Party for the Dead

The first clear memory I have was of my Great-Grandpa Miller’s funeral.  I was 2 or 3 years old.  The memory goes like this:  I am standing at the casket on my tippy toes because I want to see my Great-Grandpa.  Really, I want to crawl in that sweet, super comfy-looking casket and cuddle up with him (my mom told me later in life that we had gone to the nursing home to visit Grandpa Miller on a weekly basis for a while before he died and I would always just crawl up in bed with him which he loved.  It's no wonder I wanted to continue with this tradition at his funeral.)  No one else is currently standing with me but there is a lot of chatter and movement around the room.  This must be the visitation.  My Grandma Baker (daughter of the deceased) comes up next to me as I am smashing my little fingers into the side of this man’s lifeless face, trying to get his attention.  Grandma says in a startled voice, “No, honey, don’t do that!  He’s sleeping.  Just let him rest.”  I was not in agreement with Grandma as there is this FANTASTIC party going on and Great-Grandpa Miller is missing the whole thing.  He certainly will be disappointed when he learns he slept through such a shindig.  My tiny hands cannot escape Grandma’s grip as she pulls me away from the casket, whining and resisting.  She plops me down in a corner with my cousins and we drink punch and play with the old, worn out church toys.  

So that was my introduction to funerals.  They were lively, full of colorful flowers, people I love and don’t get to see very often, fruit punch, and toys!  Whatever was happening was okay in my book.  If there were tears I didn’t notice them.  My mom let me run around with my cousins and consume massive quantities of sugar.  Life and death were not topics that concerned me, yet.  Plus, from then on, I always loved a good party.

//

A Love Story

 Sometimes I sing you songs.  I hum you melodies in hopes of calming those spiky, scattered spots of time in between your heart and your head.

I hold your hand.

Sometimes I brush the hair from your eyes.  I look right into you, so close our breath swims together into a combination of salty-sweet silence, and I say to your soul that you are going to be okay.

I feel the tension fall from you sometimes.  In a sigh.  In the way your body sinks right into place.

My hand holds your face.

We watch the leaves dance.  The flowers blossom.  The sun rise.  The waning of the moon.

We run in the snow.

We build a fire.

We allow our bodies to speak for us and never interrupt them with words or thoughts that can be so loud at most other times- when we are not together.

Sometimes I am in awe of you.  Your purity.  Your sincerity.  Your lust for life.

I think, how could anyone pass up such a person?  How could anyone be so blind as to ignore such a light?

Sometimes I tell you stories.  I watch your pupils shrink as you feel the depths of the emotion within the darkness.  I watch them grow black as you accompany the joy within the victories.

I listen to you laugh and, no matter what, I will smile.

Sometimes our bellies ache with laughter.

We plant seeds.  We make plans.  We paint.  We watch our step.  We shut off the lights when we leave the room.

We eat ice cream.
Every bite is an experience.  We want to tell each other what that experience means to us but it usually comes out as nonsense.  So, we take another bite.

We will have laugh lines by age 40 and we will wear them proudly.

We share.

Sometimes we lay in the grass and talk about our fears.

We create a language.

When toes entangle, we fall away from the earth.  We fall for years and miles and land softly.  Ever present.

Sometimes our skin starts to sizzle in the sun as the birds take form with their flock and the clouds write  us novels.

We grow separately and we grow together.

Sometimes we are exactly the seasons and the trees and the music that tells of our trials and triumphs. 

We say goodnight.
We say good morning.

We are all of the names we can think of.

Sometimes.

Let me out.
Don't tell me everything.
Started out like any other day.
Must've gave the wrong impression.
Don't you understand where I belong?

I'm not the one.


Stand again.
They say nothing comes for free.
And that's the truth- been living in a fantasy.

Slip and slide.
The head-trip heaven
Self-denial's such a wonderful, powerful thing.

I'm not the one.

The morning dove sings.
With two broken wings.
Carry me home.
I'm not afraid.

The stars in my eyes
were shimmering lies.
Carry me home.
Don't let me fade.

Stop the press
The kid's light is growing dim.
Took a month long slide
Then the world came caving in.

When you self destruct you wind up looking
for a girl or a hug
but the writing's on the wall.

I'm not the one.

