When You Cannot Feel The Pain

This is a piece that John, from Smoke Rings and Matterings, graciously helped me to expand. I really like the results.

When You Cannot Feel The Pain

It was almost ridiculous, how jaded she felt. The stares of others continued to jar her, to shove and poke at her. She tried not to let it bother her, she understood how inadequate words were, how no one would be able to say anything that made sense.

Perhaps what she wished was for someone to care, oh she knew that people cared, but in everyday situations people sometimes forget that extraordinary happenings are going on. They talked of life, about work, and vacations, television programs. Why couldn’t they look at her?

Every time she came into this office, she could feel the embarrassment of the nurses, the sudden break in conversation, the pity. She could sense their guilt at not knowing what to say. Yet she kept coming back - with each new pregnancy, a fresh chance, a niggling hope.

She refused to let her emotions rise. She could not, would not allow herself to hope.

She sat at the nurses' station, alone as usual. Avoided, as usual, though that was how she preferred it. They had let her use the phone to call the hospital: "The hcg levels are rising, but they haven't doubled."

She doodled aimlessly during this conversation, to avoid thinking. She had desperately searched for a distraction when she had heard the tone of voice the technician had used.

The nearest thing was a pad of paper that they used to write reminders on, some pharmaceutical company had left it, she thought of how ridiculous the medical community seemed to her, how helpless they were to help her.

She knew what the technician meant – she had heard it before though he couldn’t have known. It was their way of giving out false hope, of avoiding the truth. She had gotten used to it, they had handed her platitudes ever since she had run up against this nightmare. What a cowardly ploy.

There was nothing more for her here, she gathered her things as she felt the pressure rising behind her eyes. She couldn’t cry here, she didn’t know if she could cry anywhere.

The world had grown so foreign all of a sudden, nothing made sense any more. So she put her kids in the car and drove herself home again. Again, she felt so empty about it all, it felt like déjà vu driving out of the same parking lot, down the same road. Driving with the same questions, again, how she had come to despise that word.

Her kids couldn’t possibly know why she drove with white knuckled precision, why her voice held a note of unshed tears when they asked how long it was going to be until the baby came. “It takes a long time sweeties, be patient.” The words had almost stuck in her throat, she couldn’t say more than that, it was all too much.

She wished again that her kids had not been there at the first fateful appointment, the one where she had come up against a reality that she hadn’t known existed.

They had seen the first little one on the screen, they couldn’t have known that the heart was not beating. They had no idea what mommy was going through, their little brother or sister was just taking a long time getting here.

The blood had drained from her face, when the words coming from the doctors mouth were words of consolation, consolation for what? He hadn’t even explained what was going on and she had been too daft or naive to grasp what was happening before he started telling her that “you’re young, you can have another one.”

“Why!! she had thought, why is he saying this?” and then she knew, then she had nodded her head as if she understood, and said things to make the situation less awkward, to ease the others discomfort. He never came right out to give her an explanation, he only told her that she could have a D&C, whatever that was.

Then he had given her a number, and she had gone through an experience so foreign and alien to the naïve young girl that she had been. Since then nothing had gone right, the pregnancies had been coming and going and she had grown numb.

The cycle started the next day, again - first a little pink, then more. Gradually, the hope was drained out of her. The hope - who was it that said she should not hope? Oh yeah, she thought, that was me. Don't hope, she had told herself. Don't hope, too bad she couldn’t control what her heart felt.

It was all too much to take in - too great a loss to process. There had been too many times, it had gotten old to everyone else. They were awkward around her like the doctor and the nurses so she said things to comfort them, to ease the awkwardness and to mask the rawness of her pain.

She lay there, weakened by the cramping and the bleeding. Staring blankly at the wall, vaguely recalling that her children were playing in the other room. She lay on the couch at her mothers. It was more comfortable there, it was familiar and held normal every day sounds that she vaguely recalled.

She didn’t feel capable of dealing with her kids, they still had needs and she was tired, especially of explanations or the lack of them. At least at her moms there was someone who could watch over the kids. She lay curled around a heating pad, wrapped in a blanket. Locked into a space and time all her own, where no others could venture, intruding upon her fleshy raw emotions.

