I am so small

The last day of school before Spring break I taught my first graders about yoga and for 20 minutes they were captivated by their own movement and breathing, forming animals, trees, mountains. Predictably, my own spirit feels resurrected from winter's withdrawal and hibernation-- as if I am returning to my edges and surface from with a space deep inside myself. I've been waking up at as sunrise fills my room with gold light, watching the red-winged black birds take flight at the lake, sitting in the library's window seat with a cup of coffee and the stillness. These quieter rhythms are taking root.  

Today, I went to a Maudy Thursday meditative space with my mom. It was unexpectedly sacred-- to move barefoot around the darkened room, candles flickering, a small book of poetry and psalms guiding the meditation, prayer moving easily through me- // I don't need a synagogue you said / I can pray inside my body. //  God, in all their mystery, felt near. Lately, in attending the Universalist church with Charina I've found that having this container that is broader than my own journey gives me space to know and unknow, to ask, to seek. It is a gracious space for which I am grateful.

Later, we planted Pansies, English Daisies, Daffodils, Little Leo, and herbs in the garden.  I've been retreating to my parents more and more on the weekends for the escape from the city. It is almost time to leave her. I feel the craving growing every day.

If He
let go of my hand, I would
weep so loudly,

I would petition with all my might, I would cause
so much trouble

that I bet God would come to His senses
and never do that
again.

- Meister Eckhart 

SoulCollage

“Your soul knows the geography of your destiny.  Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.” - John O'Donohue

This weekend, Charina and I attended her church's SoulCollage workshop. We gathered with a dozen women, most of whom were four or five decades older than I am. SoulCollage is a therapuetic process of intuition and creation-- you build a deck of collages (cards) which represent aspects of your psyche, community, archetypes and can be read to learn from yourself (like a personal tarot in some ways). Though a lot of the time was spent quietly and individually working, I was surprised by how strongly supportive the circle felt. Some of the women shared stories of their pain and of their joys.  We sang a short hymn that had been the wedding march of a lady as she and her bride were walked down the aisle by her mom-- who had also been a mother and nuturer towards her bride since her own mother had kicked her out after coming out. We cried together. Women. Most of the women in the circle had known each other for as long as my lifetime and it made me think with gratitude of the woven branches circling my forearm, of my own circle of friends, of who we will be when we've known each others across two or three decades.

We should do the things that help us remember ourselves.

A late night listening to the rain fall after curling up on Tracie's couch to talk of depression and how to get unstuck, how we begin to believe that pursuing a life of passion and engagement is impractical. I've been feeling lonely lately and at the same time in need of vast spaces of quiet. I've been retreating into studying Spanish and visiting my parent's home to spend time sitting with them or running errands, drinking coffee, walking around the yard to spot the budding crocuses & daffodils with mom, or curled up in my childhood bedroom reading old journals.

Reading Anthony Doerr's exquisite short stories... 

“To consider water on any scale was to confront a boundless repetition of small events. There were the tiny wonders: rain drops, snow crystals, grains of frost aligned on a blade of grass; and there were the wonders so immense it seemed impossible to get his mind around them: global wind, oceanic currents, storms that broke like waves over whole mountain ranges." 

I'm reminded of how much I have to be grateful for, how much leaves me dizzy with euphoria or nostalgia and the luminescent unnamed degrees of joy the heart buzzes in and out of. 

A student told me Wednesday, "This is the best day I've ever had."  The smallest things-- unusually warm days, blue painted houses, neighborhood playgrounds. That evening Claire, Amelia, and I shot hoops on the abandoned courts, scaled the jungle gym, and embarrassed ourselves trying to do pull-ups.  Playing is a thing that helps me remember myself, exerting energy into the world, saying yes to "Ms. Meg can we play the stew pot game." I am constantly learning to go slower, to re-engage my imagination, to never tire of chalk on sidewalks, or lying in a sunbeam, or turning a cartwheel in the grass-- to never tire of being amazed. 

