Becoming

When I was younger I said when I get older, when I get tenure I am going to dye my hair red, pierce my nose; I look in the mirror and see my red hair, which has become curly in my old age, basically went curly at the age of 42, and the piercing in my nose that my best friend and I did on a whim after sampling beers at World of Beer.  A shared experience that adds a mote to our 28 years of friendship, one I said this weekend, that has had its opportunity to break at anger many many times, and has stood the test.  Closer than an aunt to her children, she says.

When I was young I learned of the MG, since my initials are MG, and because it is an adorable little car, the OPAL a close second in favorites, it became my favorite.  At the age of 15 in Colorado my cousin Karen and I rode in a friend of my uncles’ car, an MG, he called it the Breeze, and cranked Lynard Skynard as we drove with the top down on the flat land east of Denver.  Now I am the proud owner of a 1979 MG convertible and engaged to a man who knows how to get it running.

I spent my college years and the few after wanting to learn and use herbal medicine, and now I am a novice practitioner, taking my knowledge and healing where modern medicine cannot; taking my knowledge and offering herbal medicine in place of modern methods, where it will not harm to do so, like diaper rash, and itchy bug bites, and earaches.

And I am on the verge of buying another vehicle that has long been on my list of vehicles I would like to own, a Subaru.

And I have surgery scheduled to correct my vision.

All these are possessions that could change in a moment, outward fixations that could be altered in a heart beat.  They are nothing, but in some way, everything.

Made possible by financial stability, by having a fiscally responsible partner, but also made possible by this internal thing, too.

When your every move is criticized, you begin to close up.  When your every move is accepted you begin to open.

When you go to do a task in your home, only to discover your partner has already completed it, there is a responsibility you revel in it.  How can it be that this person, fulfills all the things I thought were missing before, but chided myself, I am too demanding, I ask too much, he has too much to do.  No we all have much to do, and expecting your partner to help meet those things inside your own home IS NOT asking too much.

And of myself, still not always confident, still finding a spark of life, a rainbow of reflection every time I realize that my life has opened up, in so many many ways.

More than ordinary

The photographs of autumn are most populated by the brilliant oranges and reds of the maple trees, and now the leaves have all fallen and are scattered on the rain wet ground.  The brilliant white birches stand out against the black trees and the grey rocks that tumbled down the one translucent face of the hillsides.  Creeks rill crashing down rocky beds full with the downpour.  The tamarack needles are yellow and orange between the dark spruce trees that line the twisting sides of the road.  The grass is flaxen against some dried blood red low bushes, and the golden beech trees and golden oaks cast a light that shines out into my eyes.  I am caught in wishing for a camera to capture this beauty instead.

Unshielded

I unzip my body from chin to navel, not seeking serenity, but mystery.  I flay myself open like a formaldehyde scented frog.  All my insides exposed to the pinpricks of light, negative light, blue streaks of lightning grip me, the light of the Emperor.  Only now do you understand the power.  I speed past the gnarled maple against the clouded sky, wanting to paint it, to photograph it, to burn it in my eyeballs, to remember, but each morning it reappears, having been lost in the intervening 24 hours. What secrets lie within, guts spilled out what mystery waits to enter into me, like a waif, like a lover, like a rapist.  The wall of feeling hits my open wounds like peroxide, burning and foaming  – there is nothing tender but my strength, my embrace of protection, my tongue of truth, my bones of courage, my empty guts sprawling, languid on the scratched shining surface.

The liquid silver of the river as it breaks into the long shallow lake, sun rising on the far end, like mercury in my eviscerated body cavity.  Perhaps if I unzipped all the way to my vagina then the light of good would pour in.  I cannot open myself any more.  And I am scalded and shivering all at the same time.  I am weak kneed, bent and brittle, as though my joints have been hammered, as though I have the bends.  But I scrabble at my innards trying to expose more of myself to the universe.  Come inside, come inside.