Coming to a closet near you.

Guided by Spirit, I am taking a fresh look at every area of my life.

“And he who sat upon the throne said, "Behold, I make all things new." -Revelation 21:5

"February is thirteen months long in Michigan..."

A PRIMER

by Bob HicokMAY 19, 2008

I remember Michigan fondly as the place I go

to be in Michigan. The right hand of America

waving from maps or the left

pressing into clay a mold to take home

from kindergarten to Mother. I lived in Michigan

forty-three years. The state bird

is a chained factory gate. The state flower

is Lake Superior, which sounds egotistical

though it is merely cold and deep as truth.

A Midwesterner can use the word “truth,”

can sincerely use the word “sincere.”

In truth the Midwest is not mid or west.

When I go back to Michigan I drive through Ohio.

There is off I-75 in Ohio a mosque, so life

goes corn corn corn mosque, I wave at Islam,

which we’re not getting along with

on account of the Towers as I pass.

Then Ohio goes corn corn corn

billboard, goodbye, Islam. You never forget

how to be from Michigan when you’re from Michigan.

It’s like riding a bike of ice and fly fishing.

The Upper Peninsula is a spare state

in case Michigan goes flat. I live now

in Virginia, which has no backup plan

but is named the same as my mother,

I live in my mother again, which is creepy

but so is what the skin under my chin is doing,

suddenly there’s a pouch like marsupials

are needed. The state joy is spring.

“Osiris, we beseech thee, rise and give us baseball”

is how we might sound were we Egyptian in April,

when February hasn’t ended. February

is thirteen months long in Michigan.

We are a people who by February

want to kill the sky for being so gray

and angry at us. “What did we do?”

is the state motto. There’s a day in May

when we’re all tumblers, gymnastics

is everywhere, and daffodils are asked

by young men to be their wives. When a man elopes

with a daffodil, you know where he’s from.

In this way I have given you a primer.

Let us all be from somewhere.

Let us tell each other everything we can.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/05/19/080519po_poem_hicok#ixzz1EAXknLYo

Somewhere in his body--perhaps in the marrow of his bones--he would continue to feel her absence." -Haruki Murakami

my bones ache, and the marrow it aches too, and my heart aches in a way I didn't know hearts could ache, but at some point i stopped being able to tell the difference between all the aches-the body aches, turned in to heart ache, and vice-versa. i'm "in it," [i heard them say that in a movie once, and it made a lot of sense to me at the time, but i don't think you can ever understand until you're "in it" too.] i was "in it" before i even knew I was "in it." It sneaks up on you like that, and now i'm neck deep in the pain. my pain, your pain, your brother's pain, and his wife's pain too, the pain of the human condition-I feel that too. i never thought this is what they meant. I never thought this is where it would lead me. but i'm here. i'm here, and i'll do the work, and i'll be "in it" until i'm not "in it" anymore. and then it'll be over. and i'll be free. i have faith in that - in my freedom.

Looking uptown with my head in the stars

My third week back in New York City. It feels like home so quickly here.

IN ANY MOMENT, I CAN BEGIN AGAIN.

ALL ENDINGS ARE INEXORABLY TIED TO NEW BEGINNINGS.

THAT'S THE NATURE OF THE JOURNEY.

IT CONTINUES TO UNFOLD.

IT BUILDS ON ITSELF.

IT CAN'T HELP ITSELF FROM DOING THAT.

CHERISH THE MOMENTS, ALL OF THEM.

YOU HAVE SEEN AND FELT MUCH IN LIFE SO FAR.

BUT STILL, THE BEST IS YET TO COME.

-Melody Beattie ['Journey to the Heart: Daily Meditations on the Path to Freeing Your Soul]

Freedom is what you've done, with what has been done to you.

