Spicy Lives

Generally, when I hear people talk 'variety' they're not very far from adding, "is the spice of life!" Indeed, it is, but just how many spices are there?

To my discredit, I just began dabbling in the arts of the kitchen, not always very well, but I have made a few tasty things, I think, although, note to self: never make family pumpkin-flavored things because they do not like pumpkin.

It's just that lately life keeps surprising me with its variety.

The other day I asked one of my students if she remembered my name, and she answered, "Of course not!" as if I needed a more definite way of saying 'no'. Then this weather- could the clouds dump any more on my icebox-where-my-heart-used-to-be-oh-OH! And this is the variety in my life, not even the variety of the lives I am privileged to interact with and I have been trying to be a part of a few more lives than I'm used to.

This isn't going to be about a post about how to get more empathy, or how to stop being boring, or five easy steps to do something in a more awesome way. No, right now, all I'm talking about is the very beginning: notice, watch, observe because that's all it takes to see variety. Even in 'cookie cutter' homes, like townhouses, maybe right down your street, have you ever really looked in those homes? Now, don't, like, you know, creep on the families, but think of it this way: it's hard to tell apart one bear from another, but it's pretty easy to tell apart one person from another, even with twins, Doppelgangers, and wannabes, everyone is different. And all those differences live in, generally, the same communities, or at least on the same planet.

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really merely commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the planning, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chain of events, working through generations and leading to the most outer results, it would make fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity

How many spices are there? I don't know, but let me tell you, apparently salt is not one of them and if salt is not one of them, goodGod, I haven't even grazed the surface of the variety of Life- these lives I am privileged to interact with.

I can't wait to dig deeper.

See, snow days can be good for something.

republished.

'talk less; listen more' -FB note (31 July 2012)

distracted by my dignity

there's nothing left but misery.

so swollen with my pride

now i've nowhere left to hide.

i am terribly frightened

although i've been slightly enlightened;

not breaking barriers

and certainly not creating warriors.

just getting warier.

i'm afraid my innocence is indecent,

playing too close to ignorance

blissfully choosing mediocrity,

adding doses to my hypocrisy,

pretending to understand

making everyone believe i can.

so now i'm lying through my teeth

and feel so sorrowfully beaten.

but any pity you think you owe me

reserve for the ones who beg for it.

because now i am overstepping my limited limits

and proceeding without delay into the great, wide world--

not to correct it,

nor to restore it,

and hardly to be it,

but to watch it, learn from it and, most certainly, enjoy it

but enjoying does not mean deploying my morality.

for instead of protection inside a bubble i'll wear Otherworldly steel

to combat everything that claims to be real.

this is more than a feeling,

more than a thought.

it's the possession of a hoe: watch me as i till the earth!

feeling!

tilling!

feeling!

tilling!

i am tilling with feeling!

i am hearing with beating!

i am watching and coming!

i am learning and teaching!

i am caring and nursing!

feeling!

tilling! tilling! tilling!

i am enjoying and discerning.

planting and watering,

but not always tilling, tilling, tilling!

because this world also requires harvesting and tending!

so no distraction ought to ever sanction

my dignity's overarching plea.

my Otherworldly armor will never fail me--

for it is not just my protection 

it also serves as a weapon

against the joys that i might worship

the treasures i might covet

and the people i might murder.

feeling!

tilling!

harvesting!

tending!

O, i am being! 

i am called onward!

now i must move

away from my depression!

away from my conceit!

away from the bacteria that insists upon obscuring everything that's created me:

the Bad and the Good,

for sometimes the Bad becomes Good 

and the Good becomes Bad.

never a matter of balance--

always a matter of discernment

which leads to

dignity as a distraction, misery and pride,

of course i've no where left to hide!

because learning always requires reviews:

i pardon the lesson learned fifty times;

i do not pardon the lesson never learned.

so with steel as armor and hoe;

so with seeds as lessons and dirt as the road

thus begins the journey into Eternity.

birds and paper planes

for emily

----

there are faces i see that i truly admire.
the mouth, the eyes,
but what is behind them?
i'm not sure i know what's behind my own.
oh, i feel as though i'm soaring-
i'm riding the wind.
but as a bird
or a paper plane?
birds can die.
they eat worms,
build nests- they live outdoors;
some shriek more than sing.
paper planes can't die,
which means
they can't
live.

birds and paper planes.
which one sees the faces that i truly admire?
the mouth, the eyes?
which one sees behind them?
now i see behind my own
and no longer see flight,
but only a flimsy sheet of directionless chance-
living, but refusing life.

i have loved your face,
but i have not loved you.

paper planes cannot love.
birds might feel pity.
paper planes cannot live.
birds might feel pity.

birds might feel.

i have seen my face-
i sometimes like it.
i do not pretend to wear or read it well,
but
my mouth, my eyes
are not yours for the taking.

now
i soar.