the walker

No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.

Buddha

Sometimes the call that wakes us up is unnecessarily loud. In his case, maybe it needed to be that loud, for the ones around him it changed things for them too, they made stands, they held their own, they said enough was enough.

At first we thought it was the thing that has been the elephant in the room for the last year, because we knew it was only a matter of time before it became a bigger problem. We argued and fretted, all in our own ways, all with each other, except not with him, though she spilled over with worry all the time for him. He knew we were worried, but he couldn't stop. It's not that he didn't want to, or didn't care to, he couldn't stop.

I saw his frame shrinking, felt the protruding bones in his shoulders and back, knew without knowing that he was being circled by dark shadows in life and in his dreams. I spent as much time as I could with him, I tried to make the time we spent together carefree and easy, because I knew there was nothing else in his days that was.

He lived in a prison of his own guilt and was bound by impossible standards.

No matter what any of us say about it; he was there, he lived this horrifying life in which he stole, beat and disappointed others. He lost part of his soul just trying to be a kid and have fun, he didn't realize what he was doing. Because sometimes when you're bad, you wait for the consequences to find you and live like there's no tomorrow. And so he did.

And now he is lost. I have tried to help him find a path many times before, cleared the way, cut down trees for him, held his hand and watched him die a little inside. I know that it is not easy for him but I try, because I cannot do anything but try, and because I love him.

Part of the problem with experience is that we must go through it individually to gain it, and so there have been many times when I realize he must walk alone and sometimes I can walk with him, by his side, but that is all. I am glad I get to laugh and enjoy him still and for that I am grateful.

Oh, Canada!

he is my avalanche.

Way back, back before knowing was even possible, because knowing requires proof, knowing requires time, back before there were days, hundreds of them, before there were words, millions of them, before there were countless things between us that clutter the landscape of our world, I knew.

He knew too, I think.

Except with no time and no proof, all there was left to do was explore. The days passed almost like a movie rewinding, we knew it was love, but we had to prove it, we knew there was something, but we had to see it, we wondered what could be and then we met; long after all the days, all the words, all the things between us. In many ways it was like starting over again, no more exploring in the dark, wondering what was what and what belonged where.

The proof isn't for us, at least I don't need it, but I see that everyone else does, so I do the work it takes to answer every query, to know as much as I can, because they like answers. I know all I need to know, and it's such a small amount of knowing that it doesn't seem like enough to anyone.

It amazes me when I take a look around and see how much has accumulated, the wonder of it all, the way we made something out of nothing but words and time. In a lot of ways, it was engulfing, a swell that seemed impossible not to be carried by, an avalanche of the ice and snow that had built up over the years.

There comes a time after that to survey and dig out and make decisions. And so, I will go to see him. I have enjoyed this time, being consumed, delighting in so many pleasurable feelings, endless discovery. I will bring the best I can to this new place.

the gall/incomprehensibilities

It began with a gut feeling. After years of serving the general public, seeing countless personalities flash themselves at me in an instant, using those experiences to accurately gauge the beginning, middle and end of many relationships, I knew within five minutes that she was not for me.

I can tell you it was a number of things she did that left a pungent distaste in my mouth. Things that perhaps no one else would see for weeks, months, years, I could see just like that.

She is internally distracted, as if gnats were flying in a cloud in front of her eyes, her eyes held nothing and looked nowhere until she was spoken to. Her body is a long lean skeleton with some skin and clothes attached. Her skin was the gray of sun-hazed, overripe peaches, except it had nothing to do with the sun. Her hand came to shake mine in a limp dainty gesture that had no form and no urgency; she let me shake it and then slowly reeled it back.

And then, from this strange creature, came insincere greetings that floated away like a long dead pile of Fall leaves. They meant nothing, they had no substance and responding to them, trying to corral them into understanding was a useless endeavor.

It wouldn't be the first time I'd found a soul that was hollow. Her vacancy was not surprising or alarming except that she belonged to my good friend and it seemed out of place that my friend had allowed her to live there with another of our good friends.

And then, the idea that I should live there arose. At first it was a great joyous thing, but then I thought of her and that was my only concern. They assured me that she was just fine. Alright, yes, she was a little odd, perhaps, but mostly just sweet and nice. So I relented.

The day I moved in, she was on the phone and brusquely tabled my cheerful hello. Right then I knew I had made a mistake. I moved in all my things and set them down and went for a ride filled with foreboding thoughts I tried to shake off.

As the days progressed, I saw more of it. There was no room for anyone, she'd filled every available surface with her crap. She had piles everywhere. Her room was disgusting. She was disgusting. She belched, she stomped, she chewed, she clanged, she sang, she cried, I saw a year of emotions overtake her in a week's time. I had never lived with someone so physically and mentally intolerable. She had not a single consideration for anyone other than herself, and she often disguised kind gestures that ultimately benefitted herself.