There's a house for sale. An old woman still lives there. She's dying inside. And her children are already selling her things. And it's sad. Not because "things" matter, but because the old woman doesn't know it's happening, and all she feels is pain, and nostalgia, but she's not sure for what because she can't remember anymore. She doesn't remember the names of her children anymore either, or what is so special, or not so special, about all the "things" that they are selling to strangers who keep coming to the house. She doesn't even know that these people are strangers, because her children are strangers to her now too, so it doesn't really make a difference. All she knows is that there are faces: some the same, some different, she can't remember their names, or if she's seen them before - they all seem new, so it doesn't really matter who they are, or what their names are, or where they came from, or if they are her children, because in two minutes she won't remember anyways. And it's sad. Not because she can't remember, but because her children have grown apathetic, and never bother to explain to their mother what is going on, or why she is in pain, or why she is loosing her hair -or what hair is for that matter- and why her hands no longer look like her own, and why they don't want to work like they use to. All she knows is there's an old woman in a house [it is her house, but she doesn't remember that], laying in a bed [it's her bed, but she doesn't remember that], wearing a stained nightgown [it is her nightgown, but she does not remember that either], this old woman has taken her hostage and is hurting her, and no one will explain -that this woman, is her.

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Mathematics assume the model is correct

There's a man, he's riding the C-train, headed downtown toward Brooklyn, after a long day playing with numbers on the upper west side. He's reading a book, about consciousness and metaphysics, and all that crap that seems to be oddly trendy right now in New York City, and other cities where it's never quiet outside, and even harder to keep quiet inside. He looks like he's reading this book, but he's really thinking about how much he hates his job, and misses his family, and feels guilty for never being present. Even when he takes them on vacations to places where the skies are blue and the air is moist, and you can breathe real deep, he's still doing work, or thinking about work, and numbers and money, or on his computer, or phone, answering emails about numbers. He's there on the beach, his family is playing at the shore line, they are laughing, they are calling his name and he doesn't hear them. He's never present. He's always playing with those numbers in his head, instead of playing with his children. And even when he is playing with his children he's still playing with numbers in his head. He doesn't hear them calling. His eyes are scanning those words on the page, he looks like he's reading, but he's really just seeing family portraits, and he's not in them, and no one is smiling, and his wife is sleeping with another man, and he convinces himself it is okay, because he feels guilty, but he misses her, he misses them, he misses who he use to be, but now he's just another number riding downtown.

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

SOS

Hi Beth,

I spoke with a friend of mine who was diagnosed with fibro too, she gave me some really inspiring advice. I feel hopeful, but she says I need to be patient with myself - and that is very difficult for me, because I always expect greatness, and most days "greatnss" consists of getting out of bed and brushing my hair and actually making it to classes. She's rather spiritual, and she helped me realize that this is just a time to "learn," and a reminder to be silent and slow down and "work on my heart." I've always tried to avoid feeling pain, physical or emotional, I've always had a way to numb it - with my eating disorder, or a busy schedule, or being medicated... but with physical pain like this, I can't avoid it. It's a reminder that I have to feel, I can not numb this. She said something that keeps repeating in my head, cause it is exactly how I feel "It's like a loose rat finding new parts of my body to torture." It makes me acknowledge all the things that are both physically and emotionally painful... and the physical pain makes everything emotional seem so much more painful as well. It's such a trap. I feel trapped. There are knots inside of me, dozens, hundreds, thousands, both big and small, knotted so tightly around each other, and I feel like my fingers are just fumbling numbly to undo the mess, but they're so tangled, and my fingers are so tired and are always the wrong size for the knot they are working on, and I need patience, and I need to focus on one knot at a time, and then maybe it will free up the opportunity to undo another knot, but maybe it won't, and maybe if I work too aggressively I'll just create another mess of knots and pain that'll bury the rest of them deeper... - kind of like a tangle of necklaces in a jewelry box. That is how my insides feel.

-Ali

everything is a cycle

all of his new girls.

they all look like she did.

back then.

back when she was sick.

back when she lay dead.

in the garden.

with the roses.

with one hand on her mouth.

and one hand on her heart.

It's, Partyyyyy Time!