This is My Body, This is My Blood

A Lesson Before Dying

We can learn, we can teach
We can share the myths, the dream the prayer
The notion that we can do better
Change our lives and paths
Create a new world
And start all over
Tracy Chapman, New Beginning

It's happening. The Century Plant in my front yard is slowly turning back into the earth's womb after blessing the neighborhood with a showy display for over three months following it's initial phallic burst from the ground. Now, tiny babies of the plant are popping up all over the yard.

All summer long, the tops of the tree have been bustling with broods of both bird and bee. In the beginning, two Hooded Orioles took up residence at the tippy top, thinking they'd just discovered a free apartment in the sky. It wasn't long before the bees moved in downstairs, drunken sots sucking up the juices like a den of MILFs at Starbucks last call. And finally, the hummingbirds. Allen's, Anna's, and possibly a few others, but I'm only a birder by proxy (via my was-band) so I can't be sure.

I was tempted to call the local newspaper and offer to write a story about the Amazing Plant for their "Outdoors" section, but I decided I'd rather not have traffic up and down the street. It feels a little selfish--keeping this wonder all for myself and my neighbors--but quite frankly, I want to be able to walk around the yard in my breezy jammies and slippers, braless as the day I was born, without having a bunch of gawkers trolling by with binoculars. You birders understand what I'm talking about. Sorry, but this bush tit prefers keeping her nest to herself if you know what I mean (and I think you do).

The question that's on everyone's mind--at least the mind of those in view of the Amazing Plant--is not so much when it will eventually fall, as which way it will drop. Over these past few weeks the bottom leaves have turned brown and withered, and most of the winged residents have all but moved on as the blooms dry up and turn in on themselves. The stalk is still green, but it's leaning like a born-again toward the right wing on Sunday morning. As of today, I'd be willing to take bets it'll topple into my neighbor's yard.

According to experts on all things succulent (excluding yours truly, of course) this mother-of-all-cacti blooms once every 25 years or so. One could possible apply this knowledge of cycles to human life. At 47, I've thrown up a new stalk, headed back to school, preparing to flower for the second time in my life. I wouldn't be surprised if I did something similar at 75--maybe volunteer to help less-fortunate humans overseas or move to Greece or choose some other way of growing myself in a new direction. I don't know where these new seeds of experience and knowledge will take me, but I do know this: I will happily host a party before I die, share all the nectar of understanding with whomever cares to nest in my branches.

When I do finally give up the ghost, I hope I fall in a neighboring yard--forcing them to get a good look at what it means to shoot for the sky--as if I truly believed I could reach the stars. And then I hope they turn me back into fire where I become the spark that started it all.

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A Woman's Heart

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love
Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life

Well, Ive been afraid of changing
cause Ive built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
Im getting older too
Landslide, Fleetwood Mac

I used to live my life by default, repeatedly trusting in the yielding patterns of passivity. After four decades of living the consequences of inaction, I've finally learned to steer my own vessel. If not me, then who?

As much as I adore men, it's becoming clearer that although I've loved many good men in my life, I've not always chosen partners who were good for me. For some reason I just assumed that if a man loved me, he would intuitively know how to love me. That he would mirror my own capacity for loving without first considering what he might gain or lose from unselfish giving of oneself. That forgiveness would be immediate in the face of inconvenience. That he'd understand love isn't about receiving, it's about the gift.

Yeah, so I'm a hopeless romantic. Naive. Perhaps even a little altruistic with my assumptions about others' intentions. But I'd rather be overly generous with my love than live a life diminished by personal history. That doesn't mean I won't be changed by the fact that yet another lover has passed through the door of this woman's heart. Who doesn't carry with them a bundle of bruises along with cherished memories of lovers come and gone? 

The thing about transition is that it comes with wheels. You might feel as if inertia has planted your feet in clay but external forces don't give a flying freak about feelings. When the winds of change begin to blow you either have to lean into them or give yourself over to indifference.

I've written recently about S moving out, but what I didn't say is that he didn't leave me. On the contrary, we both agreed it'd be best for him to find another place because neither of us were happy within the confines of shared housing. We still love each other and although neither of us know the direction of the future, we're both more content living apart.

In the past I'd have done everything in my power to try and fix what wasn't working because for some reason I thought that's what I was supposed to do. Our open discussion about the prospect fo living separately is a significant benchmark in my efforts toward conscious living. More importantly, by choosing my happiness over trying to make another happy, I think I've taken a huge step in the direction of loving myself as well as I've loved others.

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Watsu Matter With Me?

A few weeks ago I signed up for a Watsu massage from a woman referred to me by my friend and fellow member of Massage Sluts Anonymous, M. She thought I'd love the waterwork but I found it difficult to surrender to the process given my drowning issues. What I did love was photographing the practitioner as she worked with a young woman who's recovering from nerve damage after doctors accidentally knocked her leg out of the stirrup during hip surgery. Watching her was like attending a birth, the way she completely gave into each finite movement in the dance between her body and the body of water that cradled her.

Have you ever felt as though you were swimming against the current, trying unsuccessfully to best a hidden riptide as it pulled you further out to sea?  As though you've completely forgotten everything you'd learned about swimming parallel to the shore until you're out of danger rather than use up every last bit of energy on a futile battle with the forces of nature? The last few weeks have left me keening like a boat with a torn sail. Today it was all I could do just to get out of bed and feed the animals, let alone myself. I don't know if the fatigue stems from emotional backwash caused by recent  transitions or it's a physical manifestation of my tendency to overdo/give when I know damn well I'm running on an empty tank, but I haven't been this tired since I had mono in the tenth grade.

I continue to push myself through necessary tasks but it's like trying to hurry honey off the spoon. Perhaps I need to revisit that pool, take a lesson in the art of flow instead of dog-paddling my way through yet another day of Things To Do. At the very least, I might benefit from sitting in a chair under an umbrella with a view of nothing but my eyelids.

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