The morning dove sings with two broken wings.
Carry me home.
I'm not afraid.
The stars in my eyes were shimmering lies.
Carry me home.
Don't let me fade.

Just how thick is your skin?
Just how sharp are your teeth?
Oh, you've got a lot to learn.

Is there somewhere else that I can win?
Is there something else to start over again?
From the summit's edge to the cutting room floor.

I will be afraid...
NO MORE.

The morning dove sings with two broken wings.
Carry me home.
I'm not afraid.
The stars in my eyes were shimmering lies.
Carry me home.
Don't let me fade.
Away...

My goodnight poem

To ebb and to flow. 

To be and to grow. 

To dim and to glow.

To let the heart sink and simmer below. 

Without holding it in so that no one can know. 

To let the mind float and wander above. 

That is the authentic dance of a dove. 

To raise and to praise.

To challenge the haze.

To inspire and to gaze. 

To lead by example through life's little maze.

To point towards the light while her wings are ablaze. 

When's there's more of the world and less of you to think of. 

That is the true shining symbol of love. 

The Discovery of Flight

I was fourteen years old when I first learned of my ability to fly.  I’d heard of it before, sure, but I had little faith in the idea.  In fact, I dismissed human flight at quite a young age and gave in not another thought up until that fateful day in July of 1996.

            My family and I went on multiple “family vacations” every year, from our union as a family when I was two years old, on.  We went all over the United States; always by way of road trip.  These vacations were nature-oriented, full of discovery, and never left me disappointed.  Still, I had a longing for a place I’d seen on the Discovery Channel and read about in National Geographic from very early on in my life.  Alaska.  You see, when I was four years old, my father informed my older brother, Nathanial, and I; that you had to be fourteen to get into Alaska.  “That’s the law.” He said.  My brother, being 8 years older than me, only had a few years to go at that point.  But from that moment on, it was the land I dreamt about.  As we got closer to the lawful Alaskan age, we were also informed of a new rule.  “You have to pay half of your way to get to Alaska, it’s not cheap you know.”  My father would say.  Well, paying for it meant fixing something in, on, or around the house for the entire spring and first month of summer.  “Piece of cake!” I often thought.  My folks went to Alaska every year.  Each year to a different region of the vast state.  By the time I was 14, my brother had gone twice already.  It was my turn.

            On July 22, 1996 at 2am our family drove to the Des Moines International Airport which took an agonizing 1.5 hours.  The anticipation of my first time in an airplane had come and gone.  The childish fears and defiance had no more room in my world.   The flight was smooth and sleep-filled; nothing compared to the one I was to encounter later that day.  A slight lay-over in Denver at 7am and then a straight shot to our destination.

            As the plane slowly circled down to the Anchorage International Airport, I saw the land that so perfectly mirrored the images I had seen in those dreams of mine.  Foggy clouds danced around the tips of the mountain tops like steam from a locomotive.  Everyone on the plane shifted upright and towards their nearest window.   At 2pm we had arrived.

            With smiles, the three of us exited the plane, gathered our belongings, and took to our rental car.  There was a café immediately across from the airport and we were hungry.  As we sat eating heartily, my father looked at me.  “You’re not sick of being in the air yet, are you?”  Confused, I replied, “No… why?”  “Well, because we’re going back up in about an hour.”  I was very confused at this point and a little worried and apparently so was my mother.  “Dear?  What are you talking about?”  She asked, scrunching up her forehead.  My father chuckled and said, “Not in an airplane.  You’ll see.”  Now, eager and anxious, I inhaled the rest of my food and was ready to go.  I shuffled my feet, impatiently as my parents finished their lunch at an annoyingly normal rate.  When they were finally done and we left the café, my mother and I were again confused.  Dad was walking down the road, away from our rental car.  As we called to him in protest, as though he’d forgotten what the car looked like (which was a pretty typical thing for my dad to do) he beckoned us to follow him.  I still remember how he looked with the orange glow of the sun overcast by clouds, his tobacco pipe dangling from his mouth, and the smoke from his pipe winding up and mixing with the fog as if celebrating a reunion.  “Talkeenta Air Taxi” read the old cabin-style sign on the front of the building.  I no longer had to wonder, I suddenly knew what we were in for.  I was terrified. 

