grenades

This was actually written last week, but due to technical difficulties, I am posting it today.

This morning while listening to "Europe Today" I heard the story of a soldier from Turkey who died while holding a grenade. He was caught falling asleep while on duty, so as punishment his commanding officer handed him a grenade, pulled the pin and insisted the soldier hold it as he walked away. The reporters covering the story were asking why this man had not done what most of us would likely do; throw it as far as we could in one direction, and run in the opposite direction. Why had this man obeyed the order to hold on to certain death, awaiting the inevitable moment his palms would become increasingly sweaty and shaky and the grenade would slip through his hands, detonating beneath him. Three other soldiers nearby died as well. Okay, clearly the power dynamics were fucked here for a superior to implement this "teaching moment" or whatever it was, but I also have to wonder what other grenades was this man carrying for him to lack the conviction to save himself? Why was he continually falling asleep at work? Was he holding up this grenade because he was commanded to? For what reasons does someone just accept their situation instead of risking the possible repercussions of launching it across the field? Perhaps he thought he was capable of holding it forever. I began to think about the three soldiers also killed in the explosion. Why were they so close to the grenade? Were they trying to convince him to keep holding the bomb, did anyone even suggest he get rid of it? Perhaps they too were forced into a deadly choice. It is strange to imagine being in such a situation, forced to hold such power and certain death. Heart racing, palms getting sweatier by the minute, concentrating on not moving, thinking or breathing too much, holding this burden of imminent destruction in your hands. I try to imagine the other grenades he might have been carrying, tucked deep into his cargo pant pockets or carefully cradled in his backpack, padded to avoid detonation. I am thinking of all the explosive devices we carry ourselves, the bombs others hand us; the ugliness that sometimes comes out of a lover's mouth, plops into our arms, pin already pulled. We look at it and think it best to pocket it, shove it down deep so we can't see it, but still we can feel its roundness, its power when we brush up against its formidable shape or as it is retrieved occasionally to reexamine and inspect its killing power.

The grenades of our own making, the ugly and negative thoughts that keep us from feeling free, prevent us from launching it westward and running east. We hand ourselves the grenades to be sure, pulling our own pins with choices we make, people we continue to love and addictions we feed. Pretty soon, we can start to feel heavy, burdened with small and large grenades that we carry for ourselves, that we carry for others. Our cargo pockets are bulging, our backpacks heavy and our spirits broken. We are unable to think of the possibility that we could lighten our own load. The pain and criticism of a past does not need to burden us, we can launch our bombs away from our bodies and not let them drop to our feet. The soldiers that surround us should be encouraging, reminding us of our options, our strength, our possibilities. About a year and half ago I began pulling out my own grenades from my cargo pant pockets, grenades handed to me over a lifetime when I felt weak, insecure, and doubtful. I had made the unfortunate decision to hold onto them instead of launching them, tucking them deep within hoping they would just go away, diffuse on their own or corrode and no longer be such a risk. They do not go away and will eventually detonate as you pass over a large bump in the road, or someone trips you up. I hope the tragedy of this soldier becomes bigger than a five minute story on the radio. I believe he will come to mind the next time someone tries to hand me a load of bullshit. I would like to believe that I am capable of refusing his grenade or if I am too late, I will continue to believe in the launch.

underwear on head 3/09

While walking on the beach today I noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the sand. For some reason I reached for it and picked it up. It was a photograph of a young girl probably about 5 or 6. She had bright red hair and had a pair of underpants on her head fashioned like a hat. She had a large smile on her face, most likely because of the underwear on her head. It was a cute picture and something my own daughter has done as she laughs hysterically. I turned the photo over and written on the back in pencil was "underwear on head, 3/09". It seemed laughable to label a photograph like this. It was so obviously a girl with underwear on her head. There did not seem to be any room for misinterpretation. I started thinking about labeling certain memories of my own, scribbling something in pencil on the back of the photo paper, followed by the month and the year. There are memories I struggle to remember as I get older, as well as those moments that are inevitably etched into my brain. It is almost like the good memories fade faster for me than the more traumatic memories. I would love to be able to peel out all the negative memories from my photo album, label the backs of the photo paper with the event and the date, then scatter them across a windy beach. I could release any ownership I still claimed of these moments, leaving them partly sticking out of the sand for someone else to discover, glance at the rawness of a stranger's life only to drop them to the ground and move on. After contemplating a few of the pictures I might collect from my albums, label and then scatter, I came up with these moments; the first moment in public school when I felt insignificant and ugly 5/83. The moment I used someone just to make myself feel better, 9/89. The day I made someone else's day miserable, 7/98. The moment I realized I would have to break my marriage vows, 3/08.