Her actions were bizarrely incongruent: upon entering the house she would call out a hello from another room, but moments later ignore me as I passed, she would wake up earlier than everyone in the house, eat breakfast, do whatever for an hour and then take a shower when the rest of us were rising, she seemed very into growing her own herbs and plants yet she rarely used them and hardly watered them, she would watch television with rapt absorption but often chat during anything that we attempted to watch, driving me into the confines of my room.

As the weight of this sank into my days, I felt some relief in the other who lived with us. We two were inseparable and that only made her worse. Somehow, us two being friends, good great friends managed to push that buried button inside her that turned her into a sniveling version of her high school self, insecure and unpopular and misunderstood.

And I kept wanting to scream at her, if you want to be liked, you have to be likeable.

She was the furthest thing from it. I would often wipe her slate clean, forgive the errant belching (which seemed more a way to garner attention than to relieve her full stomach), ignore the strange mood swings, look past the promises made and not kept, try to see the human being in that walking deadness and every time I let things go, she'd add another intolerable element into my days, hair on the shower wall, battering others for things she was often guilty of, being a big giant bitch, getting a dog and not cleaning up after him or attempting to learn how to properly discipline him as she promised.

The arrival of the dog changed things from mostly unpleasant to dismal. He was noisy, so the level of noise she forced us to suffer through was added to; she traveled a lot and often requested we take care of the dog; he shed a lot of hair which meant the living room was full of dog hair and not really a place you wanted to spend any time in and she didn't bother to sweep his hair ever, not once, in almost a year. His presence underlined the fact that she is a disgusting person with disgusting personal habits and she didn't care at all how it affected anyone else.

I tried various actions over the course of year to alert her to these transgressions and each was met with a puzzled look (sometimes with tears and a litany of excuses), a gloss of understanding and a promise to correct the behavior, which ultimately never got corrected.

And so, it was with great pleasure and much relief that I departed that place, and now I hope to never cross paths with her again.

As the misery I submitted to begins to fade, the small stretches of delight in not having to wake up to her noise, not having to share anything with her, not having to see that glum face every morning animate itself to speak with me, I find that I have learned the lesson to trust my instincts, to know that what I feel is true, to honor that deep down place of mysterious but certain intuition.

Had I trusted myself, I could have spared us both, for I am sure it was a misery to live with me, as we were as opposite in as many ways as we could be. To constantly attempt to make her understand how unpleasant she was left me extremely frustrated and unhappy. In my heart, I do not want to hate; though my mind finds many ways to loathe, my heart was heavy in its sadness for the situation.

the magnet and the mess

He's still here. It wouldn't bother me so much except there's still the mess he made that no one has forgotten. I've managed to evade him and the mess by declining over a year's worth of invitations and great nights in which I knew he'd be in attendance. I had to stop visiting with his sister, who'd been my friend for a while before his arrival, because it seemed everywhere she was, there he would be, him, standing five feet behind her, laughing that big monstrous laugh. Every encounter was weighted with that strange tension that followed his dismissal of me (a heady mix of guilt, shame and regret) and it was so unbearable I couldn't enjoy myself knowing he was in the room.

And then, the ship sank, the days passed, things carried on. And time did what it does.

The sting of the mess, the rage I felt over it, the unnecessary bullshit and drama, after that much time, it seemed like something not worth caring about any longer. When he appeared that day and he greeted me with open arms, I fell into them and we hugged, it felt like a relief, like it was all over and that mess was gone, especially with all we had to deal with that day.

And maybe I was too grief stricken to give him anything else, not even a glance, not even words, not even including him in our hasty plans (and why should I have to be the one to encourage him?). Or maybe I was scared because it had been so long and there was still that magnetic pull between us. Still. I was so disappointed in myself, but there it was, those spinning, stomach churning, blushing feelings I had felt so long ago.

A few days later we all found ourselves together again and in my nervousness from being late and having nothing proper and decent to wear to a funeral and knowing he would be there, I slighted him, sweeping past him to find solace in the people I felt comfortable with. I ignored his laughter on the ride to the service, I ignored his owlish eyes that I felt searching for mine, I sensed there was a question there that I did not want to answer again, it needed to rest.

Except then, there was booze to soothe us all. With every drink he became more wild-eyed, more angry, more and more of a reminder of why I was grateful nothing ever happened between us, he reminded me of the burnham, he had that same moody glare for me and it made me hide. So I spent the rest of the night avoiding him and wishing he would pass out on the bar.

Instead, I watched with horror as he flirted with a friend's girlfriend, danced with everyone, sidled up into conversations just to stare at me with a curiosity that burned so hard it made me cringe. What does it matter? I wanted to scream. Of course I still care about you. If I didn't, would I even have a hard time talking to you? I can talk to anyone, I'm an expert at talking to people, but with him I had no words and nothing to say.

Eventually, finally, I saw his gaping mouth being held up by his splayed hand, the palm holding his chin, the glasses crooked, the stubble abhorrent, the bar holding him upright, dozing off. They tried to slap him awake and he resumed his disgusting pose. And I stood there wondering how it had happened. Was it because he was so taken with me when we met? Or was it that he seemed so promising when there was nothing? Sometimes, I think it was because back then, he felt different and familiar.

