! Amnesia Brewing is hands-down my go-to place for beers, especially on a warm night. They've got picnic tables outside and a charcoal grill that makes the whole place smell like summer, even when it's not. The ketchup bottles, some turned upside-down, and portly mustard jars are set out by the grill on a plastic table cloth in a "come and get it" style that makes me feel at home. It’s the only bar I am totally comfortable going to alone. But, last night I was with friends. We were two girls, two guys; all good conversationalists. It felt like playing well-matched doubles. Because we're all single, we naturally talked about relationships. One of us has been on a serious quest for love--online, in bars, at the dog park; the other was still mending from a Christmas Eve break-up; and the third was contemplating the Peacecorps, perhaps (among other reasons) to avoid the whole coupling thing, altogether. And me, well, I was proudly proclaiming that I had just last week started sleeping in the middle of the bed. It's a few inches, but a big move for me. "Yeah," someone said, "I have a hard time with that just 'cause there's two pillows. So, I just use one. Then, I'm on my side." "Oh," I replied too quickly. "Well, I keep one pillow under my head and I snuggle the other one." Someone scoffed and I could feel the comments that were about to follow. I cut them off. "You know, I wrap my arms around one. Like an L-shape. I make a nest. I've done it since I was a kid" Shit, I had already told too much, yet I kept throwing out details about my sleeping postures--gasoline on the fire. "It's nice!" was my last brick on the bulwark. Then I shut up and let them attack. "No way. I'd never do that," someone said. "It's too pathetic. It would make me feel even more lonely." I took the crass pillow-humping jokes and ridicule and the conversation moved on, so did the night, until it was just me and one of the guys finishing off the last pints. He's not really a close friend, but he's comfortable, like the bar. I like him--almost enough to let him replace the other pillow; not to have sex, just to have somebody there. And last night, after all that IPA, I almost did. He lived near the bar, I shouldn't be driving--the circumstances easily let me follow him home. We sat in the front room of his old house. Since he's working on the bedrooms and he lives there alone, everything's been moved downstairs--desk and easy chair in the living room and a bed where a dining table would be. He made me a cup of tea and we kept the conversation up to avoid silent moments that might make either of us think too much. (However, thinking too much is clearly something I do effortlessly.) I could see his bed and the simple sight of it introduced options, like maybe I didn't have to go home to a half-empty bed. In those moments I really can't tell what makes me choose.

I left just before 1:00 a.m. I didn’t get closer to him than to hug goodbye, but in those moments I felt opportunities hanging over us like ghosts. And I left feeling spooked.

This morning my eyeballs were dry and my stomach heavy as I drove to work. I was trying to judge my choice--wondering if I’d done the “right” thing, worrying that I’d cracked a door when I didn’t want any open, feeling confused at how divided I can be even when I'm completely alone in my decisions. And why does it have to be such a big fucking deal? I'm not surprised that I can simultaneous long for some connection and stand stiffly protective of myself. In every situation you can do something or not do it, but somehow in that binary simplicity I see webs and branches growing in all directions. And there I am, in the middle and not sure what to hang onto. Yeah, maybe it’s inches, but it’s big to me. I think last night I realized that for now I need to just stay where I am—on my side.

fidget

My ibook came yesterday. It is certainly the best birthday present I've ever bought myself (I'm 28 on Saturday). It's brand new and seems like more than I deserve, but it also feels like a real investment in myself and what I want to be doing--writing. I'm throwing a party Friday night and my parents arrive for a visit from Pennsylvania, so I've been too busy doing stuff to do anything more than open the box. But I can't stop thinking about cracking into it and filling all the empty space with writing. It reminds me of being in seventh grade English class. Mr. Argot taught us grammar and I was getting it. I loved English enough, even back then, that getting grammar was pretty stimulating for me (I know--nerd). Sarah Smith sat behind me and she seemed to be a little less into the grammar thing than I was. Sarah was a quiet girl but with a jittery, excitable streak. She had upturned eyes and a tipped-down chin when she smiled as if she was waiting for you to kiss her blonde bangs. That day in English she was antsy. I could hear her fingertips drumming the desktop rhythmically. I glanced halfway over my shoulder a few times before turning enough so she knew I was noticing her tapping. "Sorry," she said in a whisper. "I just really wish I had a piano right now." I understood what she meant. Sometimes you just really want to play. That's how I feel now; stuck at work and drumming my fingers on these keys to mark time and temper my impatience until I get to the real stuff. These days writing is my play, like being let out for recess and right now I'm dying to run...

old growth

Last fall I bought my first house. It's old for Portland (built in 1926) and a lot of work for me. It's the cliche first-time homebuyer line, but I had no idea when I signed that stack of legal-size pages just how much work it would be.

My best friend lives in Colorado. She and her husband bought a brand new place, built just for them in 2004. I called her this weekend in between filling the huge hole under my porch that was dug during a sewer repair a few years ago and sanding and painting quarter-round in hopes that I might finish the trim on my kitchen floor before my parents arrive this week. I sat in the front yard in my painting pants (the ones I have found myself wearing all weekend, every weekend) eating a lunchtime spinach salad with avocado. I talked in between chews--my trademark multi-task move. On the other end, she was on her sewing machine--which is her move. Like most things since we were 15, we go through stuff together; not always at the same time or in the same way, but together. In my mind that's kind of the hallmark of our best friendship. The house thing is like that. I told her about my day and she replied, "Yeah, our house is great. I mean, it's great that things are just done already. But, it doesn't have a lot of character, you know. There's no old growth, or anything." I snorted and hastily licked the dribbles of sunflower seeds and salad dressing off the fork. "Well, my house is all old growth!" I said. Old growth--like the defunct knob and tube wiring that dangles from the basement ceiling right beside the new electrical box; like the 800 layers of paint on everything; like all the chipping, bowing, cracking, shifting, molding, worn-ness that is my home. And I love it, in fact, it was the main reason I chose the house. But it torments me. We kept talking and I had finished my salad, so my multi-tasking took a new focus--pinching the dead blooms off the pansies in the hanging pot on my front porch. While I was away in Alaska my housemates (who perhaps don't even notice them hanging there) neglected to water them. When I came home the plant was covered in ghostly, dead blooms and wilting. With some care the green came back, but I knew the only way to get it to really flower again was to pinch off the dead ones--old growth, I thought.

It all reminded me of people, how I'm not much different than a house or a plant, really. I have old growth--the layers underneath, old wounds, blooms that withered. Sometimes I have found myself wanting to pinch off the old stuff, determined to grow even more beautiful and strong. The dead flowers only drain the plants energy, afterall. And other times I feel more like my old bungalow--the cracks and flaws, and evidence of life's rough side are reminders and treasures. I've found some of the most brilliant moments amidst pain and struggle and some of the world's greatest beauty in a dry December field. I feel blessed to live in a world that provides a chance to celebrate and experience both. And I think I just may let that wiring dangle in the basement to remind myself of that.