She felt alone, disconnected with the world. She had been abandoned, left to deal with the wreckage of everyone’s failure, of her body’s failure, though she didn’t blame herself. With each piece of evidence that this one would not last, she wished, at least, that she could cry.

She could not, not there, but she thought longingly of a place where she could. A place out in the wildness where no explanations were needed - the one place she could cry - and she could hear it calling to her. Her one private place, where no one would glance pityingly at her.

She wrapped up a piece of her heart and walked out into the familiar woods. As she walked, her heart cried out to the wild, to the trees and little birds and she recalled the ghost of her former self – innocent, happy, youthful, untouched by disillusionment - as she walked, she started to cry.

Deep, deep into the woods, she found a spot. She knelt on the fresh damp earth and buried her hope, her sacred heart. She sobbed until the tears dried on her face, leaving her with the odd, bittersweet relief of having cried at last.

Then she went back home, to face them - to face those who didn't understand. She found that she could face them, because she had found her peace.

Broken Boundaries

Share the New Year with the old

compare the bright shiny newness

as a copper penny rolling forth

light as a feather in substance and quality

I give thought to the shifting tides

wondering how patience can be turned into a dagger

pulling through me a decade at a time

I see shiny idealism

and wish for my own

passions intermingled and stifled

ignited and put to shame in a breath

I hide my face as you mock the truths I have shared

wanting more than I can give you

not understanding

that although you crossed the line

it still exists

Life, As She Dances

Roxie, mature young lady with a baby heart
laughing as the popcorn falls, like Niagara
Springing curls, bouncing step, curiosity
Speak with the tongue
elder than thy lisping lilting toddlers heart
dancing through the kitchen.
I miss you as you grow.

Shift the Blame

On the edge of reason morally

Can't grasp hold of this reality

Inaction sends the spiral down

around

around

SEND JUSTIFICATION

Silence

All I can say is that it's ignorance

ignorance

and I didn't know what mattered

I couldn't grasp hold of it anyway.

Frustrations

I stand here at this crossroads and I can see so many ways to turn. In some ways I am bound, not because of physical chains but by limitations. If only I could somehow grasp everything that I need to do all at once, grasp and know it all and then rest, oh how I need to rest!

I'm on a cycle, study, stumble, walk a bit and then I fall down. How pathetic I feel sometimes... and yet that is not the entire story either, I'm determined... at least to keep going. Really, no one's going to be able to tell me how great I am, that's not what I want to hear. I want stare up at the stars at night and wonder, "what's out there?" When I am alone I want to be able to hear my own thoughts, be guided by the wisdom of the universe.

I want to feel new, excited and clean again!

I want to look at a beautiful painting and to say "I like that!" or not. To feel that life if mostly undiscovered and that I have time to discover it... yet I am trapped in the expediency of concentration, though I can't concentrate, and lamintation... though really, what is there to lament? Yet I do, and I wonder what next? If all I can do is wind around in circles trying to catch my tail than what good is all of this anyway?

Yet what else can I do? What else? Give up?

For the sake of all goodness, don't give me any advice... I already know that I can do it. I'm just tired...

Where Earth and Heaven Meet

Cherubim guard the gate where earth and heaven meet,

there is no return.

She has left the garden,

searching where her head my lay.

It is the hour,

solitary in purpose, magnificent, radiant, a hush descends.

The scent is strong here,

the scent of divinity.

Divine breath,

she surrenders to Yahweh.

The forces of heaven gather,

the consecration of power shudders through her body.

she gasps,

she cries,

behold the manifestation of destiny.

Give me Life

I want to drink the sweet nectar of life.

I am a seeker of thrills, yet I am no fool.

Lay in the emerald grasses, breath in the scent of radiant wildflowers, reds, blues, pink and purple hues.

Run up the hill, to feel my heart beating, the adrenaline pumping, endorphin seeking.

