Window Pieces

Left in the Light

2011-10-17T16:28:00.000-07:00

You were walking in darkness with shades. You were holding the hand of a guide in blind trust. You were learning to find glimmers of light that illuminated darkly, and clinging to them as bright moments. You were learning to discern 15 shades of black, and hardly one that was truly grey.

Then with a word, the darkness was lifted, like an angry mother might remove the stolen blanket that created a fort. Your guide was a prison guard, half-ashamed of his role. The bright moments were but a mockery of what brightness should mean. The shades of black became all-black with perhaps only one that was partially grey.

It was painful, the light. At first there was no sight and no darkness, just a new kind of blindness. At first there was only a strong longing for the darkness to descend again so that all could be comfortable, so that you could see again as you saw before. But the veil was lifed, torn, rendered useless. It was gone.

With blurred vision, you saw your guide as he was running. He ran, further and further away, his care impossible without his dark cover.

You were left - left in the light - blinking and straining to make sense of a new world, alone.

But it is a world of light. This world has many happy guides who show their true faces and allow time for your eyes to adjust. Now you find rays of light that pierce darkness and celebrate them. Now you feel the warmth that comes with the light and you are learning to love the once-mythical sun. The light is beauty. It is love. It is truth.

You've been left in the light but you're no longer alone.

Sorting

2010-06-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

I found a picture of us tucked in between a collection of turn-of-the-century photos I've collected from other people. Perhaps I keep them because of the reminder of another life, of another era so different from my own. The people were just as human and I feel as if I can see into their minds as I gaze at the pictures.

One picture is of a plain of clear-cut stumps nearly to the horizon. There is no human in the shot, but it is obvious that there was a photographer. It is striking in its unnaturalness. One senses, immediately, that the photographer was not thinking "how pretty" as he captured the shot. So he must have been striving to capture something else. He must have shared the same inner stirrings as you or I might, observing the same landscape.

There is a woman leaning against a silo, one arm akimbo, staring out of the frame. Her look suggests that her life has disappeared a little faster than she anticipated. Her posture suggests she feels mentally younger than her face allows.

A younger woman poses overlooking the coast and trying to keep her dress tamed amidst the wind. Her smile at the camera hides longing and an urge for life to hurry a little. I cannot help but wish the older woman might have encouraged the younger to savor her time.

There are old people sitting around a table with a silver tea set. The gentleman has a cigar in one hand and gestures to the women with his other. They listen with knowing smiles. I've seen these moments echoed around other tables. Yet their lives seem simpler and more connected.

Then there was us, all of 19, somehow misplaced in full color. This too was a different life, a different era. I remember reaching my hand up to meet yours on my shoulder. I remember being excited to be so close for just a moment. Beyond those glimmers of memory, it is difficult to see into my own mind. Those years used to make the bulk of my self-understanding, but now that part of my brain has faded to black and white. Certain things have been clear cut. I am left with stumps of evidence, like this photo. What were we thinking? I barely knew who I was then. You barely knew you. Do you know yourself now? Eleven summers have passed. How would we, wizened, encourage those kids now? Run? Wait? Jump? Savor? I find it strange that I barely recognize myself and yet your gaze pierces me. Those eyes still see me and thus I can still see that you.

Picture of Loves - Part 7

2010-01-29T13:14:00.000-08:00

I found this in the draft box from 2007, but I've decided to post it largely as is. I am not sure if I will pick up this "series" again, but here, at least, is the last piece I was working on way back when.

--------------------
Her head was full of swirling thoughts and years of memories as they walked along picking out groceries for the week. "Why this gut wrenching dance for the last two years?" she asked herself. "Why did he always keep her in suspense that a proposal would come sometime 'in the next two months'? What more could he be waiting for?" There was nothing more she could give or expose of herself. He knew her heart, it's strengths and failures. He knew her mind. He knew her soul. It was he that began the whole discourse and insistence on marriage three years prior. He invited her heart to hope, yet the realization of this hope seemed increasingly fleeting as time passed.

"Will you marry me?" she asked him point blank while pushing the filling metal cart past a cooled selection of meats that would soon know the joy of consumption that she did not.

