He Becomes a Wizard(and yet)

My God does not speak English.

In meditation, it came to me the parallel between my sons and their silence with me, and my own silence with my maker. Not that I am in any way godlike, and not that their reasons are not justified, only this: regardless of what they said, whether it be a shriek or howl, I would flow to them. I would fill with joy that they turned to me at all. And this: whatever good I might bring into their lives is eclipsed by their right to shun shun me and my respecting their wishes.

If I were to shake my fist at God and curse his name, I believe he sees me and hears me only through the filter of love. He hears the message from my soul. If I curse him, he hears my fear. If I turn away, he honors the greatest gift he gave me: free will. If I turn back to him, he helps pick up the pieces and holds me while I cry. If I put the pieces in his hands, he becomes a wizard and makes them into something better and new.

And yet.

And yet I find myself cursing and turning and sifting for shards. I ignore, disbelieve, believe, and try to give names. It's draining work, especially when I've found over and over that I only need turn around and lift my arms. I only need cry out, and he takes me and holds me. He doesn't care what I call him. He just wants me to call him.

The Day Before Mother's Day

All my life I have been like a boy whistling in the dark.

I am a hand in water.

LINKS

French Journals:

http://www.lekraft.com/EN/A102/large_lite_green_notebook_superleggera.html

Clip Art, including vintage handwriting samples:

http://thegraphicsfairy.com/

Make your own charm jewelry:

http://shop.pickupsticks.net/

Commonplace books:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commonplace_book

Ephemera for Sale:

http://www.ephemerasvintagegarden.com/cottage-garden-55x85.html

I started doing crossword puzzles in 2006 when I was in Texas. I could barely sit still, I was so upset and anxious. I felt trapped in a place and couldn't figure out how to get out. when i get like that, my mind races and i become immobile. i will lie in my bed and stare at a blank wall until i fall asleep. here, now as i write there is no music. no sound but the fan which runs always and the 91 freeway.

I just got back from Mendocino Thursday. i slept all day Friday, worked yesterday and worked today. tonight is Halloween. everyone is going somewhere it seems except me and my tribe. it depresses me that we don't go out, but no one wants to go anywhere.

Austin, Ryan, and Danielle played airsoft today with friends in Brea. They were gone most of the day. Paige met them back here, and now Austin, Ryan, and Paige are all sleeping and Danielle is playing Nazi Zombies. I guess they're tired.

I wanted to go grocery shopping today, but i'm tired.

first day of my last week

i'm tired. i have nothing left to give. my children are making me eat. i'm fired from my job, but my last day isn't until this friday. they took away my email, so my hands are tied to the chair while i try to train a drug-addicted woman to replace me.

today she brought in knitting; a scarf she'd started. she let me "play with it," and i spent 6 hours knitting while answering her questions. i said, 'you brought this in for me, didn't you? you saw me programming Micah's Blackberry on Friday and you saw how calm I was.' she said, 'well you said you'd done it as a child and i know i'd go crazy if i just sat there all day.'

there were about 2" of knitting on the needles when i began, and by tonight there was about 10" of a scarf.

my hands are sore from knitting.

she suggested i buy my own needles tonight and some yarn and i could knit my own scarf tomorrow.

she understood my frantic need to do something with my hands even when i didn't.

what is that? ADHD? why do i calm down when my hands and mind are occupied?

in 2006 i lost everything.

how do you come back from that?

i'm frozen. daily life is a constant struggle for me, because always i am fighting down the thoughts of the things i've lost. it drains me.

i am blessed beyond measure. i have also worked myself to my current state of near-complete exhaustion.

i have nothing right now to give. no time, no money, not one moment unguarded. i can't write. i can't photograph. i can't decorate. i am frozen. i can't make jewelry. i can barely remember the woman i was before.

i don't know how to calm down. i don't know how to relax. i don't know how to earn an income we can live within. i don't know how to sleep alone at night.