Plunge myself headlong into the cold stream to come up gasping for air.

Crescendo's, staccato, mystical flutes, battles of sound, reverberation all around.

Calypso, voices, pounding on drums

Beautiful cords, harmonica hums.

Rhythm and blues, rock and roll, anything that has some soul.

Vibrant, resonating, beautiful taste.

Strawberries ripened in the sun,

Fresh cool watermelon on my tongue.

Peaches, plums, tangerines, sweet peas, sweet corn, sweet, fresh, devour in haste.

Anything that is full of life and harmony, undiluted, a simple melody.

Life

Come on and feel it, come on and taste it, embrace it. Soak in the sounds, the sights, the textures.

Run your hand over everything, bushes and vines, mosses and twine, rose petals, snails, pick up intricate shells.

Shells with their ridges, ever turning into eternity.

Give me fresh food to eat, give me life so sweet, words and song, humanities throng.

I want to live

The Lull Before the Storm

It is the rolling thunder,

it is coming over me.

The waves rise, imperceptibly, they rise, and rise, not a threat or so it seems. It is like looking on in fascination as your hopes and dreams are washed away, washed persistently away.

You hold no more power than the wooden fence cracking along it's beams, the great whirlwind traverses its trail, shattering once sturdy dreams.

The calm before the storm, deceptive silence, eerie light. Stray breezes play with the leaves and somehow you know its not right.

Silence, anticipation, nervous fascination

a storm is coming

I calmly clean the kitchen, aware of the threat, I understand

Yet all I can do is look on in fascination as the waves rise.

I hold no more power than the twisted gnarled tree that met its fate in its battle with the whirlwind.

I am tied to the railroad tracks, the train is moving slowly but I know it is coming.

In a daze, a slow kind of apathy I walk out to meet the storm.

The breezes dance along the ground, carrying leaves and garbage, no animals are in sight.

The winds are increasing I am watching from my front porch as the sky is darkened and the thunder rolls. Branches slap against the house, and pop cans rattle down the street, mother natures angry defiance against the scars upon her face.

Awake, finally, awake I rush about closing the windows new energy ensues.

Would that I could rush like this during the lull.

Have you ever stared into the future and known what was coming, yet stood, powerless to prevent it?

Your Eyes

(I wanted to share this piece again, a story of life)

The first awe filled look out of newborn eyes, blinking, staring in wonder into my own. Trusting wide eyes that close in gratitude as a little body is wrapped and held close, sheltered and warm.

Baby’s sweet breath on my chest, even, deep, soft slumber. Labor is over, or, is it just beginning? Your eyes filled with those first sanguine moments, the calm before the storm.

The anguish of adjustment, I pace with you, back and forth. During a breathless pause I see in your eyes, the innocence, the discomfort, pleading with me to understand.

You would sleep if you could. So I close my own eyes, swallow tears of frustration and continue to carry you. Patting your back until I feel like my arms will fall off from fatigue.

So it goes until a certain moment, when a new light appears in your eyes, each day subtle changes come. Eyes filled with the wonder of discovering new things. With amazement as you learn to walk, unsteady so I hold your hand. Occasionally you let go then grasp for my fingers, to steady your step.

Each day your eyes are changing, brightening at the funny bird hopping along, laughing as you dump water on my head, or the whole box of sunflower seeds, which I try to grasp, but the seeds slip from my fingers cascading down as your peals of laughter fill my ears.

As you grow, I try to catch the moments, those sudden unexpected turnings from one stage of life to another. At times as you sleep I slip into your room, gathering you up for a moment, breathing in the essence of your spirit. Because I know that when you awaken you will be different, a little bit older, and a new you will emerge.

Each day comes in like the tide and retreats just as swiftly. At moments we suddenly notice this and rush after the water trying to catch a bit of what was once there. But days like the tide don’t tend to stick around and with each retreating tide a change is so suddenly made.

Thus it is that I find myself staring into the eyes of a teenager. Where did my little friend go? Your eyes are guarded, guarded against the pricks of the world, begging for acceptance.

