Saturday morning on the BQE. 8am. 9am. 10am.~jshd2010

Sometimes, when I’m stuck in a never ending line of traffic.
When even though I’m pointed in the right direction, nothing seems to be moving,
– or at least not fast enough.
When the heat gets turned up just a little too high.
When it seems like I’m never going to get where I’m going.
When I start thinking about ditching it all.

I just need to look around.
XXXXXSee where I’m really at
XXXXXXXXXXRead the writing on the wall
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXAnd simply follow directions.

the burning bush ~jshd2010

I’m not usually a big fan of weddings or anniversary parties or christenings or anything that reeks of well adjusted people having picture book walk happily ever after in the sunset family lives. But, the gospel choir sang “Kisses Sweeter than Wine“  and I cried, or rather, my eyes leaked.

They were two people, utterly in love.

I want to believe; in a small dark corner inside me lives the hope that true love is more than an illusion.  But it’s a struggle to believe my eyes and not the little voices in my head.

I think love is sex and wet your pants with laughter silly and comfortable silences and wanting to protect the other person and wanting to do that over and over and over again.

I’ve never had that, but I’ve seen it.
I’ve never been to the moon either, but I’ve seen that too.

Time came to toss the bouquet, I excused myself and went to get a cup of tea. I didn’t want to catch it or be pushed into the crowd of singletons. I don’t want to be in love, I say, it hurts too much. I’m afraid to be in love is the truth.

There was no tea to be had and when I get back to my seat, the bouquet is sitting on the table. It had landed on my empty chair.

I’ve been in love, twice. Once with someone who loved me back. And I believe, even if I excuse myself to get tea rather than risk staying and saying I want to be loved again, the universe will find a way to get it to me. If I live in a church that believes in all possibilities of love, Love will land on my empty chair and wait patiently for me to come back. I believe this because even though I’ve never touched the man the moon, I know he’s out there.

All my life –seriously, all my life, and that is considerable at this point, all my life I’ve felt like I was fighting dragons.

Picture me in a medieval princess gown, with a broad sword, fighting off dragons as they come at me from every side. Vicious, horrible things that would make grown men run and cry like little girls. Breathing fire and stank like raw sewage. Ready to incinerate me, roast me, toast me, eat me whole or tear flesh from bone if I take even one second to let my guard down and rest. I’m scared, my back is to a tree and that’s the best I can do, find a shady place to fight and something to lean on.

All I’ve ever wanted — seriously, all I’ve ever wanted is for someone to take up that sword and protect me from the dragons. Just for a little while. Just long enough for a nap. That’s not asking much, is it? I’m so tired, I think to myself. I’m weak and tired & this sword is so heavy. I cannot keep my arms up, not even one more second. Can’t you take it from me, take care of me, protect me, just for a moment? Just for one fucking moment? Then I’ll take the sword back, seriously, because I know your heart is not really in it. I mean, after all, they’re my dragons, not yours.

Today, for the first time, it occurred to me, it might be in my best interest to stop leaving food and fresh milk out for the dragons. Perhaps, I should stop offering them a warm dry corner of my mind to sleep in. Maybe I should stop treating them as if they were my pets. They are, after all, vicious beasts.

The beast inside looks at me, smiles and says “You knew what I was when you picked me up.”

But I can look in a baby’s eyes and know if this is his/her first time around or s/he’s been here before. Score one for “something out there that’s bigger than me.”

They say there are no coincidences, it’s just God’s way of staying anonymous.  Believing in signs is just silly if you don’t believe in a God that has a specific detailed plan for your life. I know what God wants for me – Joy. I get that. But I don’t think s/he has a specific detailed plan. I’m cynical, a by-product of growing up with Fred. Oddly, I’m also superstitious. I believe in signs.

This morning I forgot my travel mug, so I stopped in Dunkin Donuts – the one near work where the snotty girl has to be told what I want a dozen times, especially if it’s complicated, like a bagel and a coffee, because she “can’t remember everything.” The one where every couple of weeks I take the manager’s name and ruminate about calling and telling her what shitty employees she has. That Dunkin Donuts.

There’s a new girl was behind the counter who doesn’t need things repeated. I buy a travel mug, bagel & a tea. Sadly, the new travel mug was not designed to travel, at least not in the cup holder of my car.  Luckily, new girl gave me a receipt (my first, despite the sign that says “If you don’t receive a receipt, please let the manager know”, adding fuel to my ruminating fire) so I can march in there all huffy and indignant on the way home and exchange it.

I pull into the parking lot after work and start rooting around for my wallet where I’d stashed the receipt. No wallet.

