Mess It Up, Do It Wrong

The first thing our teacher taught us in Adult Beginning Ice-Skating tonight was how to fall. "It's best," she said, "not to tense up but to fall like a sack of potatoes, preferably on your butt." This week I met with Maggie, my Al-anon sponsor, for the first time, and after giving me an assignment, she said wryly, "Mess it up. Do it wrong." I fell at least five times while skating this evening, one time spectacularly. Without embarrassment. Didn't even care what other skaters thought. (Okay, that last fall, a little bit.) That's amazing for me.

Every Note

The Seattle Philharmonic Orchestra. A Samuel Barber violin concerto with a solo by a young man in a black suit that's a little too big. When he stops, he casually tucks his violin under his arm. Each time he plays again, I am like a pitcher. Filling up. Head back, mouth open, to catch every note.

In a Softer World

It was probably a step in the making of a cowhand when he learned that what would pass as heroics in a softer world was only chores here. Can't remember what Wallace Stegner novel that came from. It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. Last Tuesday, I went to see my doc for my diabetus. He had asked to see all my medications so I brought a sackful. I guess I had never seen them in one place; some are usually in a drawer, others in cabinets. Including my herbal supplements, I had thirteen bottles, seven related to treating depression. The sight of all those bottles made me feel intolerably sad. Dear Lord, when did I turn into a walking pharmacy? The brutal truth is the meds, the maintaining of them, the exquisite monitoring of my moods which I do daily, the timely calls to my shrink when intervention is necessary, dealing with med changes and side effects -- all of it could pass as a heroics in a softer world. For all of us who do it.

A Sign

Each morning my bus passes the First Baptist Church on 11th and Harvard, and I glance at their reader board hoping for a sign. Today, someone at the church took pity on me. The message was: YOU KNOW THE WAY.

Blues

Sad now. Lonely. A familiar tune. A blues band setting up just to the left of the left ventricle.

Saturday Morning

Want to give myself the gift of myself.

His Black Slippers

Excerpt from my journal on April 11: "You are subdued," he said today. He had that watchful look he gets when he's concerned but trying not to show it. Went a half an hour over. I find the fact that he wears slippers in his office oddly comforting. Nothing changes here. The geodes on the shelf are, apparently, dusted but have never been moved. The radio by the wall. The elegant vaguely European art. The shelves full of files. My file, thick as War and Peace. A history of fifteen years of seeing him. Not all that time with his black slippers but all that time with his exquisite, meticulous care. My psychiatrist, Phil.

The Room of Herself

I'm in therapy and not liking my therapist. I wonder, "What am I doing here? Why am I doing this?" Hear myself complaining in a thin voice. Weary. "My life sucks. Sucks." I say it again for emphasis. "I don't want to be here." She's a therapist. She's heard that before. I think, "She's too cheerful. How could I have not noticed how cheerful she is?" She must realize she is being too cheerful because she stops interjecting comments and just looks at me. Attention: without rules, expectations or demands. I steady myself in the quietness and affection of her gaze. She has offered me the room of herself and plenty of chairs. I sit.

A Rush of Why I Love You

I am lying in bed with my boots on, having just called my therapist. You call. Announce we are going to dinner, that you will be here in half an hour. Then I am in your arms. And in the Blue Moon Cafe', where I eat, finally, ravenous. You rub my back and isten to me repeat her name, say stricken things that make no sense. I am cold on the way back to your car, and, in a heart beat, you wrap your leather coat around me. When, at my insistence, we stop at 7'11 to buy cigarettes, you interview the clerk as to which brand would be the least harmful. We smoke in your car. You do a Popeye the Sailor Man impression, then suck your cigarette halfway up your mouth. Suddenly, I am laughing in a way that hurts my chest. "I'm a shot pigeon," I mutter, flicking away the ash. "Shot pigeon?" Your expression with your cigarette makes me laugh again. How similar laughing is to crying, the same exhalations of breath. Now, you are trying to stub out the last embers of your cigarette on your rearview mirror. It won't go out. A rush of why I love you. You, more girl in a boy than I've ever known.