New Surgery

I am preparing for rotator cuff surgery again. I had surgery last September, but there was a glitch in the healing. In three days, I will be in a sling for a month and if it's anything like the last time, I will be in a lot of pain for quite some time afterward. I am in pain now, but this is not the good kind of pain. My body grows weaker and more compromised with the absence of movement, but I, myself, grow more aware of what lies beneath the body. It is amazing. The absence of physicality creates a hole that must be explored. I am becoming essence.

Getting ready for the surgery is a bit like preparing to go away for a long time. I do everything now that I can do with two arms: I clean my room, I clean my car, I take my dog on his favorite hike down by the running creek. I make stock out of marrow bones and vinegar. I purchase homeopathic remedies for swelling, inflammation, pain, and joint issues. I wash my clothes, fold them, and place them in a way that I can reach them with one arm. I buy a long handled back scrubber for the shower. I know what this feels like. Yet, I am determined to do this surgery differently. For one, I have more people on board with me in a way that supports healing. I am not battling it out with my family over when I'll be able to work again. We came to that impasse and moved beyond. Tectonically, we are in a different place, and that feels better. This is: "Rotator Cuff Surgery: Take Two."

I have several girlfriends who are making it their dear business to come around and visit. I appreciate what it takes to be a good friend, and I am grateful for the buoys they will be.

It's a strange time -- one without a map -- and I am settling into my version of surrender. The only thing I expect of myself for the next three months is that I will write my book. My new old book; the memoir I keep in a closet inside my heart. It's a hard book to write. If it wasn't, it wouldn't be a memoir. Luckily, I have come into the awareness that I don't have to do it alone. I am asking for help from the protagonist of the book. Well, that would be me, I guess. Change that. I am asking for help from the antagonist. He is dead. He has agreed. I will let you know how it goes.

I am excited to dedicate myself to this project, provided I can physically write, because I need this book to come alive, to LIVE. And perhaps the only way is to co-create it with the ghost of part of my heart, a man who lived with me in literature and language and who wanted more than anything to exist inside words with me by his side.

I write to him and he writes back. So far, this is how it works. I don't know if writing from the perspective of a ghost will cause waves in the memoir world but John Banville did it and I imagine many others did, too. I reach into the ethers with my hand and grasp his. It is the only way.

I submitted an excerpt of my novel and was a finalist for the Summer Literary Seminars Unified Literary Contest judged by Mary Gaitskill!

Baby

Baby, did I start your conception prematurely, hoping for a pregnancy even if a relationship was on the brink? I did. That was my small crime against nature in the service of desire. I heard you calling me, dipping down into my consciousness, and more than once, I wished for the seed to take; I’d worry about circumstances later. Twice, I remember, you almost grew, and in those moments, I held you in like a dam against the tide. Both times, you exited, letting go of your hold on me – it wasn’t the right time, the right place, the right relationship for you. And you told me so. I felt you hover and disappear and then my body: a flush of blood and longing dissolving into toilet water.

 I am single now. And forty-three. The digits are supposed to mean something but they don’t to me. After the testing, my numbers are just right. “Your body doesn’t know how old you are,” said the nurse. I read that age has to do with oxidation of tissues and the presence of inflammation. The first doctor told me it didn’t matter how healthy I was, my health had nothing to do with the quality of my eggs. “Egg quality is based on age,” he said, looking at me over his glasses. But, age is based on inflammation which is reduced by a healthy diet, meditation, yoga, breathing, joy. I am not forty-three.

And now, I go to a new doctor tomorrow. Yes, she is a woman this time, and I am hoping her own desires and challenges position her in such a way as to encourage rather than scare off my own capacities for conception. But being a woman does not always mean having compassion. My female gynecologist laughed when I told her my deepest desire since I was young was to have a child. "At your age," she said, "you ought to think of getting a puppy or a plant!" Then, she told me a story about her children.

A puppy or a plant. 

You see, it does make a difference how I approach the soul. If I welcome him or her and tell her I’ve created a safe space for his or her dwelling, then she or he will be more likely to cuddle into the nest I’ve created of my cells and blood and spirit. If I go with the notion that I have a 6-8 percent chance of conception based on my age, I will scare myself, and the soul will pick up on this. Maybe it will be hard for me to conceive. But maybe it won’t. To all the women praying to be mamas – working with their bodies, their wills, their ability to surrender to what is – I respect the process and the potential for loss.

I want to start in a place of abundance because for so long, I listened to other peoples’ fears about what was possible and what was not. I am here, an open vessel, and if this soul, my child, wants to dip down again, I will catch her. I will love him. I will know.