            A Helicopter tour through Mount McKinley?  Was my father nuts?  We were going to die.  I just knew it.  The pilot was not a small man.  He introduced himself as Murray.  He had a large beard, like my father, yet his had not yet been seasoned with the salt and pepper of an experienced traveler.  Murray also had somewhat of a “beer-belly” this disturbed me because I instantly came up with the notion that all pilots are physically fit.  Especially a helicopter pilot.  Apparently I was the only one with the prejudice.  My mother was ecstatic.  My father was shuffling us along, as he’d already made arrangements and the tour was ready to begin.  If you knew my father, you’d know there’s no backing out when he’s made the plans.  This helicopter was very small.  This helicopter did not seem strong nor thick enough to carry the weight of its four occupants.  This helicopter was going to explode in mid-air, right in the heart of Mount McKinley.  Of this I was certain.  The pilot insisted on us all wearing goggles and headsets.  For some reason he also insisted; as did my folks, on me sitting in front with him.  Good Lord.  I silently obliged.  The take-off was rocky; my hands were numb and unusually white; probably due to the intensity in which I was squeezing both sides of my seat.  I was unaware of how fast a helicopter could elevate.  In no-time we were at a steady coast amidst the breathtaking landscape.  My hands lost their grip and my racing heart slowed to a rhythmic bass-beat.  Somewhere from ground level to here the sky had become as clear blue as the glaciers we could see below.  The river reflected the sky and the sky responded the same.  As the water and air spoke to each other; then to us, we could hear nothing but the whir of the helicopter blades.  Murray no longer had to prove to me of his flying skills.  He took us to the edges of mountains and showed us the secrets of the nature of this land.  There were 2 bears in the distance, running up the mountainside, away from something or towards it, it didn’t matter.  Murray hovered awhile as the bears faded into the snow and the clouds.  We went further through the tunnels of Mount McKinley and further through her open sky.  The clouds listened to us as we came and welcomed us by parting; as if to lead us to our next destination:  A glacier.  Murray elegantly lowered his chariot onto a large formation of ice.  He then shut of the engine and we exited onto the ice.  The silence of our surroundings was immensely more shocking once those blades were no longer spinning.  As I stood on this great mass I heard grumblings from the distance.  Crashes.  As though a century old war within Mother Nature was taking place in our presence.  As if the past allowed us in for a brief glimpse to show us just how small we really are.  The sound of glaciers left me awestruck. 

            The four of us re-entered the helicopter about twenty minutes later and headed back to the tour station; this trip no less astounding than the first.  As we hovered lower and lower towards the landing target I accepted the truth:  The realization that I could truly fly.  I’ve never forgotten that fact and re-learn it every chance I get.  Once you know what you can see when you take flight; the boundaries are endless.

Stream

What can I do to be clear here?  Why do I need to be clear and who must I clarify to, anyway?
No reason.  No one.

The depths of the darkness and despair can really take awhile to swim out of.

A true desire to be well and present can conflict with disorders, trauma, defects...  A person can have great passion for life and still be confined to the shackles of their own mind.

To be free.
To fly.
To feel.

Then to fall.

To rise again and be willing to walk.  Be willing to start at a crawl.

Is there a surrender here?

The beginning began long ago.

Get up.

Thought bubbles can burst and out will come a thousand strands of confetti filled with delusions and clouds of darkness.  These are lies.

Keep getting up.

With each layer of barb removed-- out will come more truth.  It may be ever so slow to come.  It may hurt.

To fly one must feel.
To feel one must simply BE.

To grow we must let go.

How bright the colors get when we wake up.

Wake up.

The smell of the air in a fall morning.

The hum of my heart as I sit still for God.

Every moment is a chance.  A choice.

Channel this gift.

Keep waking up.

Then move.

Forward motion is the only way towards progress.

Stop to love.  Take love with you.  Give it away.

Keep moving.