"You can't ask that," he replied, clearly surprised and a little irritated.

"Well I just did. Will you marry me," she said, irritated as well.

"No, you can't ask that. This is not the way it is supposed to happen," he told her.

"Supposed to happen according to whom?" she thought. "Then what are you waiting for?" she asks.

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" he asks quietly.

"No. Are we going to do this or not?" she asks, not quieting her voice to match his and aware she is infuriating him, but hoping that this might push him to make a decision, yes or no. She was so tired of "maybe" and "soon."

"We just got back together. I need to know that things are stable and going smoothly first," he explained.

"We were hardly broke-up. And we only got back together because you told me you had done some hard thinking about marriage and you wanted me to give you one more chance. It has been weeks and nothing is different," she argues.

"It's too soon. I just need more time," he said in the same self-deceiving way he had been putting off this decision for the past two years.

"More time for what? You know me. What are you waiting for?" she pushes, calmly, but with an undertone of the most force she could muster.

Silence.

"Fine," she sighs.

As they walked along, finishing shopping and still looking the part of a couple, she knew that this time she was truly done trusting her heart with him. He may have thought that "fine" meant he had more time, and she tried to think it too, but she knew there was none left for her to give. The last grain of patience in the hourglass of her heart had just taken the curved path gravity assigned it and slipped through to the other side as they loaded his groceries into the car and drove back to his apartment. She had tried to hold it back herself but it was beyond her reach. After their goodbye kiss a pleasant feeling of finality settled over her as she drove back home, biding her time until she would let him know that his requested "one more chance" had ended. There was nothing more she could do. "I love you"'s whispered with promises years before shifted before her like the mist on the river that night, present but lacking substance.

She loved him still and yet she would not let herself love him any longer. She knew what he did not. She knew that his intangible reasons for needing more time meant only one thing: that regardless of how sure he was that he should want to marry her, in truth, he did not. Thus she was not the woman he should marry. Just as he could not get to the grocery store without her help, nor could he bring himself to end their relationship. She would have to do that as well.

The Marriage You Save May Be Your Own

2010-01-11T13:48:00.000-08:00

He walked the sidewalks to a new park. The park was not new; it was simply not the regular park, nor the closest park. The route took him by houses with families he did not know and therefore would not think of later. He had done nothing wrong and yet he felt acutely imperfect, rather weak, and increasingly human. He watched a man slip out a front door, eye him, and then guiltily wave good-bye to a young woman inside. He felt a kinship; he felt united in human failure.

His feet did not miss a step, keeping perfect rhythm as they took the last downward slope to where his daughter would find slides and swings. He felt the pull of gravity against his hands. His fingers tightening not to give way to the force of nature. Once at the bottom, he settled into a bench at this new park that would grow familiar. The bench felt good. He had called his spade a spade. He was surprised he hadn't experienced this yet in the previous six years of his good marriage. He also noted that this was the perfect time for such a thing. Work, stress, and different schedules had created a void. He mused at the old wives tale wisdom of a seven year itch. He had felt the pull, the itch.

He restrained himself. He choose to delight in his delight-worthy wife, and in this growing lady they had created. He had ended something that had truly never began and yet he knew it had began in his own deceitful heart. Neither women knew his double-mindedness, and he vowed to be of one mind again. His wife was wonderful and he truly loved her. The other woman was wonderful too and someone else truly loved her. Everything was as it should be. As he walked home he was amazed that he was the only victim in this crime. It was truly, and only, a sin against himself. He exhaled a silent prayer, "What a mercy!"

The Dance

2009-05-05T14:50:00.000-07:00

She did not imagine the dance would be this painful. She winces. She steps on his feet again and again. She desperately wants to run away, to leave this floor and retreat back to a corner alone in a chair hoping perhaps no one will remember that she tried. She cannot for there are ropes that now bind her to him even when his own arms refuse.