Sometimes I see you, the real you, hiding behind those eyes of yours. Those are sacred moments, jewels I like to treasure because at the first your little soul was a diamond, now sullied and roughed up by the careless acts of harsh eyes.

If I could I would polish it again to revel in the joy of your laughter. Laughter which too often now is shared with others, others who are your friends, I am not there to see your eyes shine.

I take all of this into account as I continue to care for you, looking after your needs until one day, your eyes stare into mine with understanding again. That accusing teenage look has finally slipped away. Though I have still lost you, to the alluring call of the world.

You go out on your own and are so often gone. Then suddenly you are here again, your eyes filled with the exciting joy of love, and I share in your joy, glad to see the old spark again.

Just as suddenly, I find that your eyes hold the remnants of a shattered soul, and I watch as you try to put the pieces back together again.

More guarded now your eyes meet many more people who fill them with happiness. You find one pair that shares your sacred soul connection and you marry, bringing new little eyes into my life.

I revel in their innocence, finding that I can savor their spicy little spirits, more so because I am not the one patting and carrying their little backs throughout the night.

My eyes now are often filled with the touch of a friend, looking into other eyes, seeking to bless other souls. Things are turning again, again I see less and less of your eyes.

Until one day, my expectations about life begin to change. Where I once held you strong against my breast, I find that my arms ache. Not from the constant care bestowed on another, but from the strain of living.

I look out of eyes, grown wiser with age, but weaker as well. I wonder over the rising and setting of the sun, the stars as they rotate through the sky and I look into your eyes again.

Searching for the understanding that was between us at the first. You hold me close to your chest, and hold my hand to steady me as I try to walk. To me, I feel safe and secure, wrapped in a blanket, sheltered and warm.

Free Summer Days

The day outside has started off grey and chilly but that doesn't deter us because we love the extra intrigue that it adds to the air.

It is as though someone has added a filter to the sun, the greens of the garden, the pink of the spicy miniature roses on their bush stand out as if colored as an afterthought on a black and white painting.

We zip up our jackets and wear an extra shirt as well, then we run around the house looking for magnets, flashlights, and a camera. We also fill baggies with cereal to take along with us and dig out the stale bread from the bread cupboard to feed to the ducks.

We hop on our bikes, a bit awkward with our stash of stuff, yet eager as well. We peddle down the road, stopping occasionally to adjust things, and going slow because we keep letting go of the handle bars to grab a bag here or a flashlight there.

When we get to the river trail we park our bikes by the rusty metal bridge and put our stuff down while we lock them up.

First of all we decide to get rid of the stale bread by feeding the ducks. They know what we are there for so they all gather around us quacking, and a few geese nip at them and honk at us.

We can't break the bread up fast enough, the ducks are voracious eaters. They are so jumpy and noisy that it is amusing. I get mad because the little green headed mallard keeps pushing a little grey girl out of the way to get at the bread. So I devise a strategy to throw a piece out behind the girl and away from the boy.

This almost works but a large matronly female snatches it, defeated the little girl duck sits patiently while the others get there fill. So I hold off a minute until the others lose interest, then I carefully throw a bit out for the little grey.



We throw the bags away in the near by trash containers and head out to the park. Passing up the slides and the swings we slip quietly into the tangled trees and bushes. The light becomes even more filtered and interesting.

Here we find scattered leaves and tree branches. Intertwined vines, climbing overgrown trees. Tall grasses, weeds and a bit of junk here and there. We follow the foot path for a bit, then step into the overgrowth to pick our way through it, as if we were exploring some foreign jungle.



Occasionally we over turn matted piles of leaves and the essential oils of the earth rise up to hit our noses, we breath this in deeply.

Daniel heads off to the left, I call out to him "don't climb any tree's, cause' I don't want to go and get Dad if you get stuck." He calls back "don't worry, don't worry." In a sarcastic, teasing tone of voice.

Finding myself alone, I turn on the flashlight to help me pick my way through the tilting branches, grown over by morning glory and climbing ivy. I reach out to move a branch out of the way and push gently at first, but find that it is sturdier than I thought so I press against it firmly and it presses firmly back.