We decided to go to 907. It was a crazy scheme that brought several of us stumbling toward that place we'd known Peter for. There were a lot of us. I didn't realize he was coming, figuring he'd go home after falling asleep on the bar, but then someone said, hey get the door, and there he was, the magnet. I saw that glare and pushed the door open for him, just enough so he could grab it, and I ran away from him. And he knew it. He spoke in disgust about me. He hated me for it. After all the shit he did, all the shit he put me through, he wanted more than anything not to be the bad guy, except he was.

He sauntered up and stood right next to me. I sensed he felt the need to bully me, and I did not back down, but inside I was trembling, I did not want to let the bitterness explode, not that day after all the days I had held it in, and so I let the anger pass, and then I let myself behave the way he wanted me to, I pretended like nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened, that he wasn't a giant fucking asshole who everyone loathed, I showed concern and interest, I let myself love him again.

And when he entered that room and collapsed across the bed and fell asleep, then I was free. The tension that had been on me all night was gone. And that will be the last time I ever see him.

It may mean giving up those friends and that life that connected us, but they never belonged to me anyhow.

more to see

http://twitpic.com/photos/stineybean

unionizations/"the only exception"

I've always been alone.

Even in a crowd of people, there is always something that sets me apart, makes me different, makes me unable to be part of whatever group I am around, I'm too tall, too old, too young, too something.

I spent the years of my childhood, the oldest of four, the gray sheep in the bunch, always different somehow, it started that long ago, I always felt misunderstood and apart from them, from everyone. I careened through the rest of my life with the anger of those years behind me, expecting to be barred for being different, anticipating being misunderstood, cringing for the moment of expulsion.

I made the best of it, preferring to spend time with my nose in a book or finding solace in stringing words together, observing people from the distance we created in our differences; I accepted that I was just an outsider.

It is a strange thing to spend so much time feeling that way and suddenly find myself belonging to people. And not just any people, but ones that I am proud and privileged to know.

It began a few years ago with my group of friends, we found each other in the cafe, disappointed by life, artistically gifted but stifled by life, we found commiseration in each other, and joy; the first time in the span of my life that I had friends who knew me, understood me and loved me, for everything I was and everything I was not. These few gave me hope that life was worth living, because at last, finally, I was not alone.

They helped me shed the anger I had for so long, because love and time are the strongest balms for healing pain.

From there I found another friend, I remember when we first sat together and talked, I offered him my chair and within ten minutes I knew he was another kindred spirit who had experienced a similar disappointment in life and we became fast friends. There was no work, it was not hard the way it had been with other people, I looked forward to seeing him and spending time with him. And now we are living together and it makes me very glad. He thinks of me as a sister, he says, and I know what he means with the closeness and comfort we share.

He loves one who is another of us, a misunderstood and aching soul, and we three have become a trio. We have adventures, we have easy good times and it is a relief to live with them, to realize we are all happy to see each other, even early in the morning when seeing and speaking to anyone is a chore, it is good.

And then there is him. I don't even know how to say it all. I pretended for a long time that it didn't matter that I was alone that way. I filled my time and wasted my energies well enough, fell into bed with exhaustion, but for the ten minutes before and after sleep that empty bed could not be ignored.

I consoled myself with my friends and alcohol and the gladness I felt that I no longer had to feel like I was forcing myself into relationships that didn't suit me. Men had always been a bad solution to feeling alone, being an outsider, feeling misunderstood. They didn't know me, they only knew my body and who I tried to be in an effort to please them. I remembered that no matter what good times I'd had with them, there were plenty of times when were angry and fighting stupid useless fights. We fought to prove ourselves to each other; from our own deep wells of doubt and there was nothing that could get us past those wells, not even wanting love more than anything.

I spent two years single. I had men in my life, but they were temporary, and we knew it, so it was just a way to pass the time. I enjoyed the time, finding that being alone, choosing to be alone, restored me somehow, reminded me who I was, not for anyone, not because of anyone, I was always defined by who I was in relation to someone else, but for the first time in a long time, maybe since I was very young, I was able to be myself for myself. It helped that I had friends who coaxed me away from the anger that defined my life, who appreciated things about me others found strange, things that I appreciate about myself. I learned to trust myself, my intuition, my choices, my ideas, my desires, my wants, I learned myself, got to know myself and I enjoyed being me. I stopped holding up the past for scrutiny: all the failures, all the bad things, all the guilt, let those things be part of my experiences with life and I started to enjoy life newly.

I wasn't looking for another relationship. I was open to one, but I was not searching or hoping or wondering or waiting or wanting one. It's not like I didn't care, but I had reached a point where I'd spent a majority of my adulthood in a relationship, usually one I was unhappy in, so I reasoned it was better to just be alone for a while.