She wishes her shoes were less pointy, or that perhaps he would actually wince again rather than accepting the abuse her missteps inflict with such stoicism. Her eyes are on his chest, his feet, her own. She does not dare to glance at his face, to seek his eyes. She fears loathing. She fears anger, or hurt. Worse, she fears seeing indifference. Oh the terror of seeing that he merely stares blankly at the walls, his mind somewhere far beyond her reach. Different shoes would help, she obsesses. Or perhaps if she could bring herself to fling her shoes off. Oh, but the humility of dancing with bare feet here and admitting her defeat before all. In frustration she pulls against the ropes. He lets her, indifferent that this too causes him pain and so needlessly for it is of no use.

She wants him to help her, though she also does not want to need his help. She wants him to forgive her, though she would not admit to him that she needs it. She wanted to dance well and to do so without being taught and without learning.

He wants her to stop stepping on his feet, though they are numb. He wants her to admit her defeat and kick off her shoes. He wants to help her but a part of him likes her failures, not because she is human, but rather because they allow him to pretend he is not. He wants to help her but he knows that would require knowing the dance himself well enough to teach and he does not. He merely has enough grace not to crush her feet, though even this effort distorts his form. To admit this to her might allow them to share in defeat and thus to be bound by more than ropes. Yet, he cannot yet muster this. He wonders about this as he stares at the walls.

Smiling women whisper as they dance past, "Don't fret, it is hard at first, but there will comes a time you won't even notice the ropes." She cannot fathom this. They must lie. She will always feel its burn. Yet her eyes close and she hopes they speak truly.

"There is no shame in losing the shoes while you learn," whispers another. "Did you?" she wonders, but dares not ask for either answer condemns her.

"He would still hold you even if there were no ropes," promises another with perhaps more intuition than the others. "Would he?! Would he...." her thoughts press her and beg her eyes to his face but she still cannot look.

"You will have to lose the shoes and learn his face or you will dance like that forever," exhorts another. She believes it terrified but still cannot decide which is worse, to gain the knowledge through humility, or to limp through a pain now familiar and hope grace comes on its own.

So they dance on, and she holds back tears, for she did not imagine the dance could be this painful.

Artemis Hunted

2009-01-31T17:34:00.000-08:00

Love is an awkward thing. It flees when you grasp after it, yet often escapes your notice when it is present...

"Didn't I hear that there is a guy now?" Someone might ask casually in a social game of catch-up.

The beloved blinks, feigning unawareness. When apparent the other is not deceived, she motions her head in the direction of him. For her, he is an all-consuming presence. For the other, there is a group of guys standing in the other corner.

Something is there, the beloved knows, but what?! Oh that persistent question that even brides have pondered insecurely while veiling themselves. All she knows is that her life is changing. All she knows is that "home" is changing. The once expected future - though never real in the first place - is suddenly murky, and strangely it does not bother her.

Her assumed trajectory of life was theorized in a closed system. The lover enters and that closed paradigm is shattered, or rather shifted, before the beloved actually recognizes that she is in a new paradigm. It is much like one for whom God came in softly but entered in transforming as He came. Everything was new yet the one could not tell when it began nor how.

For the other on the outside, who has already discovered and grown used to being loved and adjusted to having one's presupposed future forever altered, it is sweet to watch this awkward dance replayed by another younger. While the other's future vision for this young beloved remains yet unreal, her present song and steps are still familiar.

Possible Memoir Introduction

2008-08-04T10:44:00.000-07:00

Deep music strummed with the songs of earth as she wove slowly into wine country. Approaching large iron gates her whole life began reviving itself before her due to the vitality of the vines. Rich and reaching upward, the rows and rows of foliage were newly green, growing leaves that had never been, all the while reaching downward, into deep ground, firmly rooted in past.

She passed signs that marked varietals, informing the uninitiated of the histroy:

Pinot Noir
Willamette Valley Vineyards
Dijon Colony 777,667
Grafted in 1999

"That is too recent" she mused, half expecting so lovely a hillside to read 1846.

Yet it said 1999. Oh 1999, the year that once held nineteen. A year when memoirs were not a thing to think about because one was so drunk on living the very moments or dreaming warily of future ones.