Conversely there are moments that defy labels, when writing on the back of the photo would be laughable, like the underwear on the head moment. The day my daughter was born. The day I realized that the path my life could take was up to me, completely. The day I closed the door on my own slow death and made the choice to live again.

I like to imagine that I can I hear the snap of the shutter and a bright flash of light documenting every day that I wake up and begin to create new moments. At age 36, I now understand that I can have a portfolio of scattered negativity or albums bursting with brilliant points of color lining my shelves.

50/50

I am currently negotiating the fine line between offering myself and losing myself. It probably isn't a very brilliant topic to blog about but seems to be occupying my brain today. Which really is the larger point of this blog. I tend to have things circulate around my head repeatedly and love the opportunity for release. For the three of you that may occasionally read this blog, I thank you for understanding that my blog is merely one more way to help me move through this life with more substantial, meaningful strokes. The title of my blog translates into "where are you taking me?" Well, I really have no clue, but I am certain there is pleasure to be found there.

So back to being torn between giving parts of myself, my time, my love, my stuff and the expectations that come with receiving others. I don't think this is a very unique dilemma, in fact when you trim the leafy greens off our days, scrub, peel and boil it all down, what you end up with, I believe, is often a batch of 50/50. What am I getting out of this experience? If I do this for you, what will you do for me? Where is my share? The collective desire in general seems to be for life to shake out into equitable portions. Every day breathes moments when I am capable of giving more than I am handed back, or conversely, feeling guilt for taking more than my share. I want to love someone because I find them to be an irresistible human; beautiful, humorous, graceful and damn brilliant at times, not how they may love me back. I want to give someone my time because I can and not in turn mapping out the moment their time becomes mine. It seems impossible to expect a fistful of nothing after handing over jewels. It seems equally impossible to exist in a place where deals are constantly being made between lovers, spouses, roommates or family. Life leads toward a sense of division and vapidness when contracts must be re-negotiated for the cleaning of a toilet, scheduled moments of intimacy, grocery store receipts that are inked up and circled with arrows pointing out MY lettuce and YOUR cheese, or child rearing that is up to me today, you tomorrow. What happens to a sense of community when we go 50/50? We seem to be pulled toward opposite ends of the relationship, like during the third phase of mitosis when the daughter chromosomes are pulled toward polar opposite sides, nearly reaching the completion of a cell dividing. In healthy tissue, the rate of cell division needs to match the rate of cell destruction. I am aware that a balance must be struck between giving and saving, with separation as a motivation for growth. I get that, but I am not always able to define that moment when I tip the balance in favor of loss over gain, when more of my cells are dying than dividing. It really comes down to the moment when I should have said no instead of nothing. I am beginning to understand lately that saying no does not necessarily negate the success of your community. I understand I have the option to pocket the jewels and dance alone.

stripping down

I recently booked a weekend getaway to Breitenbush hot springs near Detroit, Oregon. The woman on the phone asked me if I had ever been a guest before, I said no, I had not. I heard her shuffle some papers and imagined she might have shifted in her seat, to make herself more comfortable as she began a ten minute introduction of what to expect when we arrive. I had a pretty good idea of what she was going to tell me, so I sat back and paid casual attention to her words. She spent about one minute on the concept of a swimsuit optional community. "Most people do not wear swimsuits here, but we encourage you to do what makes you most comfortable while you are visiting". She then moved on to the list of what items to bring, what to leave behind, what is available and what is not. There is no cell service within miles and miles of Breitenbush. No wifi, internet, no electrical appliances are permitted. If a coffee pot is plugged in the entire electrical system might be thrown off track. Really? Leave your perfumes, scented lotions, glass containers, camping stoves, booze, cigarettes and drugs behind. It seemed to me that the lack of clothing was not as shocking as perhaps the lack of technology, stimulants, Internet service and cellular capabilities. I started thinking about nakedness. Removing complications from our lives. Stripping down. Someone recently said to me, my life is so complicated. I just want simplicity. What complicates our lives? What hassles and frustrates us? How do we move beyond complications into simplicity? As the woman on the phone kept talking about the hot springs community I pictured a woman, tall, curvy, dressed in a long skirt, black pumps on her feet, tight blouse, billowy scarf hanging over her neck, all much too formal for this place. Her hair is freshly brushed, pinned and fastened on her head. As she gets out of her car, one of her high heels falls off into the dirt. She does not reach for it. The other leg extends out and is planted firmly on the ground. With a quick jerk of her leg the other shoe drops to the ground. One by one, articles of clothing are peeled away, shimmied down thighs, stepped out of, slid over shoulders, then arms, and hands. Layers peeled and discarded on the ground leaving a fabric trail from car to water. She is finished with clothing. Now she unplugs the wires extending from her ears to her music. Drops the whole contraption into the grass. Takes a cell phone from her purse and places it on a rock near the path she walks. Leaves the purse near the stream which runs toward the hot pools. One by one she removes the rings from her fingers tugging, pulling them off. They fall haphazardly into small holes likely dug by rodents. A wrist watch lies face down near a tree trunk. With one last shift, she tilts her head to the right and gently slaps her left as if to remove any water from her ear canal. With a slow shake of her head from side to side, the remainder of the television show she watched last night falls from her ears to the ground like water droplets, both small and large combine to form a small pool beneath her legs. Gone, cleaned out. With a deep satisfying exhale she exhumes the argument she had with her lover that morning and watches as it escapes her body by way of her mouth like a steamy cloud of precipitation. Stripped. Down. She briefly glances back at the trail of clothing, the thin wires of her technology tangled like eagerly removed lingerie and moves ahead.