I am a bit unsteady as I carefully step over a log on the ground, and hold the tree limb back while I pass. The trees here grow in a circle, and I feel as though I have entered into the middle of a circle of female friends who have linked their arms together.

I sit down here, where the grass and moss combine and lean back on my hands, gazing at the criss cross pattern of tree limbs competing and climbing together towards the sun.

Here I curl up, to breath in the scent of the earth, the smell of new grass mixed with the scent of the old. I close my eyes for a while, dreaming my forest dreams, then hear the birds chasing each other off in the distance.

Their chattering disturbs my solitude so I open my eyes and stretch, yawning. Crouching I turn on my flashlight to discover what I can among the secret places.

Gaps between vines, spaces between the earth and fallen trees, under bushes, and out over the meadow grasses. I feel as though the hidden magical creatures are spying on me, just out of sight and that if I am fast enough I can catch them.

Alas I find sticks and twigs, rocks and dirt, and bits of garbage, which always makes me mad. I snatch a stray plastic bag off of the nearest branch and start picking up garbage furiously, miffed at other peoples thoughtlessness.



After a while I get tired of this and decide to go find my brother. I find him climbing, back and forth between the interspersed trees. He jumps from one tree, and clings to another, having a glorious time.

"Daniel, come on!! Get down!" He ignores me and climbs higher. "Well fine! I am going to go throw this garbage away then I'm going to go walk along the river to catch some water skeeters."

So I head off towards the clearing and I hear Daniel crashing around in the underbrush to catch up. I throw away the garbage, then run, zipping past Daniel on his way to catch me, off to the river.

There I slowly descend the bank, over the rocks and chunks of concrete that someone had decided to throw there. In the dappled light of the river, near the slow moving edges of the riverbank, we find the little skeeters skittering about on their four tiny legs.




Their feet make concentric circles, ever widening and interspersing together as they dash along. We decide to leave them alone today, because we didn't bring a container for them, though we contemplate our empty sandwich baggies for the job. Fortunately for the skeeters we can imagine them being squished in the baggies, so we don't use them and head back up the riverbank again.

The sun had come out so we headed down the asphalt trail by the river towards the underpasses, where the cars and then trains passed, the first underpass being for cars and the second for trains.

The sun soaked asphalt was starting to get hot, so we took off our jackets and swung them around as we walked. We passed up the first underpass for the alluring possibilities that awaited us under the train pass.

First of all it was cool to look up at the tracks from underneath, to see the rail ties all lined up like fence posts. Secondly when we hopped up on the cement barrier, which kept out the river on the other side, we could find black metal filings to play with.

We would take out our magnets and run them through the dirt picking up the filings. Then we gathered them up in our baggies to bring them home. Then we would sit on the cement, because nothing grew in the dirt under the bridge, and we put our feet up in front of us. Laying back to watch for trains, thrilling a little at the idea of a train passing right over us.

After a while, when no train came, we got up. Being chilled from the cool river breezes and dark underpass air, we put our jackets back on and emerged from our dark hideaway. We walked slowly back to where our bikes were parked, letting the sun soak into us, warming us again. Then we hopped on our bikes and slowly peddled home again, feeling free, unburdened from care.

Ephemeral Peace

Ascending higher and higher, expectations climb as you face the unknown. How numb you feel after so long. There are tears residing in a sore little spot in your chest. You don't even know why they are there; they just are. So, your bafflement is complete as you step out into the real world, and you find an eerie silence, silence as deep as the great stone canyons that rise above you.

Feel the peace of the mountains; somehow, the air is richer, and the stifled breath that you unconsciously held is released as you walk around. The only thoughts in your head are of greenery and the gravel crunching beneath your feet.

There are pungent smells of growth and decay—fresh woodsy lichen and moss. Water becomes a melodious companion to the birds flittering in the trees, calling for their lovers.

Contemplate that; contemplate reality. There are busy creatures here, building homes, finding food. We are the foolish ones.