I empty my bag. Big bag. Lots o’stuff. No wallet. I put everything back in the bag, take it out again & still, no wallet. I remember putting it down this morning to add Splenda to my tea. I remember thinking don’t forget to take your wallet. Apparently, even I don’t pay attention to myself.

The Snotty Girl I dream about reporting was behind the counter, always stuck on the late afternoon shift. She’s the reason I stopped my evening donut-to-drive-home routine. Thank you, Snotty Girl in Dunkin Donuts. Thank you for saving me from myself.

She has my wallet. 8 hours after I left it on someone else’s shift, intact. I dwell in irate for a second that no one had gone through it and tried to call me, then I realized, no one had gone through my wallet. My cash was there, my credit cards and the receipt.

I exchange the mug, leave a $3 tip for a $1 donut and think, phew, I skated on that. Thanks again, Snotty Girl. Or maybe thanks Morning Counter Girl. Maybe just Thanks.

Half a block from my house I start rooting around for my house keys and the remote for the garage. No keys. I empty my bag. Still a big bag. Still lots o’stuff. No keys. I put everything back in the bag, take it out again & still no keys. (Why do I do that? Do I think they will manifest if I take things out in the right order? Maybe. Yes. Maybe that’s exactly what I think…).

How can I misplace two essential things in one day? I pull over, clear out the front seat, throw everything, one by one into the back. Down vest, sweater, sweatshirt (It was almost 90 today, but I like to be prepared), scarf. Nothing. I check the floor boards, under the layer of Trident Bubblegum wrappers. No keys. For no good reason I open the back door. My house keys are laying on the floor of the back seat. I have no idea. I don’t care. Maybe the dead people who don’t talk to me since I stopped drinking put them there. I don’t care.

Something is telling me something. I don’t know what. It’s like a message in a fortune cookie but it’s in Chinese. I know the message is for me, but I have no idea what it is…

I misplaced two things today. Then, like that, they were returned. No damage done. Maybe I need to pay more attention, stay more present, be aware where my feet are. Maybe I need to remember to look past the snottiness of strangers.

Every child has known God

Every child has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don’ts,
Not the God who ever does Anything weird,
But the God who knows only four words.
And keeps repeating them, saying:
“Come Dance with Me , come dance.”

Everyone wonders what God looks like. People want to have some concrete vision of their higher power, some small box to put God in, some physical container or body. Museums are filled with paintings and sculptures of Catholic, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Egyptian, Greek, Roman gods.

I think if you want to know what God looks like, you just have to open your eyes a little bit. your heart a little bit. your ears a little bit. and then, get out of your own way and listen…

with your heart.

I took this picture of God for you, while I was driving:

I know, I shouldn’t have. But the law only requires a handsfree phone, no one’s said about a handsfree camera. We were stuck in traffic. It was 50 degrees out, my sunroof was open, my windows rolled down, the music was playing, the sun was shining.

I keep this feather in my visor. It’s from one of the  guinea fowl at the farm. In case wings and flight aren’t big enough convincers, if you look, you can see God in the polka dots.

I can’t even get the books on my bookshelves to line up evenly, but look at that. Polka dots. Home grown polka dots. How simple. How orderly. How impossible.

I did not take this picture of god:

This was taken by the Hubble Telescope (not to be confused with this Hubble, also at one point in history, sometimes confused with God). Amazing, no? Total chaos. Totally beautiful. The origins of the word, awesome. These are candid snapshots of the universe, dancing. The origin of the phrase “Dance like no one is watching,” no doubt.(Click here for a slideshow of more photos)

Another bit by Hafiz before I go. I carry this one with me.

Manic Screaming

We should make all spiritual talk simple today
God is trying sell you something but you don’t want to buy

That is what your suffering is:
your fantastic haggling
your manic screaming
over
price.

But I get it, I really do. That need to put a face to the concept of God. A long time ago I heard a woman say that when she thought of God, she thought of tag team wrestling. And that way, when life got too hard, she could just tag God, and God would take the rest of that round until the bell rang. And she could rest a bit. That way, there was always someone in her corner.

I can wrap my brain around that… and so, my dashboard Jesus looks like this, because God comes in a million colors, and so do luchadores.

The rape I wrote about was almost thirty years ago. I think I should be over it already. But, apparently, I’m not.

It was not my first. I was in a blackout the first time and only put the pieces together afterwards. It probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drunk enough to black out. But I was. It did. And I don’t remember the details. Blackouts are a mixed blessing that way.

And truthfully, the blackout is only the first time I can bear to think about. What came before are scattered puzzle pieces, each belonging to a different puzzle picture.

The rape I wrote about wasn’t even the last time I was attacked. Statistics show that once a person is raped, molested, assaulted, the chance of it happening again, rises. Here are some statistics.