Here was wine country. The lushness was intoxicating enough. The vows she would watch exchange were so full of promise. They would be full of the promise and potential that nineteen had been for her. With this remembrance she realized that perhaps 1999 was not so recent, not so recent at all...

Traveling

2008-07-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

The train clattered along as he watched scenery skipping past him as if it had somewhere important to go. The hills and streams and small towns whispered at vaguely familiar scenes from his past. He hadn't given the trip much thought when he responded to the ad for the job. Now that his mind and the train were racing towards this old city, he was flooded with memories of her, and the train seemed haunted.

He sat, transfixed on the constantly changing landscape out his window, while his eyes also darted towards every person who walked past, as if knowing that the train likely held someone he may have known.

Would he know her still, he wondered. Would she know him? Time had changed his face, his weight, his hair, his clothes. Would it not be the same with her? What if she was married now? What if she was someone's mother? Wild thoughts flew by with the mountains remaining constant on the horizon like regret.

When the train pulled into the station he was jolted back to reality remembering the important details about his life now. He was married. He had a child.

Stepping off the train he saw her, or perhaps only someone like her, her soft blond hair pulled up behind her. There were softer curves covered with billowy clothes. Yet her timeless laugh and voice were still comforting all who heard it. She held the hand of a very young man stepping of the train with his own little suitcase as she smiled up at the older man who shared his face. The three walked away hand in hand with the little man in between, unaware of the silent admirer exiting the car behind them.

Instinctively, he called home to tell his wife he arrived safely.

His daughter answered, "Daddy, are we moving?!"

"Oh, my darling girl," he sighed, "I have only just arrived. How can one know what the future holds? I do miss you."

Stand or Fall

2008-02-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

Two friends find each other unexpectedly walking the same old gravel road in their childhood neighborhood several years after they both moved away. They exchange pleasantly surprised greetings in the awkward fashion of men of their age.

After inquiries into each other's well-being and family, one speaks more genuinely, "This war is a terrible thing isn't it? I have spent many nights fasting and asking God what my response should be."

"Me too," his friend replies, happy in the unity of heart between he and his old friend. Then, shaking his head in wonder, "God asked me to enlist."

The other with wide eyes and a posture taken aback says, "God told me to abstain from violence."

"You'd better do it then," states his friend matter-of-factly.

"My friend, with all the due respect, how can God tell you war is good and tell me war is bad?" the other inquires, "One of us must have heard wrong."

His friend studied the edge of the gravel path as it dwindled into the horizon and then with a tilted head and the clarity that accompanies resolution he looked into his friend's searching eyes and said, "God did not tell me war was good. He just asked me to enlist."

As One Terrified

2008-01-19T13:30:00.000-08:00

She sits with him. She smiles. She laughs. She stares at the wall. Her hands fidget and she tucks her knees against herself as a barrier. Yet, she invades his space, closing the gap. What she wants more than anything, and what she fears more than anything, is a healthy relationship. How terrifying it is to be loved!

Her eyes implore of him, "love me" and then, "do not dare come that close."

Her mouth is pouty and playful as the words that leave it cut him. Her eyes take in the damage and she longs for returned abuse while hoping against hope that it will not come. It does not come. His hurt lingers and her shame grows. Yet she does not stop.

He stands with kind eyes while buffeted, knowing it will cease while puzzled by its source. She will not tell. She grows uneasy with his insistence on loving her. She does not know love. It is uncomfortable. She knows pain. She knows what to do with pain.

She grows nervous that he might win and that she might have to change, to change into someone who loves. She flinches at the thought that she might be the abuser, that she might not have justification for her anger. His affections accuse and spare her, and this is too much.

"Wound me and you may have me," says a voice somewhere inside her and her breath is bated and curves accentuated. Some days he is tempted.

"Pull me to a safe place to love you," says another. He hears this voice, too, and with it he hopes against hope.

He does not understand her refusal to drink of the water he offers, and yet he stays there, hands extended. Patient. Kind. Wise. King. He will offer until she accepts or until she famishes at the dry cistern she knows so well.

Snippet from a dream

2007-12-24T09:44:00.000-08:00

She was behind the counter finishing coordinating the refreshments.

