Stages

old hands and young hands.jpg

 

She swings her feet.

They don’t hit the floor.

He shifts in his seat.

His joints creak, and she can hear it.

His roots are gnarled and hers have not even reached down into the rich brown earth.

She has not yet found purchase.

She does not mind.

“Did you know,” he said, “”that I am 91? That’s like thirty times your age. At least.”

His smile cracks his whole face open like a nut from a shell as she looks up at him, perplexed.

Her dark hair falls over her face and he wants to reach and tuck it behind her tiny soft ears. He doesn’t.

She is two. She knows nothing and everything.

He is 91, and he knows that he will never have enough time to learn all there is to learn.

I watch them, sipping sweet chai tea.

young enough to lack wisdom and old enough to want it.

I wonder if he would share a little of his with me?

He gets up to leave, takes his newspaper and his century of experience out the door.

He winks at me as he goes, and

I wonder if he too,

Remembers being

unfinished.

 

 

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Something a little different.

Hi Everyone,

I have been unable to post on Inkstained because of a busy schedule and a distracted mind and heart. But this evening, I attended a visual poetry workshop, which replenished my soul and gave me so much joy.

 

I have included the visual poetry experiment I created below.

 

The prompt was, “What is visual poetry?”

 

The collage, if you cannot read it, says “Where our eyes meet our minds and say, I have known you all my life.”   Visual poetry is the intersection between the world of image and the world of text, and it is a very fruitful place.

Enjoy, and this week, take some time for yourself.  Believe me, it is worth it.

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Freckled Scrappy Catholic Children: An Irish American search for Home

imageI have never been to the land my people come from.

I think I am aching for a home I have never seen.

Maybe my Irish blood has given me more than quick-blushing cheeks and pale skin

Maybe it has given me my love of the ocean,

Of green things,

Of rain.

Maybe it has given me my fighting spirit.

Because my people have been trampled upon and walked all over for so long it’s hard to remember when they weren’t.

Their language was stolen from them ,

Their land forced to fly someone else’s flag.

But they didn’t give up—

They formed a republic, they formed the IRA.

And they immigrated.

They flowed across the Atlantic like a tidal wave, Micks looking for the American dream.

My family among them.

They grew their broods of freckled scrappy Catholic children,

And they planted roots.

They spread across the vast United States until eventually, they hit the West Coast,

Until eventually,

They hit me.

A freckled scrappy Catholic girl, curly haired and opinionated, looking for home.

I want to retrace their steps, take a voyage back to where,  a long time ago, my story began.

My name is like a map, guiding me to the Emerald Isle, the apostrophe which stubbornly flummoxes baristas and computers saying quietly,

“O’Brien,

Of Brian,

Of Ireland

Go little one, go.”

Putas with Big Dreams

Tsluto the girl who once told me
“things would work better for you if you weren’t such a flirt, you’re giving people the wrong idea,” looking up from your PBR in a living room not your own
With concern in your eyes, ready and willing to offer your unsolicited advice
That I should be careful who I share my grin with,
My smiles are not contraband, they don’t mark me as some kind of criminal, dealing in sexual fantasy.
In fact, my smiles are no commodity at all.
They aren’t given, they are spontaneously inspired, by a boy in the corner to our left who looks like he’d rather be reading, by the barista who hands me my chai. by all the small extraordinary moments that make up a day
 They break out across my face, even in the darkest night, because I am,
because I always have been, deeply thrilled to be alive.
But I guess the joy spilling from my lips like juice from a ripe round summer peach
Makes you worried they’ll think I’m the wrong kind of girl, with legs that don’t cross and smudged eyeliner, A girl with a deep belly laugh.
Slippery as moonlight on the ocean, those girls.
And slippery is dangerous, you think
My mom was always trying to clean me up as a kid,
Always had spills on my clothes and dirt under my fingernails. I loved mess.
Hair like a rat’s nest, and beneath it
A buzzing beehive brain, asking question after question after question.
And you know what I think?
I think the girls who play in the mud and used big words like me, girls who collect rocks and run with their brothers, girls who scream and sob out loud—once they have tits and hair in between their legs,  once they start to bleed red womanhood every month—I think those turn into the girls you call the wrong kind. Putas with big dreams.
And you, with your well-meaning advice that I shouldn’t emulate those girls, that I shouldn’t talk to boys about politics or feminism or travel because somebody might think I was playing too fast and loose with my words,
I think you might be afraid of me.
And I’m sorry, because I wished I lived in a world where two girls at a college house party didn’t have to be afraid of each other.
Girl on girl hate is ugly as fuck and Patriarchy with a Capital P is sitting heavy on my shoulders.
So I’m not mad at you,
More the world we both live in.
 nonetheless, respectfully, with a big smile a heart wide open, with a wink and a bat of the eyelashes,
Fuck you. ​

Lessons I Learned from My Dog

 

Yesterday was IMG_2698our beautiful, dignified old pup’s last day on earth. A few hours before she passed, we lay together in the sunshine, awash in blue sky. Her warm body against mine, I began to think about all she had taught me. Old dogs are wise, and Jules was no exception. She understood the world in a clearer and more distilled way than the rest of us, and I appreciated that about her.  I decided to write down a list of what I learned from Julesy in her fifteen years of life, as a way of marking the memories we shared.