Every 2 minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.

• 1 in 3 American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.
• 1 in 4 college women have either been raped or suffered attempted rape.
• 1 in 7 women will be raped by her husband.
• 1 in 12 males students surveyed had committed acts that met the legal definition of rape. 84% said what they’d done was definitely not rape.
• Only 16% of rapes are reported to the police.
• Only 6% of rapists will spend a day in jail.

FAIL: The United States has the world’s highest rape rate of the countries that publish such statistics. It’s 4 times higher than Germany, 13 times higher than England, and 20 times higher than Japan.

Survivors of sexual assault are:

• 3 times more likely to suffer from depression.
• 6 times more likely to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
• 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol.
• 26 times more likely to abuse drugs.
• 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide.

Stop it, okay? Just fucking stop it.

Statistics from: RAINN.org and Coalition Educating About Sexual Endangerment (CEASE)

I’m driving and the music is blasting.

Frequently.

There are certain bands, certain music that is meant to be listened to in a car, windows open, flying down the road.

I’m starting to come out of a depression that has lasted months. Driving is one of the things I do to fix things. When I don’t know what to do, when I don’t know how I feel or how to name the thing I’m feeling, I run.

I’m a runner from way back. There was never an actual event I could pinpoint and say “I’m running away because…” Mostly I was running in search of. In search of some way to handle feeling…anything. It’s what I do when I don’t know what to do. It’s what I did when I didn’t know what to do.

The first time I ran away from home I was 5 and didn’t make it past the kitchen. I was lured back by the promise of stuffed cabbage.

When I was 7 I made it to the corner, where I stood flummoxed. I had no plan that addressed going off the block.

By 9 I made it to Dunkin Donuts, a mile away, across a four lane highway

At 11 I’d traded room & board for a job on a ranch 100 miles upstate. I got caught 30 miles away on the ticket line at Grand Central Station.

When I was 15, I found a partner in crime. We’d made it 100 miles on our way to California before we got caught at Fort Dix, NJ and dragged home.

Shortly after that, just as people stopped coming after me when I ran away, I learned to drive. To drive fast. To drive fast, to drive all night, to crank the music, so loud it would blast the voices out of my head, take me to Empty, or Fill me Up — whatever was needed at the moment.

The drugs and the drink worked too.

Until they didn’t.

That instinct has never gone away; the urge to run, flee, get free, get far away from anything familiar or anyone who could possibly know me or love me, keep moving, you can’t hit a moving target. I’ve just learned to channel it a little better, recognize it when it calls.

Today I drive. I drive and listen to god. Or I drive and write, scribbling notes in a pad with my right hand while my left hand steers. And still, sometimes, I drive. fast. with the music cranked up, so loud it blasts the voices out of my head, taking me to Empty or Filling me Up. Whichever I need at the moment.

I’m listening to Eddie Money and rocketed back to an awkward adolescence on Long Island, desperate for a way out. I hear his saxophones and then it’s Eddie and Cruisers and there is a way out, I can still fade into the Dark Side if I drive fast enough, if the music is loud enough.

I haven’t talked about this before, it’s felt kind of private. I finished my training in November. As of November, I’m officially ready to go, ready to sit and be companionable to someone who is getting ready to, well, to die. It’s February. I haven’t had any takers. More to the point, I haven’t had any offers.

The head office (do I dare I call it the Death Star?) asked if I’d be interested in working at the palliative care unit of Mt. Sinai hospital, where there is always someone or someones in need of the thing I am now specially trained for.

Mt. Sinai? Inconvenient, sure, but I was born there (even though, rather disturbingly, Big Edie does not remember that fact. Allow me to point out that I am an only child), so I like the poetry of that. Of course, that’s the same reason I moved to Jackson Heights. This is where the folks lived when I was born. Needless to say, sometime soon I have to take a good long look at my thinking processes, but in any event, I said yes.

Last night was the annual Death Star Death Doulas Dinner. I sat opposite a woman named Judy, who, it turned out, grew up on the opposite side of the same town as I did. Our lives started in the same place, took very different paths and wound up in the exact same place at the exact same time.  Not the first time something like that has happened to me. Levittown haunts me. I fear I will move to Italy and  Levittown will continue to haunt me.

