selah

Chilled like wine, the evening prepares the sky

ontheverge27 — Sun, 10 May 2009 23:52:40 +0000

The night air is moving in. If a neatly trimmed lawn hosted a firepit, I would gladly start it. For now, rampant lavendar violets and white ghost-like dandelion heads float above a wildly unkept lawn. From where I sit, on the wicker loveseat that previously resided in the loneliness of my mother’s basement, I can hear the playful shouts of neighborhood children and am suddenly noticing the way trees have blossomed, seemingly overnight. I love this yard. I fell in love here in this yard, when things were still brown and sleeping.

Today my mind flashed back to my ex. I was mid-workout and something pure was streaming through my ipod when I thought back to the weak creature that I used to be. Momentarily, I lost sight of my reality and his angry screams filled my thought, the rage that was tangible in our old home. My poor kitten thrown across the room, my poor stepdaughter broken down by accusations and punishments. I felt like he hated me and at best, had a mild sense of annoyance and tolerance toward me. It was sick, the pathetic way he tried to gain my trust back. Like I was too dim-witted to recognize his efforts as fraudulent. Now in the light of true love, a pulsing truth is nourished and beats even stronger in my heart; I am not those lies I was once told. I freed MYSELF to enjoy my life. La vida es un carnaval, como dice Celia. Gratitude as a word does not capture the love I feel for myself and for God.

I am an overcomer (through Jesus, thanks to God). I have overcome already. I am scarred, I am a warrior wrapped in a cloak. You can feel my spirit and sense patience, focus. My spirit is enchanting and hidden, it belongs to the earth and my ancestors and most of all, to God.

Flamenco

ontheverge27 — Fri, 01 May 2009 01:26:45 +0000

His beard is more of a mustache. It is elaborate and ornate, curling up at the edges like fancy calligraphy. The edges are a silhouette in the dark candle-lit restaurant because his head is dipped slightly at an angle, as if he is studying the chords glowing from the Spanish guitar he strums. But he’s not looking. His eyes are closed blissfully and no smile breaks his tranquil face.

The 50s style diner was a quick convert to rich tapestries of red and black; dresses and cuadros reminiscent of women who passed down a generational secret to their daughters.

I look at you. You look like how I feel, captivated at Lisa’s movement. Her skirt follows hips, lower back and strong arms that make a statement each time they snap together in a magnetic clap above her head. Red roses adorn both girls’ hair, a sharp contrast against the black latin features and olive skin. The dance is older than its stories and I think it reminds me of you; timeless, easy, existent. Carrying on like a tradition with no question. Enchanting and dependable. Strong like the stomping of the dancers’ feet, patient like the guitarista.

Laughing, sharing red wine darker than the roses, we speak of Lisa’s abuelita and indulge the owner showing us photos of the girls in their youth. We hold hands in the night when it’s time to go. My soul has seldom been so peaceful.

Boy with a Coin

ontheverge27 — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 12:39:25 +0000

I tried to download Boy with a Coin. The richness, the layers, like chocolate would set a thick background for writing about you. But I settled on Ave Maria. You just dropped me off at the airport. On the way, we rode in silence, just Jay-Z did all the talking. It was early, not even daybreak. Now I sit here and wait for light to unblacken the sky and that soft blue before sunrise start like your yawns in the car, coming up from inside the rise of the lungs of the planet and stretching through the mouth. For a few precious moments, before the sun’s rays reach us, a lavender hue brushstrokes all of the sky. I have heard it good luck to birth your children between the two lights; daybreak and sunrise.

In the car you couldn’t stretch if you wanted to. Your 6’5” frame almost touches the ceiling as it is. The whole time we rode I thought about our question game last night and how I told you the worst secret about me. You know the most shameful truth of me and still your hand rested on my thigh with the same weight, same presence, same calm.