  • Defend those you love

Jules in her early years scared off dozens of mailmen with her bark. If another dog snarled at us on our walk, Jules would snarl back louder. She wouldn’t bite, but she did know the value of letting her teeth show once in a while. I never felt unsafe home alone, even late at night, because I knew Jules wouldn’t let anyone in that she didn’t approve of. While at times her strong protective instinct gave us pause, I think ultimately it was one of the things I loved most about her.

  • But don’t be afraid to let your guard down.

Julesy loved more than anything else to have her stomach rubbed. So once she was sure new visitors were safe and approved, she rolled over and waited. It endeared her to all of our friends, who laughed at her silly smile and white tummy.  Julesy was a people dog, and even just simply patting her head made her tail thump vigorously and loudly.  In this, she and I are the same. Following her example, I offer my heart freely to those around me, and though I don’t often get tummy rubs out of the deal, I do have a lot of love in my life.

  • Spend as much time as possible outside

Jules loved to hike well into her old age, and even when hills and long trails were too much for her, she still delighted in fresh air and sunshine.  She was mopey if she was inside too long, a trait we share. As 2016 approaches, I have decided that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to spend even more of my life in open spaces, thinking always of my beloved dog.

  • Enjoy your food

This one is self-explanatory. Jules never had a meal she didn’t relish, and I think that’s admirable.

  • Take breaks.

Jules in her later years spent a fair amount of time dozing, something I am jealous of as a busy college student. But while I may not be able to spend half my day asleep on a soft bed, I can take time for myself to rest and recharge. I think we often forget how important that is, and I know Jules would want me to kick up my heels in her name.

  • Most importantly, enjoy every moment with the people you care about.

Jules didn’t like being alone very much. She wanted to be in the middle of the action, where there were people laughing and talking and maybe even a little steak dropped her way. She had a habit of laying across the entryway to our kitchen. People tripped over her, but they also usually stopped to say hello. And that was our girl’s favorite thing, to share a moment with people she had given her heart and soul to. Jules spent every day in the company of people she saw as her pack, and that, ultimately, is the best thing she ever taught me. I spend my time with people who love me, and I love them back. That’s what makes my days full of belly laughs and long conversations. It’s what makes me smile as I fall asleep and what makes me willing to get out of bed in the morning.

I already miss my sweet dog deeply, and I am heartbroken that I will no longer see her rush the door when I come home from college. Julesy was a remarkable creature, and there is always a raw emptiness when those creatures pass on. But she won’t be forgotten. Today and every day, I am going to try to live my life a bit more like my dog.

Visiting Hours at the Northwest Detention Center

Hello, all–this piece was difficult to write. It was painful but important. The issue it is about is even more so. This piece is a response to volunteering and offering solidarity to families who have loved ones in the Northwest Detention Center, one of the largest immigration detention centers in the country and only ten minutes from my front door here in Tacoma. Please read this piece, and consider joining in the fight for immigration reform. This issue is not for tomorrow, or a decade from now. This issue is for right now, today.  This isn’t a matter of politics–It is a matter of basic human rights. Please read and share.

Visiting Hours at the Detention Centerflower-girl-mary-jane-s_10-prettiest-wedding-shoes

I can’t get her shoes out of my head.

They were tiny, white, and incredibly feminine. She wore small lacy socks with them and above these her   little brown legs grew like sprouts.

Someone had carefully fixed her hair, which shone with gel,   ornamented with pink baubles to match her ruffled pink dress.

Her small hand rested in a much larger one, which was connected to a stony faced man resolutely trying to disguise despair.  He pulled his little daughter along at a fast clip that for her shorter legs was nearly a run. This would have been comic if it was not so heartbreaking.

He spoke to her in Spanish so quiet I couldn’t make it out, gentle instructions and reprimands. She responded with a voice that sounded like Tweety-bird, high ad thin. Her big brown eyes were lakes, and only in them did I see her fear, her confusion. Only there did I see that no one had explained. How on earth could they?

All of the careful preparation– that was what killed me. It almost would have been easier to bear if these people had walked by me wailing, their clothes torn. Then the horror would be in the open. We could see it, and face it, and force it to obey.

But this way? This way was harder.

It was their sheer act of attempting to carry on that split me in two.  This man was here to visit a relative who had been jailed for nothing at all, whose only crime was trying to live in a nation someone, somewhere told him was a place of opportunity.  And instead of raging and roaring and beating his chest, that morning this man woke up, took a shower and brushed his hair and put on a clean collared shirt. And then he dressed his daughter, and told her they had to go see somebody. And then he took her to a strange neighborhood of factories and abandoned train tracks, and she worried about getting dust on those lovely shoes. And then he parked, and took her out of the car in front of a high grey building with small windows and a big fence. And he composed himself, willed his daughter to do the same. And they walked by me with their bravest faces, ready  to tell someone they loved that they missed them, that they were there for them, that they would wait.  They didn’t cry because tears don’t help anybody, tears don’t get citizenship papers.

Their strength astonished me.

My Astronomy

I am a collection of stars

Not yet a constellation

I am a handful of sky

And  I feel black night slipping and sliding through me

My veins filled with inky discovery.

I am a winking canvas,

My fingertips glowing with white anticipation.

I don’t yet have a shape.

I am somewhere between being free and unmoored,

A patch of night among many.

I don’t know my destination.

But does that make me lost?

I’m not sure.

There’s no astronomer to draw lines between my twinkling edges

There’s no one to form me.

So I suppose only time will turn my bright beginnings

Into some

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