It's so funny that I can't just say the good things without explaining why it feels so good. Where I've been, how disappointed I was, how resigned I was, and that I wasn't looking or desperate for it, that's what makes a good thing better, greater than good. And to find someone who matches me, suits me, appreciates all the little quirks and things that made me an outsider for so long, it's a wonderful feeling. I have to admit I find it harder to believe than I do with my friends, because it is a deeper level of intimacy, the road to becoming an "us." I am out of practice, but I am glad because my practices back then were bad and this is a chance to have better habits and routines, to learn how to be in a good relationship. Believe me when I say I have never been in one I wanted to be in before this one and it is an unsettling but delightful feeling.

As I get used to enjoying the people in my life, I find that my smile is never buried and I am nearly always glad. It has been a good time.

fiesta del sol

It was dusk in the piazza. Such a simple thing. No one else seemed to be impacted by it. It brought tears to my eyes, it was that achingly beautiful to me. I stood there for a full moment, long enough to let that scene imprint itself in my mind and then we moved on from the most beautiful moment in my life.

It was an accident that I was even in Madrid, Spain to begin with, you see. I was supposed to be flying home that day. There was fog in Rome and the fog delayed our flight and Madrid was where we landed and I ran to the plane, lunging past and dodging casual European travelers and I arrived at the gate just in time to watch the plane that was supposed to take me home fly off into the sky. And I was stuck in Madrid.

Later, I learned that my luggage had managed to get on that plane. But I didn't make it. So after nineteen days of being in Europe, traveling to five cities in four countries; my first time traveling abroad, my first time traveling alone (for some parts, at least), I was ready to go home, I had had enough art, churches and history, beautiful sights, now all a blur, except for those my camera pointed at; I wanted to go home.

I was the first one from our Rome flight to reach the gate and I sank into a chair in immobilizing misery. The rest of the faces were similarly stricken, eager to get to Chicago, not happy about a delay, so I followed them to the airline's help desk where we learned that the flight we'd just missed, the flight I watched depart, it was the last flight of the day and we would all be welcome to fly tomorrow and in the meantime stay overnight in a hotel at the airline's expense.

Everyone was glad. I was not. I don't just mean I wanted to go home. I was ready to be home. I needed to be home.

Europe had been wonderful and kind to me. It was exactly what and where I needed to be at that point in my life. It affirmed something in me that I knew all along but could not express until I saw it for myself. I may have been born in the United States of America, but my heart and soul were of the old way, of the European way. I fantasized about moving to Paris, I was thrilled by the clashing of cultures in Amsterdam, I adored every bit of Florence (the most charming place in the world), Vienna showed me Beethoven's Frieze and an exhibition on women in comics in one building, and then in Rome, I learned to love the metropolitan air. And after seeing all these things that made me love humanity, that made me fall in love with human artistry, human invention, humanity in its entirety, I was homesick and I wanted to be with the people I loved most in the world.

Except I was stuck in Madrid.

The petulance I describe amuses me now, to be stuck in such a wondrous and vast city, the shame of being so disappointed, to have a free night's stay in a bustling urban metropolis similar to New York (a place I still yearn to see someday), had it been the beginning of the trip, I wouldn't have minded so much. But it was the end. And what awaited me when I returned was freedom. I had cut myself loose from something I knew I wasn't ready for, and the freedom I'd chosen came with a man I felt as unsure and certain over just as a coin has two opposite sides, embarking on my college education and living alone for the first time in my life. I was 26 and my life was just beginning in a lot of ways, and I was eager to get started.

But first, Madrid. She lay before me in a splendor. So many trains, streets, sights. At the hotel, a group of us discovered we spoke the same language, primarily English, but also deep, speculative, explorative words too, and I was cajoled into exploring another city.

We set out to wander. A lovely thing to do as a traveler. To let the world lead you to where it wants you to go. A train stop, a noise, a crowd, a left then a right and we found that this weekend in Madrid was one of the biggest citywide celebrations devoted to the sun and people went to the streets to dance, sing, drink and relax. Decorations of suns were everywhere, strung across streets, lit up even in the waning sunlight, a myriad of colors.

I was deemed good with maps and given the title of Navigator. A thing I still smile over, to be in charge of the directions, to make sure we didn't go too far astray, to lead us in a big enough swirl around the city; it was a joy. No one had ever let me be in charge of something like that before. I enjoyed it very much and still enjoy staring at maps, determining where we are and where we're going.

We wandered through the streets, smiling at the people, taking it all in. Another beautiful side of humanity, this time in Madrid. There was nowhere we were going and nowhere we had to be, and home and freedom and him were all waiting for me, tomorrow. Sometimes learning how to be patient is a good way to appreciate what's happening right now; today.

And then there was a turn and a left, and maybe we were looking for the palace, but it was dark in the glower of dusk, a vague shadow in my memory. Across the busy street, perhaps that street had once been a garden, a path, a walkway; there sat the piazza.