  

I imagine him saying this...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JMrxyv8B_8

Wings and Dust

I've always been shy. In eighth grade, I fell in love with Katherine Hepburn and decided then and there I would be as brave and outgoing as she was. I changed overnight from a snail in a shell to a butterfly, even though they're unrelated. It's slippery having wings. We all know that if you touch a butterfly's wings, it may never fly again. And what of that? When you become colorful, the wings are hard to resist. And so I did, and so was touched, and had a hard time flying again for many years.

I am awake inside words. They are my dialogue with you. You are the many pieces of myself I've left scattered on the timeline of my life. I toss off the clothes that no longer fit which has rendered me naked more often than not.

And instead of picking up the pieces and trying to make them fit again, I keep moving forward while still looking back. I don't think butterflies know how their beauty is made of dust and scales.

And today what I want to tell you, Reader, is that I lost someone I love very much. I loved him so much I tried to write a book about him. I loved him so much I had to stop. I must walk backwards on my timeline and pick up the clothing I let fall from my hands. I must try it on again and remember. I am scared about what this process means. I've just recently emerged from a dark and lusty place full of demons and hidden gems. I am afraid to go back there.

So, I shock myself into writing. I will tell you this: he was found by his son who walked into his room on a Tuesday and seeing that he was sleeping, turned around and left, not knowing he was already dead. On Wednesday, he did not pick up the phone when people called. On Thursday, his son returned and he (my lover, my friend, my soul mate, my guide, my impossible love-who-drown-himself in sorrow and rum, the love who I left behind) had turned black and was ten times his normal size. His skin peeled off his body like it could no longer contain the whole of him, exiting as he did to some better place. His flesh smelled of rotting animal and his eyes were closed. He died in his sleep from an attack of his heart. I must say all of this. This is where I need to start because the rest is too painful.

His son, all twenty two years of filial love, must have felt oh something so terribly like guilt for not having known; but how could he have? His father was often asleep when he entered that room. We all know he did the right thing -- the kind and respectful thing -- and let his father sleep. But the boy...the boy. I pray for the right salve that will ease the shock. I pray he will release the guilt and feel only loss, but we know that may be impossible.

I speak of his son and I speak of myself.

I love you, Jose Raul Garcia Sagaro, like a thousand airborne butterflies who will never lose their dust.

Forgive me still for losing some of mine.

Territory

Once again, I am inspired by my teacher, Reiko Rizzuto, as I listen to her speak on a panel at the Enoch Pratt Library in Baltimore. What makes me breathe in is the story behind the words on her pages -- how, over time, she staked a claim in the territory of writers, until writing became her work, inclusive of all the dreaming that the job entails. 

I gave myself permission to do the same but only because my healing body demanded that I stop perseverating, seek honest land, and homestead. Not that teaching wasn't honest work. And meaningful, too. But that someone wasn't me anymore. 

Where Have I Been?

To be sure, my blog falls in the "much neglected" category, as if that's necessary territory for bloggers to traverse at some point; which begs the question, what is happening with the blogger when the blog is sleeping? In my case, I've been going through the most delightful mid-life crisis. It's not been easy, nor pain-free (in other words, no red hot Miata and I haven't dyed my hair, yet.) I am recovering under my covers from rotator cuff surgery.

I did not know how many small ligaments and tendons and muscles and pieces of connective tissue (sinew?) keep the shoulder stable when performing tiny actions such as moving a pen or typing a sentence. Because I was unable to teach yoga or anything for that matter and I was unable to write, I spent the first eight weeks be-ing with the pain. And in that time, I started to shed. I found out that by be-ing, I was helping myself, and that was enough. Then, I let go of teaching, let go of moving back to Brooklyn, of having my own place, of doing my yoga practice. The only things that remained were walking Gabriel, meditating, and writing -- but not on paper or on a screen -- just words spoken in my head by my characters.

And now, twelve weeks out, I am revising my manuscript and going to physical therapy. Each time I go, my dear therapist yanks and stretches and pulls and tears (yes, tears) all those stubborn adhesions, and each time I lay there, I thank the universe for this time. I was not listening. I am now. My book is shifting, as it has so many times over the years. My story is growing; it's getting thicker and more layered inside. I may have even seen a ghost between the pages.

After I am cooked, well done and seasoned, I will continue to move in the direction of my deepest desires. I will write, I will teach yoga, I will continue to meditate, I will love my dog and he will love me, I will spend time with my family, I will fall in love, and I will send this novel out into the universe. I imagine it lit from beneath like a Thai lantern, floating into the sky until it becomes part of a larger set of lights.

It has taken me forty-three years to stop and turn around, look into my own eyes and listen. Right on schedule.