Little Bird

There was once a joyous little bird.  She chirped and smiled at everyone who passed her by.  She loved, completely.  It was easy for her to adore the entire planet and all of its creatures.  The ones tiny like her.  The pretty ones.  The big ugly ones.  Even the growly ones.  The birds closest to her had lived a lot of life and were especially unpredictable.  They did not smile often.  There was much blame and resentment and guilt towards the world around them which caused them to scowl.  To scream.  To invite hate in and to act out in fear, often.  But when the bird would cock her head and smile at them they would usually soften a bit.  She was clever as well and learned the magic of laughter very early on in her little bird life.  If she could make them laugh things would go much better.  Fiery explosions would subside quickly.  And she LOVED to make them laugh because the trees would fill with song and the leaves would shake with joy.
Soon, however, jealousy began to sprout up in the hearts of those she loved the most.  They resented her joy, her smile, her laugh.  They envied the ease of her daily life.  She was quite small.  The others were much bigger than her.  They had powerful wings and sharp, sharp beaks.  She had only her laugh and her smile.  When tensions were high and the storms would roll in the others began to use Little Bird.  They used her as a tool, a weapon, an instrument to get what they wanted or to win their battles.  Whether they were preying on her in private out of sheer madness or tethering her between each other to get their point across.  Little Bird was getting tired quickly.
Her wide-open heart began to hurt.  Too often exposed to the flames, it began to harden like theirs.  Scars from the open wounds grew around this enlarged heart, yet it would not shrink.
Her smile and her laugh remained but rather than coming from her soul and a place of truth, they started coming out as a reflex of the mind and an armor built from fear.
The bird had to pretend so that she would be okay.  She had to smile so the world would not envelope her.  She would not be swallowed whole.  Her world was at constant war.

Year passed and the bird found many more shields.  Much thicker armor. More effective weapons.  They weighed down her wings so that now she could only hop from place to place.  Always landing with a thud.
The other birds multiplied by the hundreds so her collection of protection had to increase with them.
Little Bird would lose many battles.  All of them, in fact.  But her mind had gotten her this far in life.  She had no idea she was losing anymore.  The dents and the scars and the dark circles under her eyes were just symbols of character, she thought.  Proof that she was a fighter.

The little bird forgot her name.  She forgot her home.  She forgot her heart was buried under all of this chain and sheath and metal.

As more time passed Little Bird found herself right in the middle of an epic conflict.  There was a powerful storm.  One she had never been a part of before.  The lightning and thunder played out constantly with the brightest flashes and the loudest booms Little Bird had ever witnessed.  It was flooding.  Trees were catching fire.  She was not quick or light.  In truth, she could barely move with so much weighing her down.  But she kept swinging her sword as each opponent approached, she would lash out with her weapons.  Finally her wings and her feet collapsed as her sword fell to the ground.  Little Bird's eyes closed.

"Little Bird.  Do you know where you are?"

A bright, painful light flooded into Little Bird's eyelids.  She squinted.  Blinked.  Surrounding her were familiar faces.  Smiling.  Concerned.  Someone had removed her helmet and her chain mail.
She could see more clearly but was still very unsure as to what had happened.

"It's you.  You're back," the Robin to the left of her chirped.  "You were screeching and flailing and fighting for so long.  Jumping from the branches and falling so far then climbing back up again; waving your sword around like a bat with rabies!  We did not know if you would ever come back to us."

"I had to fight.  I was surrounded," Little Bird squeaked.
"No.  It was only you.  You were fighting yourself." The Owl said.

Little Bird squirmed a bit, puzzled.  She forced herself upright.  The body armor and shield were still on.  She attempted to put them off but was too weak.  Together, her fellow birds picked her up and helped her shed the armor, at last.

Little Bird hopped a bit.  Shaky but hopeful.  Her family smiled.
"It's going to be okay.  You don't have to fight anymore."  Said the Eagle.  She believed him.  Little Bird looked down at her bright pink chest and saw her heart beating strong.  She felt it, too.  She felt the scars and began to remember that they were still there.  They were still real.

"What do I do about that?" Little Bird asked.
"Give it time." said Robin.  "You haven't forgotten your laugh and you surely haven't forgotten to smile.  Your heart will heal with time."  Little Bird caught her reflection in a puddle of rain water and saw that she was, indeed smiling.  Then she remembered her name.  She remembered her home.

Little Bird knew now that she did not have to pick up her weapons.  She did not have to pick up her shields.  With a few more hops she began to flutter her wings.  She could float a little but she could still not fly.
The Eagle looked at Little Bird and said, "The wounds are only on the surface of your heart and they will heal.  Your wings will get stronger and you will fly again."
Little Bird was okay with just hopping and fluttering for today.  She joined her friends and understood, with great joy, that she was home.