you must talk and talk until morning

sleepy morning

it's morning and L is talking like she always does from the moment i walk in the door the thoughts i had last night before i slept, and at 2:30 am, and again at 5 have flown from my head like scattered pigeons or feral cats startled by the noise humans make last night i read Rumi, "the one who brought me here will have to take me home," he said. and i know he meant life but i thought love and wished someone would take me home. sleep beside me. arm draped across my waist, breath on my neck. but really, i like my bed wide and empty as a southern plain or pueblo air. sitting with the artists, we are all silent as morning should be. not filled with giggles and the chatter of an unstill mind. i like it here in this dark room and wish i could stay. my stomach clenches at the thought of going back out to the desk, phones, people who needed it yesterday and perfect. just stay here feeling my mind come back into my body down into my fingers

santa ana winds

the world is a cruel place. i don't know why this is so hard for me to get. just when i can't remember it any more, it reminds me. the cycle of life-death-rebirth. the inequality among us. perhaps because i'm an idealist. perhaps because of my past. what other time would i live in? what other country? i rock along, self absorbed, and something comes along to awaken me.

they gave me a car. not an old car. not a ridge runner like i would have bought for myself, but a nice car. i cried. i said thank you. but something in me felt deserving. i needed that car. i'd taken the bus too long.

just yesterday J called in in sick. the warehouse was empty of him. his lonesome coyote howls singing out in spanish as he sewed cut hemmed grommeted. the fresh coffee when i walk in. the clean parking lot. the plants watered. things. just. handled.

his sassy broken-english personality...'escuse me...i'm in my break.'....'escuse me...i'm in my lonsch.'....'escuse me...i'm'a no sing no more, you laugh at my song.'

no. i'd never laugh at you, J. i'm laughing in delight. you are delightful.

the warehouse empty of him. and today he shows up at work with a new haircut. i knew that last month he asked for a raise. i suspected he hadn't heard back. i don't know why they don't cherish him like the saviour of work that he is...covering other people's flaws. bleeding for the customer's sake. always limping from a knee injury playing soccer with his young son. limping from stepping on a huarrache when he pulled a balloon from the blades of the fan in his daughter's room.

when i was taking the bus he drove me home twice...20 minutes the opposite direction from his home...2 hours after he could have clocked out and gone. he spoke rapid spanish to his wife, explaining why he'd be late yet again....all i understood was 'UPS cerritos.' i laughed...'so that's my nickname, eh?' i asked him, 'UPS cerritos?' and he laughed...'i better watch! you e'speak spani.'

no. i no e'speak. yo quiero hablar, pero no puedo.

so today he shows up with cut hair and a jut to his chin. a man who'd made a decision. i could see it in his shoulders. i went to him at the cutting table. 'quit looking for another job.' i said. his eyes flew open. 'how you know?'

'i know.' i said. si, conosco. leaving was written all over his face. i've watched enough men say goodbye.

so i asked him to tell me about the new place. he swore me to silence. you no say nothing (nut-ting). no. i won't say anything. never mess with a man's income. that's what one father told his son in 1940's mendocino...'don't pick blackberries in that spot...you know that's _______'s spot. never mess with a man's income.'

so it unfolded...the interview. how he sewed for the man. showed him his straight seams and how fast. wow. the man said. J swelled with pride. i could have told him that. how the new place is near his home...no more 3-hour commute. 'now i'm'a go home for a warm lunsch.' he rubs his belly in a circle. anticipates the plates that will be waiting for him just around the corner. 'i save in gas. iss more better.' of course. no more crazy commute in an old car that pours out exhaust. 'he pay me one dollar an hour less, but if he do what he say, i show him i work hard and in a couple month he pay me two, three dollars an hour more.' i pat his shoulder. i understand. 'it's closer.' i say, 'you'll save in gas. lunch at home.' i walk away.

later, i ask him, 'so how much is he going to pay you?' 'thirteen,' he answers. my sneaky way of finding out. my eyes widen. 'you only make fourteen dollars an hour here?!' i'm incredulous. 'jess.'

he's worked for the company fourteen years. one dollar for every year he's been there. several times his eyes tear up. 'i'm a sad to leave here. fourteen year.' he says...eyes watering. yes....you've worked here all your adult life. 'jess.' glad i understand...beyond language, the bond of time. the lure of the familiar. i ask him how many hours a week he works, secretly calculating if i could cover any of a raise out of my own pocket. and i know he wouldn't take a penny from me.

'think of your kids, mija, think of your kids.' he says it kizz. i like the way he says it.

and i think of the car they gave me. yeah, good job, white girl. and how proud he was for me. not an ounce of envy. i want to call them all...the owners of the company, my manager...i want to yell, to plead, anything. something. hand him my keys. and i see him shaking his head. no mija. no. think of your kids. just sing for me....sing me besame mucho. the song i always start that he always finishes.