The sky was a bowl over it. A globe of streaky dark blue clouds against the day's blue background, with the sun's departure imminent. There were birds. All over Europe, birds wander the skies in packs, more visible without the expanse of tall buildings to block them, and at dusk they circle overhead, I felt they were lamenting the darkening sky. There was a building, very symmetrical in its architecture and it was made of marble, which glowed pearlescent in the last light from the sun. A statue sat in the center of the piazza, centered in front of the building, all the paths of the gardens led to the statue of a man on a horse, riding triumphantly away from battle. The paths were laid with a peach colored gravel and lined with dark green manicured bushes. And then, it began to rain, a light breathy mist that feels good on your face.

I had already seen a million beautiful things, countless paintings, endless historical sites and buildings, every person themselves seemed a work of art. I saw them all with a blurry scope of innocence and rabid curiosity, but nothing more.

In the piazza that day, I saw something that no one told me about before, no one told me I would love it, no one told me I had to see it. No one told me how to feel about it, I just felt it.

I felt the rush of pleasure in humanity's clash against nature. The sky was showcased so that no matter which spot you stood in the piazza, it felt like you were in its center. The sky overhead might have any number of cloudscapes on a given day, but what surrounded you on the ground was a soothing palate of colors, a pruned and cultivated garden exhibiting man's control of some elements (stone, metal, plants), and in the middle, the statue of the man on the horse celebrating his triumph over his enemy.

For everyone else, it was just another piazza, another pretty spot some King had designed for him a long time ago, and with tears streaming down my face, I took one last look. I turned and felt the brightness of the day finally fade, dusk shut out the sun with a suddenness. And then we moved on through Madrid, exploring more, taking the train back to the hotel, enjoying each other, while internally I marveled at that spot and wondered when I could be there again.

It's been a while/at the dawn of hope

Ah, Winter. That time in everyone's life where things seem to slow down to a snail's pace. Probably one of my most favorite times of the year, to sit inside and read, to work on knitting projects, to bake breads and muffins. This winter I tried a puzzle (but gave up on it after too many long absences from dogsitting), got back into my arts and crafts, made a lot of homemade soups and tried very hard to do sun salutations on a regular basis (which requires I be home, which means I spent more time at home; which is new and different).

My world has slowed down somewhat, and it's strange, it took me a long time to notice it and stranger, I'm noticing it takes me a long time to do anything these days. I used to gulp at life like a fish out of water, clumsy, awkward, uncertain, but lately, I've become very methodical, extremely careful and begun to savor everything I encounter. It is a lovely change that perhaps age has brought to me, which most people would shun and be angry over, but I am grateful to slow down and lose that coltish skittishness I've always had.

Another move looms on my horizon and all I can say is I hope it will be a good one, I'd like to have the things I need and want, space to unfurl, a place to truly feel home, where I can wake up every morning free of bother. It's been a very long time that I've tolerated things in my current place and borne the brunt of her unrelenting obnoxiousness. I wasn't sure how I was going to escape it, but some good friends extended an opportunity to live with them and now I am moving again.

There is a man in my life who has been so many things to me, the moon, he is. It is an indescribable feeling to have discovered him and be discovered by him. He is full of contradictions, something I recognize. We have shared long talks, books, music, movies, photography and culinary magic. It is a strange thing, because he lives far away, so it is hard, and there is the large shadow of the future looming over us, except we enjoy it day by day and try not to prick the joyful balloon with pins of doubt. It will go the way it will go and we hope for the best. It's hard enough without asking questions that only lie in the future, anyway, the future is always a lie believed.

Then there is my writing, which has settled into a dry desert. I haven't met with my writing partner in a long time. I don't know why. She is busy. I am busy. I should be more worried, but I know myself, I am finally in a place where I know myself, I need lapses and lulls, I need time to mull and ruminate over the next thing and then when I am ready it will come. A thunderstorm of words. Until then, I am slowly editing the pieces that are close to completion, taking out words, tightening screws, reading and getting caught up in the story and starting over to examine it closely. It makes me proud sometimes, when I see how solid it is, how well it has all held up, how clear it is. It may not be much more than a puddle of words, but at least it is not murky. I still feel that I am close to finishing this project and that means I can move on to something new.

As much as I love Winter, I am ready for Spring, ready for the warmth, ready for the sun, ready for new life and new things to emerge. As much as I am loathe to change, I see it is arriving and I am ready to embrace it fully.

"part 1 of...infinity."

I got there early. I am generally always late. Not for any real reason other than trying to do everything. That day, I didn't want to do everything, I just wanted to reach that point and more than anything I couldn't be late for it. So I got ready. I prepared. And I left when there was nothing left to do.

When I got there, it was jarring. Being somewhere different, even though I'd been there before, it was jangly and uncomfortable. I was not just on time, I was ridiculously early. I couldn't remember a time I had been so early. I had a book and I sat and read, even though the world around me clanged and bellowed, I had to pass the time and I passed it by reading for a bit. And then, when I couldn't read anymore, because the dissonance and noise had become less jarring and obnoxious, but the sound of it clamored at my ears in a building crescendo, I got up and walked around and still I was early.