You truly love me. You carry no pretense. I imagine you at yoga today, sleeping, shockingly reprimanding Rube, calking my bathroom. You remind me of my grandfather’s bread, whole and filling, the taste of honey. You hold me close and gently, kissing the top of my head and laughing with me. You sit with me on kitchen counters late at night and think I am always beautiful. Wine in a paper cup and the smell of earth and wet leaves are my first memories of you. When I realize my body will return to that same earth I want you beside me.

If I am the boy, thoughts of you are my coin. Sleeping, I will dream of my spot, of your lips, closed-eye kisses, your lifegiving smile, your hand tracing the arch of my back, a slow yielding curve. Easy and natural, timeless. Just like us.

Monday Morning Flight

ontheverge27 — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 12:37:54 +0000

I fell in love and missed my flight

Billie Holiday told me to watch out for your eyes

You smiled first with your eyes, my sight

Changed; all details of life became peripheral to you

And that slow smile warming my soul like sunshine

Calls missed, candles lit, meals shared across a table

I love yous falling like raindrops off the roof of the back porch

Waking up to your soft skin against my face

I kiss your tattoos and fall back asleep to your hand smoothing my hair

Passing you the ball, riding shotgun, blue rubber gloves

It’s all love, I got you Amor

My step is a little lighter now and time is measured

Between one embrace to the next.

Her

ontheverge27 — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 02:41:56 +0000

I see her through a window, through a canvas, through the eyes of her lovers. She is elegant and desperate. She holds tightly to her heart until it breaks free from her grasp. She’s too proud to run after it. Her gaze is defiant, her face unsmiling studying you for a trace of honor, authenticity, hope. She is guarded. Her body flirts with you, legs splayed provocatively in candlelight, hair falling around her breasts. Naked and guarded all at once. Hips curve in soft brush strokes, suggesting skin soft to the touch of lips. She leans back on her right palm as if she is awaiting your arrival. Calm as a heavy conch shell, she is a secret you think you know. Dark flashing eyes dare you to wonder about the spirit behind them, the thoughts masked by her exposed physique. She’s too much. Desired, celebrated even, alone. The canvas hosts no other. Candle flames blow and beckon, dancing around a moment frozen by oil paint. Mischievous, embellishing, enchanting, they illuminate her vulnerability.

Look at the Serpent Biting you

ontheverge27 — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 01:26:16 +0000

“If you want to be healed, you must look at the thing biting you.” His voice resonated calmly like he was patiently explaining something to a child. Is that how God feels? I thought. We run around with serpents and then cry for a bandaid when he already has a remedy posted in bronze.

Today she said I reach out sexually when I don’t feel safe. “Don’t confuse safety.” What a mess. Has this always been my refuge? A false shelter of temporary safety that falls apart and ultimately leaves me exposed to the elements? Rain seeping through my skin and streaking strands of hair to my face and I can’t even open my eyes without taking in dense drops. Sigh. Breathe in like Leah’s yoga class and get real, real really down to the business of me. Exhale. Let grains of sand sift through and look at what is left. A snakebite. Somehow in downward dog I can take it in curiously and objectively, like its not part of my body.

Just as I am, without One plea. My dad said that is true. God I know it is. Thank you. You are the rain. Help me know which is the bronze serpent and which is the real thing. Wash away the serpents that bite me. To look at yourself and your snakebites and your serpents is ugly so get ready girl.

I close my eyes and move the pose. My body is settling into itself; movements melt into each other. I flex my toes and draw fresh oxygen into my lungs, my chest rises to receive it. I am aware of you, heart. I hope you are aware of me.

ontheverge27 — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 23:07:29 +0000

Soft, glistening, glittering snow falls in fluffy flakes through the dark air. I am driving and from the warm comfort of my driver’s seat, I have a fascinating view stopped at an intersection. As the confetti precipitation passes the beam of the red street light, it takes on a pink hue. This kind of snow is totally magical.