He came behind the counter with her to collect more napkins for the table. He stood too close. Close enough to hear her sharp inhale and see her pulse change and body tense all the while not removing herself to a safer distance.

He watched the physical changes he had elicited from the corner of his eye and smiled, "Are you nervous?"

She smiled without taking her eyes off the work in front of her, "Yes."

He left to deliver napkins. She was left wondering what she was allowing as she felt herself wishing his proximity had lingered.

A Picture of Loves - Part 6

2007-11-14T20:52:00.000-08:00

There were no words now. They were stuck in a small fellowship of learners, and the only conversation that took place was through fleeting glances and mutual responses to other peoples inquiries.

For example, several weeks earlier T spoke of a movie he wanted her to watch so that she could understand the epiphany he had about himself and their now past relationship. She hadn't seen it at the time because she thought it looked corny. One of her professors mentioned the movie right after she had just recently watched it with A, unfortunately thinking of T the whole time, and weeping a little at the end as she understood T's epiphany, though it was still too late. She allowed A to think she was just an emotional girl, rather than know that she was still grieving the loss of T. When the movie was brought up to her in T's presence she told the professor earnestly that it was a very good movie. She knew this communicated to T that she now understood what he had wanted her to know. Yet still, there were no words between them other than the required courtesies of sharing a small space and community with one another. Perhaps everyone else was as uncomfortable as she was. She didn't know. She just knew that she had made a decision. That decision might come crumbling down if there were more words between them. So they continued their odd understanding of each other in silence. It was painful. She couldn't imagine three more years of this, but she knew it couldn't always feel like this.

Her ring was finally finished and she and A shared a lovely dinner to celebrate with a more traditional proposal (though without suspense). It felt strange to feel the weight of jewelry on her hand. For so long she had wanted this. In the desperately confusing times feeling rejected by T, she had looked upon her married friends hands and spouses that they had dated for shorter periods that she and T had, and she coveted. She so desired to be wanted and to belong to another person. The weight of the ring, so long in the making, now shouted its presence on her finger and made her terribly uncomfortable, however beautiful its voice.

Wearing it to school, she attempted to hide it all day. She had no desire to show it off here. She loved having it on, but longed for it to seem unnoticeable. All was discreet until the afternoon discussion when K shouted gleefully that she finally got her ring and then everyone wanted to see it. She felt his eyes. She knew that this signified a seriousness to him that her mere words had not. She felt his anguish and defeat. She felt the sadness welling up within him as he quietly stood and left the room, unbeknown to anyone at the time that he was leaving the fellowship permanently and relieving the discomfort of their silent co-existence. Her mouth smiled at joy others wanted to share with her, but her eyes could not as her heart felt punctured knowing his was crushed.

She thought of action films when there was a guy with a gun on his victim where the only way to get free is for the victim to pull the trigger through their own body, into their captors, releasing them. Both wounds would be unnecessary if decisions had been made differently. Unfortunately, the wound is sometimes the only way when the struggle has so passionately intertwined two characters. She felt the freedom and the pain. She looked forward to when the rings weight would become normal, and its notoriety fade.

A Picture of Loves - part 5

2007-10-12T22:06:00.001-07:00

In walked the guy whose office was next door to the shop . The proximity had caused him a serious caffeine addiction and a lot of banter with the shop staff. She mused about the funny details and moments she was able to observe from behind a counter. This was her first job in the service industry, and though still in training, she was enjoying it. This particular customer was always amusing and seemed to know everyone. Her first week on the job she assumed he was gay because she overheard him talking to some older women about never wanting to get married and enjoying salsa dancing all the while wearing rather form-fitting pants.

"Hi, the usual." He quipped handing her his drink card.

"Flat, vanilla latte?" She confirmed, as he actually often ordered black coffee as the day wore on.

"Tepid." He reminded.

She nodded, thinking, "I know. The high-maintenance drink."

"You have a pretty smile," he complimented.

Two days ago it was her eyes, "Thanks," she said.

"So," He pried, "is there a man in your life?"