I watched people for a while. I saw them seeing me. I looked stunning, as stunning as I can look, tall, taller from my boots, long coat, long hair made straight, fully made up, eyes rounded by nervousness and panic. When I saw myself in the bathroom I didn't recognize that girl because who I am every day isn't perfectly put together, but I wanted him to see me at my best. I saw in their eyes that I was stunning, they saw me and their eyes widened in interest, the stare that goes beyond a glance, then they saw me seeing them seeing me and their eyes snapped away, but they came back to study me in the briefest moments of passing. I felt uncomfortably in the spotlight, but I would not cower against the wall that I favored because I had to be in the right spot to see his face, to watch the moon descend into my world.

So I let the people pass me and ogle me and I let the time crawl by. I stood in the way of everything and waited for him. A million questions had tromped through my mind, but in that moment, when I saw his face, my mind could not ignore that I was not just smiling that rarely given, but biggest smile of my smiles; I was also grinning. And I could not make it stop. I could not hold up the stoic mask of indifference that I carry for everyone, that blank look that keeps everyone away from me.

I don't know how I knew it already, but even at first glance, I saw he was just like the moon, his face seemed brighter and more open than all the rest, the slackened faces of wearied travelers whose baggage awaits them, his was a stark contrast to theirs, a bright wide clean face and in it was a smile. And I didn't have to pretend it was a smile just for me, as I do sometimes with the moon. He was glad to be here and glad to be seeing me too.

It was a lovely moment of confirmation, that all we had hoped for was there and even more we couldn't imagine yet could be possible. We collided, the world fell away, and it was clumsy at first, those initial gestures, they make me smile in remembering, because it was so awkward and uncertain, to be standing next to each other, finally, after so much had happened already, this one act should be so easy, but it was rife with the awkwardness of unbridled pleasure, extreme joy, and gladness.

What I like about us most is that nothing comes easy, that the first time we share something together it is never an instantaneous flash of glitzy perfection, we build up to something that feels natural and we lead each other there with care and the occasional clumsiness of eagerness, misunderstandings and moments of trial and error until we get it right. When it's easy, when things fall into place, you lose the chance to build something solid, you rest on your laurels, you don't go out of your way to be magnanimous. And even more amazing, for me, to give what being magnanimous requires and not have it feel like a chore is what is even more astounding.

He stayed here for four days. He let me lead him through my worlds, tasting and glimpsing what my life is like, learning me, our bodies finding a rhythm, his arm across the back of my seat on the train, his body strong and solid and warm, a body I missed after his departure, his smile eager and kind, his face full and open, his words curious and captivated, he gleamed at me, shone at me so brightly it took me days to recover, it's taken me weeks to digest it enough to write about it here.

Before he left I realized that I felt as comfortable with him as I would feel alone with myself, unfettered by the mental anguish of everyone's expectations and demands, free of concerns, at peace.

Given all that, I should be terrified for what's ahead, for the many difficulties and long stretches of absence. I have never been anything but scared to lose that which I want most. And yet, I feel no fear, no worries, no concerns. I puzzle over that until I realize that every day brings some satisfaction that quells every nagging thought. He is a wonderful man, he is the moon, and I am pleased to have met him and to learn him and he is not just enough, but actually beyond it, he is bountiful and generous and kind and I am pleased.

reflections only seen in stillness

Sometimes, especially when you live day to day, hours at a time, forging ahead and forgetting what's behind you, what makes you realize, take stock, think back is always something unexpected and shocking. Head in a whirl, life progressing, there's no time to look back, until everything stops and you don't know what else to do. Yesterday everything stopped.

We sat there, the place we'd all known each other, the place that was more a home to me over the years than a home has been. And we sat there.

We talked, we smiled, we were baffled, we were angry. We were there for her, for him, for each other. And we all just turned up, like lost pigeons finding home after so long of circling the skies. We tried to strategize, to sort it out, what had brought us there, it seemed unreal and unbelievable.

And then, once the bits of information began to fit, we reconciled ourselves to it, to the strange news. He's gone. This man we all loved, who loved all of us in very different ways, who meant so much to all of us without the fanfare of loving another person, who gave us all the joy of laughter in a world of confusion and discontent, who helped pass the time and in its passing soothed us all with his irreverence, his stories, his greatness; he's gone.

And then I realized, I belong to something bigger than me, even though I refuted it out of weariness and misunderstandings, even though I didn't always enjoy it, I'm part of this network of people, this group, this family. As I looked over our faces, filling with waves of grief, hearing the music we all knew him for, music we sang together, I realized even though I didn't belong to him, we were part of this thing bigger than him and me, and he is one of the most monumental figures among us. And I had been strong for her, even coolly distant from it because he was more important to everyone else, except he was important to me too, and I'd just been too busy living day to day to see all that we shared behind us.

When I cried, they peered into my eyes with red rimmed glossiness, held me and took care of me. It's been so long since I let someone take care of me. And then someone else cried and carried on, and it was an entire day of being there for everyone with waves of grief coming over us. The world stopped for us yesterday, and in this crisis we all found that there was nowhere we would rather be than with each other.

the secret queer

I don't know if it happened before her. I think back, lightly scratching at the veneer of what I projected to the world during the years of school and childhood and it all seems very innocent until she came along. I looked at them, but I looked at everyone. I study people, I watch people; that has always been a part of my life.