I have seen snows like this before. I remember one in particular last year when I was leaving a coffee shop on a Sunday evening, my thoughts and my heart tortured with the burden of a broken heart. I looked up in the dark Starbucks parking lot and felt peace as the snow kissed my face. Illuminated by the lights in the lot, the snow resembled the tinsel on my parents Christmas tree. I prepared to head back to their home (where I was staying) and my angst just melted away. I felt enchanted by the sparkling weather and realized that my family was not an estranged husband but the people keeping a light on for me in their home.

Sweet sweet sweet

ontheverge27 — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 16:34:33 +0000

It’s the dream where you are falling but you know it’s a dream. Giving up the stability of your steady ground, you give up your footing in volition and take the risk that crosses every human being’s mind when confronted with the startling view of a plunging depth below. You free fall and in the dream there is no fear or impeding sense of mortality. Just the pleasure of the breeze on your face and the sickly sensation that you may not know where this is going.

Once I ate an Asian dessert made of sweetened peaches. They were like little balls which had floated in syrup for a length of time. I almost threw up trying to eat one. It was too sweet and the sensation stayed in my mouth for a good half an hour. Even imagining it, my lips curdle in anticipation.

You are kind of like that. Meant to be a sweet present, meant to compliment my life like dessert compliments a meal, meant to bring an assurance of freedom, there is a part of you that is too sweet, too inhibiting, too much. I force myself to pull back even as I feel the freefall taking over. It’s awful. I have been on this trip before and I’ve never come out unhurt. How could it possibly be different with you? Each time I don’t hear from you, each time I feel myself reaching too far, I think “oh no Em, don’t go there again.” Love is so tricky. Even in saying it, I know I could love you. But should I?

Breathe

ontheverge27 — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 01:28:32 +0000

Hi friend. Have you done this lately? Without guilt or burden, without stress or pain, without pressure? Your pain will make your joy all the more intense. And, my sweet, loving friend, you will have joy. Be hopeful. Treasure your children. Close your eyes without that pitted worry in your stomach and when you sleep, remember that your children are safely dreaming in their beds.

I’ll never leave you, ever. I heard on the radio this morning that Jesus said something on the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew chapter 6 I think) “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Your season of pain is over, honey. It’s okay to be happy about that. Look around you. Does it look different? New? Can you walk at a pleasant stride with no fears or worry? You were meant to be free, love.

Live now. Live for yourself, for God, for your children. Live in the gratitude that God has brought an ocean of peace to your life. Waves wash over you, the salty taste of wild rhythm bringing life to your taste buds. Swim through it, wade in it, live in this water you love. Let yourself be swept away and baptized with these waves of peace. Wear the ocean, wear the gratitude and the safety and the protection of something so final like jewels on your neck. Your children will watch you swimming and follow your lead, strong and carefree, their wet curls crowning them.

I am

ontheverge27 — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 01:09:38 +0000

I am a smile

I am the energy that makes you want to dance to the radio when you wash the dishes alone in the kitchen

I am singing from the shower

I am complex and wounded, I am a chipped china cup

I am exquisite and mysterious

I am an unwrapped present

I am a set of open watercolors, drying messily

I am the soothing steam rushing upward from a warm hot chocolate held in grateful hands

I am the hug you needed

I am the old piano, affectionately called “albatross,” whose ivory has been worn away by past players’ hands

I am the humming of a mother nursing her child

I am bubbles in your champagne, bringing laughter to the surface of your heart like the bubbles rising

I am the soft, sultry glimpse of lingerie, a flash of silky sexiness passing by the doorway of your dream

I am silent and stoic, poised and tracing the lines of my neck with a sole finger while writing alone in a cafe

I am your girlfriend bringing coffee to you at work and dishing all the juicy gossip while simultaneously complimenting your jewelry and new hairstyle.

I am your sister and your friend.

I am the daughter who hugs you every time and never leaves without saying “I love you.”

I am an unsolicited dish cooked for you, with love and delivered with no fuss.

I am a love song, unplayed . . .