Here, there is a deep peace; here is the real world. Descending the mountains is heading back into insanity.

Beautiful Fabric

As children we make tenuous connections friendships based on a glance from a friendly face.

Giving trust wholeheartedly, willing to kiss and hug one another with no reserve.

How shortly this lasts as other desires come into our little hearts, to have more than the other, to be stronger, or smarter. So kids pinch and they pull, surprised when their little friendships are hurt.

and how deep that hurt can be, innocent hearts, trusting hearts, hearts that thrummed together in friendship can be easily broken.

Hopefully we learn respect.

How innocent is the interest of childish desires. Desires awakening in the breast of young girls, and young boys.

Holding hands, trusting, claiming each other, how short lived is this little bond. As young hearts, growing still, bump up against each other, mixed with the messages that they have received from the adult world around them.

This adulthood bond, what does it mean? Holding hands, a kiss on the lips, a look, laying in bed?

Awakening children reach out to each other, hiding in the van by the house to touch lips together and wonder at the meaning of the sparks that fly.

Holding each other close, as they lay in the grass, Edens bed, innocent still.

and innocently hurt each other as well. There is so much more to understand than children know.

As they grow, so does the curiosity. So does the intensity of the flame, they test this flame, to find that it can burn. That with the give and take between them that immaturity can mean more take than give and intense encounters can leave a heart broken and empty.

As adults we find that there are threads, they reach between two separate hearts connecting each to the other. These threads are formed by the trust that is given, one heart to another. Hearts that have faced the reality of imperfection, hearts that know each other.

These threads are woven each time we choose each other, woven and made stronger with the experiences that we share. Forming a fabric, creating something beautiful to wrap new little babies in. Forming a fabric to insulate each other from the harshness of continual judgement, the judgement of the world.

With the trust comes true inhibition. The flames formed from intertwined hearts can be strong and beautiful.

That is, unless... you break a little thread here or there, little hurts, little disrespects. Little things that tell me that I am not all that you dreamed of.

Little words said, mistrust, abuse, judgement of the other.

Pulling away, snipping at, cutting at the threads you believe bind you. Not willing to give your trust, not believing in the theory of intertwined hearts. Never reaching that climax, because of dissatisfaction.

and it hurts, it really does.

I believe in the theory of intertwined hearts. I have woven beautiful fabric, and I have sipped at threads. Then I have sewn them again, and refused to let the threads be cut, they sometimes are cut. I have felt that hurt.

It is hard to trust.

Yet, weaving beautiful fabric together is worth it.

Wind

The Wind

Forcefully the wind blows through the trees
picking up stray things in its way.

Swirling them about in a spiral, up, up
and sometimes at me, but not often.

Then it is deceptively calm.

I walk away from my home,
but come back again,

to protect it.

The wind rises and ebbs,
rises and ebbs.

When will it stop?

I am holding my heart.

But the wind is ruthless
it takes it along,

In the whirlwind.

Then it is gone,
and I feel alone.

Why do I miss it,
when it blows everything about me?

I have no control...

with the wind.

More Thoughts on Wind

Why does the wind like me so much?

It seems to call me always,
seems to embrace me.

Why does it seem to need me,
calling my name, circling about,
desperate to keep me here?

Yet leaves me alone when I need a nice breeze,
when I need to hear the conversation that it carries.

Where is the warm breeze?

Happily playing elsewhere, talking to others.

I am left, alone,
waiting for when it will return.

The wind comes with many moods,
sometimes it seems to enjoy laughing through the hills.

Sometimes the wind plays with the tree sprites, and
sometimes they run away, afraid of all that blowing.

The wind is a part of me,
yet it dosen't recognize that I want the sun to shine?

I would talk to it, but my spirit speaks in gentle breezes.
Harsh blowing is difficult to deal with.

I know I am shutting it out,
I am trying to keep things from blowing about,
I am trying to capture some happiness and warmth.

Why does the wind do this to me?

Why...

why

why

It is calm now,
the wind has been calm.

Will it blow again?

Can I learn to live with the wind?