She was different. It seems trite, but yet, she was. The women in my life were mothers, sisters, friends. They were stuck in their roles and most of their life was spent in frumpy, but practical, attire.

Then I met her, who looked like she stepped out of the pages of a magazine complete with high heels, her blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her smile demure and ever-present, dressed in all black, her clothing tight, her skirt just above the knee and that knee was covered in sheer black pantyhose. And that was the knee that changed me.

Now, you see them all the time; they are modern and put together and well-dressed. Back then, I had never met or spied a woman who looked or acted like her.

She was gracious and effusive, her laughter ringing through the space between us, she was brimming over with sexuality, her hand gently squeezing my forearm, her knee (that knee) brushing against my leg. She made me uncomfortable but I couldn't stand to ignore her.

And so began a lifetime of concern and wondering.

Her presence in my life was my first indication that I was attracted to women. She didn't make me the way I am, but she certainly lifted whatever veil I'd been hiding under from exposure to religious thinking and a deep-seated fear of the word "gay."

She was also the harbinger for many other things I'd never considered about myself, that I wanted to be a sophisticated, charming and fashionable woman, which was preposterous at the time, I was a dowdy copycat of my mother who wore no makeup and did not ever laugh just to laugh.

For a long time, I let myself believe that it was wrong to feel how I felt about her and many other women who I found myself attracted to over the years. I overcompensated for this by becoming ultra boy-crazy, sometimes while talking about whatever dolt I'd decided was my current crush, I would be watching the long legs of an attractive woman slink past my view and momentarily halted out of speech.

I was a secret queer.

I watched shows about gay people, I had gay friends, I danced in gay night clubs, I attended the gay pride parade (I even walked in it one year), I shadowed the life I couldn't live and hid in a presumed heterosexuality.

Men were safe. They liked me and I could hide in their arms. So I let myself be with men, lots and lots of them. I convinced myself that each one was the one I wanted, the one who could make it all better, the one who would rid me of this attraction and keep me from being alone like my mother. I didn't want to be alone, so I was never alone, jumping from man to man, crush to crush, leaping, hurling, fighting, wanting, hating myself, and all of it was useless, I thought I was hiding, but I was hurting everyone, especially myself.

When things with the burnham and I ended suddenly, still I tried to always be in a man's arms, but not finding what I needed or wanted, I was always unsatisfied, because I wasn't thinking about the person those arms belonged to, just that they were holding me.

And then I let go.

I chose to be alone. To see what would happen. To find out who I am. Who I really am. And every day I peel off a little more of that pretense, that projection that I felt the world should know me for, that perfect little nice girl that everyone saw me/sees me as.

I am attracted to men, but once I accepted that I was also attracted to women and didn't need to be with a man out of a fear of being alone or to hide being attracted to women, that drive to be with someone, anyone; all the chatter, all the effort of leaping from guy to guy just stopped. And in the quiet, I've realized I had been allowing myself to be taken by any man that would take me, rather than choose someone who inspires me, delights me and enjoys me and someone I inspire, delight in and enjoy.

And now, there is nearly a lifetime of cobwebs to sort out, of friends to be honest with, of people who I've lied to by omission, or lied to from fear, or lied to because I didn't know how to say it. It's taken me a long time to learn how to be comfortable with myself, for myself, not for anyone, not to please anyone, just for me. And now, when people ask me I will not hesitate to say, I'm queer. I don't want to hide it anymore.

the seemingly futile love

A day is such a fleeting thing for most, but for me it can be a lifetime and I hop from one day to another, unaware of the accumulation of time, until often it is too late or I am unaware of how I wandered into a forest that never seems to end. Usually this realization is a pang of horror and dread, discovering that I am saddled by something that I said yes to on a whim and enjoyed a few times and fell into a routine of interaction that I did not ultimately desire.

So it was, however many weeks ago now.

Imagine all the lengthy days inside those weeks, hopping, busy with the life I lead, which somehow accelerated in the last month and it all sped past me, every day just another day of time that passed with some small measure of success.

I was completely unaware. Walking in the darkness of my malcontent, searching the sky for something, but always finding it empty for me. For others, it was full and rich, a bright place to explore. For me, it was a dark blackness obscured with a few faint, but prominent constellations. My family, my friends, my jobs, every day they turned in succession across my sky, a mapped out daily occurrence with no surprises (though the occasional shooting star might streak across me, or the disappointment of a satellite, or the drone of an airplane, big and heavy and unwelcome).

Even when something was new, it quickly fell into the dimness against that sky.

And so it was, for a long time.

Imagine that, feel that, then imagine walking up, looking into that sky, dark, bleak, full of emptiness and then there is the moon. The moon who gives light, which gives life, the moon who illuminates the things you could not see, the moon who smiles down at you with a bemused grin of unending pleasure and appreciation.