fragments

I keep thinking of Chinatown, lately-- of the faces of the people I knew there. I remember a warm breeze blowing silk against my legs through my bright yellow skirt while I was standing in Remi's front yard looking back at the house. It had been condemned and it sagged into the dry grass as if it was weary-- there were too many holes in the fences, too many stray cats wandering the hallways, skittering past our feet. We'd only been able to walk through the back room before water-damaged hoards cluttered the way. Remi had wanted to return one last time. I remember her standing barefoot in a hospital gown outside Dorothy's. She and Gloria were the first friends I made on the street, in on the homeless community. As he always did, Ellie was busy making her smile, a conversation I couldn't hear. I remember looking back, him holding her frail arm, the social worker a few steps behind them. These memories unravel out of nowhere, like the teal blue strands I used to find stuck to my sweaters months after I'd cut off my hair. I feel suddenly homesick for Salinas walking on Broadway when I pass the Mexican store and mariachi music swells out the open doorway. I've been sketching a picture of Lupita, wondering if Juan is still in school, if Connie is still lugging her trash bags back and forth between the day room and the doorway. That life seems so far away, four years past.

On the way home from school today, still in the neighborhood, O. ran out to greet me and threw his arms around my legs, telling me all about his day since I didn't teach him today. The affection of small children always amazes me, wins my heart.

For awhile I'd been thinking that falling in love is just a desire to propel ourselves out of boredom, to impose a drama on our narrative. Yet, listening to a friend this week made me realize that yes, love makes us do reckless, impulsive things-- but it isn't just to escape the ordinariness of living... love (in any of its forms) is about drama, about the narrative of meaning in our life (as the poets remind us over and over...  it all comes down to love.) Love of people, or a place, or even an idea is a creative force, it can unhinge us from our own expectations and norms, it makes us brave enough to re-imagine our story lines, to risk, to believe again in magic, adventure, and wonder-- even to willingly sacrifice ourselves to remain connected. Our love stories are about encounter, a point of connection and relationship (even if directed inwardly)-- and whether momentary or enduring, whether familial, romantic, amiable, environmental, or spiritual- I suppose it is our love stories that give us meaning.

Dorthy's Place, Chinatown, Salinas is a place I loved-- in all those realms-- and I am still discovering what I learned there. The other day I searched google maps for the driveway off Jefferson street that swept into our yard, beneath that thin willow. I hopped through photos-- down Alisal toward Cesar Chavez park, the bend of concrete where I balance beam walked during countless calls to the East coast. I can still taste warm dust in my mouth, hear the sparse grass of park crunching underfoot and the bark of the scraggly dog that always raced the perimeter of it's fence with aggressive possession, the icecream man's jingle and the shouts from the soccer pitches-- all this background noise to my own thoughts or a friend's voice on the other end. I couldn't trace my paths through the neighborhoods, along the creek and the fences to the skate park, crossing the long roads that stretched to the migrant fields and the Gabilan mountains, east of Eden.  Those paths belonged to the bone-deep sentiments I'd try to loosen by footfall, to the static chirping warning the distance was overcoming me-- despite all that was shifting inside of me as I made my daily treks the feeling I was left with was a determined strength that seemed to be growing, I was okay-- there, marooned in the world of men, piecing myself together, I was okay-- pulling my spine erect, my head lifted.

Love only makes us wider.
Love will be left over. 
Yes, Love will be left over. 

our hands imbibe like roots

School is a constant source of failing and learning and adapting. Tracie pointed out today that even the most life-giving work is also sometimes exhausting or causes us to sigh deeply with relief at the end of the day. I'm growing fond of my kiddos, and the classroom; I'm excited that I'll be there next year. I think they've actually convinced me that I want to pursue teaching credentials. But the future's still far away.

Meanwhile, life is full of poetry, letter writing, reading, coffee and dinners with the house and kindred spirits, celebratory walks in the thawing weather, weekends at the prison, riding the metro, caffeinated/insomnia inspired bursts of research & grant/application writing, netflix binging, sleeping in too late, Spanish lessons, and speedy carpools with bursting jams/cold draft of wind from the driver's window and the bittersweet acidity of smoke (which makes me feel younger and nostalgic for experiences not my own.)