Stray dog

I met someone today. At first glance I thought he had a place, belonged to someone. But he seemed bored and followed me like I was someone who had direction, knew where she was going. Today I did. I was headed on a vigorous walk to the ocean, exactly one mile from my house. First, a short jog down a busy street, then a left turn to a residential road which leads directly to the ocean. After getting a safe distance from what I thought was his home, I realized he was still following me. I shooed him, told him to go home, thought about throwing a pebble at him so he would get the idea. I didn't. He didn't. We continued along the road to the ocean. I was mildly annoyed to have a hairy, slobbering companion along for my solitary trek. I watched as he ran through the dune grass, smelling, searching. He ran wide side circles around me, then abandoned me for a few minutes only to return as if he knew me intimately, like I had thrown a thousand balls for him in the past, out, retrieve, then out again. As we approached the dunes leading to the ocean, I began to feel like he could belong to me, maybe he had been mine before and we had found each other again. I started to glance over to him, eager now, to keep pace with him.We moved in a sort of random, but methodical synchronization. Clip, rustle, clip. He kept coming back. Once we arrived on the beach he took off. Chased birds, ran into the waves as I walked along the water's edge. I sort of forgot about him for a while, he was out of sight, I was focused on my music, on the roar and pull of the ocean. He seemed relieved to have arrived at our unplanned destination, as if instead of just meeting and following one another, we had woken up together that morning and made plans to walk towards the ocean, knowing we would arrive later that day, as expected. He eventually returned from running in the waves. He was soaking wet and moving past me, eyeing something with interest. I looked to my left and saw what he was after. He began rubbing up against an object, hurling his body against it repeatedly. It was a very large, dead seagull. My first reaction was one of horrified disgust, I gagged and yelled for him to stop, as if he was mine. As if I would be the one to clean up his body, the one to pick out the bones and torn tissue from his fur, as if any of this was my problem. He was acting crazed, excited and obsessed with this dead bird. I had never seen such enthusiasm for death before. He rubbed his body against the dead bird again and again, like he was trying to uncover something familiar, something recognizable in the feathery rotting mass on the sand. I was fascinated to see such passion for something utterly dead. Life and death colliding in a sort of frenzy, a sort of mind blowing moment for him, and for me, a voyeur. I understand it was likely the fetid smells he was revelling in, the rankness of animal decay. I was blown away for a moment at this collision, of life seeking death and life intensifying after his discovery, or so I imagined, honestly how do I know what he has known before today, we just met. To know something intimately, smell beyond what makes another gag and turn their head to the side in disgust, one can walk away with new found energy, perhaps more alive than before. I am walking away now from my own fecundity, moments of spiritual death that I realize have left more than a faint aroma on my body, indeed have lifted me up, made me smell my own fear, gag with nervousness and come out breathing, come out living, laughing. My moments are tangible, body enough to rub against, abrasive and pungent enough to turn heads. Deeply. Movingly. Life for me is hard core, body and rank. It is rubbing up against the raw stink of whatever. Change, risk, fear, passion, whatever is going through my moment, rub it. I want to get as close as I can, get some stink on me. Take it home. The dog was mine now. He followed me home, past the house where we met and straight to my front door. Shoo dog. Go home I said. Instead I put out a bowl of food.