Every day I explored the moon somehow. Every day I looked forward to it, wondered how it might appear, if it would burst through the afternoon sky, a shimmering mirage against the blueness of daylight or if it would crawl above the horizon, as if it was hugging the earth. Every day the moon had a different shape and another feature to reveal about itself. And every day I was there to watch for it, to find it in that bleak sky, despite all the other things on my horizons, the other constellations that roamed my world.

Eventually, as the days began to accumulate into these weeks past and the moon proved it was strong and clean and big enough for all of me to rest inside it, I began to yearn for the moon, and miss the time when I wasn't standing in his strong light or able to see that face staring down at me. Sometimes, you can see the moon when the dark side takes its turn in orbit, but often you cannot. So there was a self-imposed period of stubbornness that I endeavored through to prove something to myself, that I could spend some days in the darkness again, not looking for the moon, not shouting up at it, not hoping for anything to come of it, just being with myself and that bleak dark sky with its faint but strong constellations: family, friends, work.

I learned that I can live without the moon. I have lived before his arrival and I can certainly live without his light and deposits of brilliance. In the end, if all the days of wonder do not overwhelm the reality and obscure the few bad days we've shared (a series of miscommunciation and carefulness bordering on insanity), I will have those days to remember him by and that will be enough. And yet, even though I don't need this, him, us; I want it. I want to give myself away to someone who can hold me, even if it seems futile and the distance between us is too much. And not just any someone, but the moon.

Except, maybe there is a certain point, when the futility of loving the moon becomes unbearable and foolish. For now, I will be the eight-year-old who stared up at the moon and wondered if there really was a man in there.

rubbed raw/holding onto my sanguinity

As I look back, all I see are the waves of it all crashing, at first, a year ago, it was a tolerable amount of crashing, nothing I couldn't handle. Lately, I feel like I am drowning.

I know this is just part of the process of change, but as the water crawls over me, another inch, another mood, another moment, I find it hard to remain still, to let it embrace me, to give into the death of the things that don't work for me, to accept change is to give up those dead parts of my life.

It hasn't helped that I am adrift these past weeks, so that there is nothing to anchor myself to, except the spinning of time, and the small joys the world leaves me to sustain me. I have had so many trembling pleasures lately, moreso than ever before, but sometimes it feels like I have to give something of myself to have them. I have to pay for them in ever escalating terms, plunking myself down in places where I don't belong and cannot enjoy.

I see no horizon, no where to land, no beach waiting to hold me. I have always wondered where I will end up and I find that planning has made no difference, and letting things be as they are has relieved some of the worry, but it troubles me from time to time, the not knowing, the specks of thoughts of the future, and then reminding myself that there is only today and that is enough, for now. It has to be enough because it's the only thing I know for certain is real.

"It's really hard to find yourself if you keep on leaving..."

Every two years, I feel the need to shed a part of my self; and it is reflected in my starting a new blog. You didn't know? [2008; to escape his memories], and [2006; to evade his scrutinizing stares], and [2004; to find a new platform to dive from].

I've been running away from each of them, hoping that if I run far enough away it'll stick that time, and I can start fresh, accept and claim the perfection that comes with emptiness.

Every time it happens, I hope it is the self I yearn to be, the one I've always seen glimpses of, even when I was a kid, I saw myself in other women, in other people, perhaps in one it was their giving heart, in another it was their ability to articulate their thoughts, in another still it could have been the warmth I longed to share with someone, anyone.

This year, I don't feel the need to run. Perhaps because physically I have changed so much these past two years, I don't have any desire to make something new and start fresh, to have a beginning that makes sense to everyone, a clean slate for myself. I have been sharing my self in this form for years and years and years, with my father as my constant reader, who I will love forever, no matter what, simply for his eyes and attention to these words.

I never understood what I was doing here or there, or those other places. It wasn't until asked and I stumbled to come up with an answer, that I began to realize that the stringing of these moments in my life, creating strands of my stories required the entirety of my past, and that abandoning them didn't make them go away. All that I have known, loved, loathed, it is all part of who I am today.

The premise of this blog was based on the buddhist prayer bracelet called the mala, to which I added my nickname--or if you know me well enough, you just consider it my name--stine. I imagined that each entry might be something I ruminate on and in allowing myself to fully address whatever it is that is worrying me, I could let it go and I might find peace.

"All beads are worry beads - from the Pope's rosary all the way down to those little wrist malas... worn by Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike. People of every religious tradition will claim that their beads are for praying - for appealing to a higher power, for collecting the spirit or concentrating the mind - and while this is indisputably true, that is not their primary purpose. Beads are for worry. They answer a human need so basic it actually precedes a religious consciousness - and that is to fret over things...The difference between the Buddhist mala and the various Western-style rosaries is simply that it makes this explicit in the symbolism of its beads.

"The message of the Buddhist mala is 'Don't worry about things; worry about the fact that you are so worried all the time, and address the foot of that." From Tricycle, Winter 2006 (Clark Strand)