Today, in the rain, I started jumping through the hoops required to work at Mt. Sinai. The volunteer coordinator I’d met with last week at East 100th Street gave me lots of papers to fill out and an appointment for a free, but required, physical at…

…East 102nd Street, which consisted of more paperwork, having my blood pressure and pulse taken and that little TB skin pop and band-aid on my left arm. That nurse then sent me to…

…East 96th Street for a blood test to see if I am now, or have I ever been afflicted with measles, mumps or chicken pox. No amount of yes, I remember having it in grade school was going to convince them. I gave them the right arm and left shortly with a second band-aid and took the 5th Avenue bus downtown, passing the Mt. Sinai Children’s wing and sending a prayer up to where ever it is I send prayers up to, that I would not find myself sitting with a child in the palliative care unit.

It happens. Kids die.
I hope I can be who they need me to be if it comes up, but I also hope it doesn’t come up. For my sake, and for the sake of the kids.

On my right was the children’s playground in Central Park and I thought, How lovely. That’s much better.

Until a cab with an ad for Private Eyes drove by reminding me where I came from. I turned my head again, and watched  the Guggenheim go by, where afternoons were spent trying to get cultured, hoping it would rub off by mere proximity as I spiraled first up the building and then down, stopping at every restroom to vomit because of the good brown dope I’d snorted in the cab on the way there.

A small boy pressed the button on the bus and I got off on…

…East 76th Street for the Quest Labs where I was asked to leave my purse and coat in the waiting room and pee in a cup. That sort of request used to send me into a blind panic. It also used to send me driving around town with old boyfriends trying to find someone with clean pee to pee in a cup for them on their way to check in with their probation officer. But those were other lifetimes and I digress. Now, you can take your cell phone and your wallet in with you, but do not wash your hands, do not flush until your pee has gotten the hairy eyeball once over from the Quest nurse.

Normally I don’t care about hand washing so much, because when I pee, I pee in the bowl, not on my hands. Except when I’m peeing in a cup. Then I always pee on my hands. Just a little, but it always happens. So I waited, with pee hands, until Nurse Ratchet was sure it was really my pee I was coming out of the single stall bathroom with and then I was allowed to wash my hands. By then, the pee had dried, so whatever damage pee does to your hands, was already done.

People think that this kind of service, working with the dying, is depressing. Or morbid. But I laughed my ass off last night with those people. They’re bright and funny and loving. They were each there for their own personal reasons.

My therapist, former therapist, from back when I had a job and the kind of medical insurance that covered most of his $275 hour so we could spend week after week after week talking about my relationship, or lack thereof, with my father. And how that effected my romantic life, or lack thereof, today. That therapist’s office is on East 76th Street. I’d walked right past it without even realizing it, until I recognized the florist at the end of the block.

Somehow, at least for this rainy day, I’ve come through the other side. Somehow? In a word, service.

Some days I’m all Fight Club

Some days I’m all I can’t hear you

Some days I’m all Go Away

Some days I’m just holding my breath, and swimming as fast as I can.

My dream is to be paid for working on the farm . I’ve been working there for free for months.

We made it official two weeks ago. Well, semi-official. The offer was made and accepted, but there was still the ever elusive paperwork to bag. I worked. I worked again. And then came the great crash of 2010:

“We can only pay you two thirds of what we said we could pay you.”

Well, FYI, all three thirds was already slightly below what I needed to live on, but I thought, I love it here, it’ll all work out. I have faith. I have faith. I have faith.

Driving home, after the second week where the drive up took 90 minutes instead of the hour it’d been when I was volunteering…

How did that happen? I leave at 7:30am to drive 90 minutes to a job that can only pay me less than I make on unemployment and it costs me $20 in gas and tolls every time I go? But I really, really love it on the farm. I believe in everything they do, everything they stand for. The farm is all that is right with the world.

I have faith. I have faith. I have faith.

I checked in silently with god on the drive home – we do a lot of our talking during these long drives. It’s dark and the headlights of oncoming cars blind me over and over and over. I speak first. I usually do.

So, now what? How’s this gonna work?
You have faith?
I do.
Okey doke then, have faith. Trust me.

At once I become aware of the Randy Travis CD that’s playing. He sings “when you see me walk on water…”

Oh, you got jokes now? Now you wanna get funny with me?
I’m a funny guy…
You, you are not actually a guy at all.
Well, you know, whatev….

My god says whatev. I couldn’t have one that said “thou shalt” or “thou shalt not”. Or one that expected any sort of begatting from me.

Our conversations are silent. I can hear them; you can’t. Not even if you’re sitting next to me. Not even just my side of the conversation. This is why:

Outloud, a little later in the drive:

“Okay, god, so? Do I have a move, a plan, something” Silence “Oh, you don’t play that? You gonna act like you don’t hear me when I talk out loud? You don’t answer my out loud questions?”

And I hear, in my head No. And  then I swear I hear a little far off giggle.

That’s one funny diety….I have faith. I have faith. I have faith….