She smiled. He was harmlessly flirtatious, but she was not about to date a customer, or anyone for that matter. "No, but I just got out of a three year relationship..." she informed him trying to find the words to express that she was not exactly available.

"So, it's probably not a good time to ask you to have dinner with me?" He stated while still asking.

"No. You'd need to check back in about five months," she answered and hoped it deflated his interest.

"Alright," he replied, taking his drink with a nod of thanks and a tip.

She worked over the weekend and he did not. The next time her shift overlapped his morning coffee he smiled and asked, "Has it been five months yet?" to teasingly avoid any awkward moment.

"No," she said but could not help but smile at his persistence.

He found her a few days later with her attentions primarily directed at "Crime and Punishment," though she had not unintentionally sat at the closest table to his office outside her shop.

He sat down and they began talking about Russian literature and life. Unbeknown to her, T was driving by and observed their interaction. When she saw him at school Monday he mentioned seeing her conversing with an older business man and asked her if she'd had a job interview.

"Oh, no," she said, remembering. "That's just A, he works next door." She did not mention the pool game they wound up playing to escape the interruption of one of the local crazies who wanted to talk to them about her imaginary horse for well over 45 minutes. The game gave her the opportunity to better explain her problem with the whole practice of American dating, and to reiterate that she would not date him, but that she could get to know him casually so long as he was only ever himself and did not try to woo her.

T was not yet threatened, and yet not quite reassured, either. This time she seemed far more resolved that there were no more chances for them, and he worried that another man would not squander an opportunity at her heart. He resolved that neither would he squander one last opportunity if he could just convince her to give it.

A Picture of Loves - part 4

2007-10-12T21:36:00.000-07:00

She and D were more ready than the customers to close shop as usual. Balancing school, work, and your early 20's was quite an act, and they knew they would finish their closing chores quickly. She switched the sign to close and quickly escaped outdoors to bring in furniture, and avoid the eyes and questions D would undoubtedly corner her with.

She walked back in making brief eye contact, but it was all the invitation he needed.

"So, when are you getting married?" He asked teasingly.

She rolled her eyes at him, "It was just a date."

"You LIKE him," he insisted.

"No, I don't," she insisted.

"Yes, you do. So, when is the wedding?" he continued in mock earnestness.

"D, seriously, I don't like him" she opened her eyes wide to show her sincerity.

"Seriously, you do. You can tell me," he said, implying her secret was safe from his roommate, her previously believed soul-mate.

"I don't like him. I think I could like him, but I don't like him. We barely know each other!" She told him all there was to tell.

"Right. Okay. But you'll send me an invitation, right?" he said, always knowing when to stop, but somehow always getting away with never doing so.

She knew he did not approve at all. D had watched A with other girls at the shop and he was convinced A was either a player or would happily marry anyone at all under 30. She disagreed. She saw something genuine in his goofiness and grin. She really did not like him, but she did enjoy his company. Further she had decided to indulge his desire for them to continue to get to know one another. Primarily because of a note A had brought her a few days earlier. It was a scribbled quote from Henry Vincent that read: "Contact with a high-minded woman is good for the life of any man." For her this meant two important things. One, he read books. Two, he saw their interactions as worthwhile even if they never did amount to a relationship.

She processed later with another co-worker, G, about D's concern that A just wanted to get married. G, a married man himself, shrugged, "What's wrong with knowing you want to get married? A's a good guy."

Sensible, she thought. And so it began.

A Picture of Loves - part 3

2007-10-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

They climbed back into her car taking a break from holding hands only long enough to place the seat belts in those intruding bucket seats into their respective clasps. She pulled away from the parking lot and the dock that had been host to many long hours of conversation bearing their souls in the dark after their tea house had closed. She knew they were headed anywhere but to their respective homes as such a declaration must be reveled and reassured by hearing the rest of the words that they had both kept veiled for the past 6 weeks.

Meandering the back roads on the west side of Portland's Willamette river, they discovered a park and ambled out of the car and onto the swings to have a little taste of the flying they both felt from the assurance of the other's devotion. They were then off to the top of a play structure to feel the chill of the early morning seep into their bodies from the metal platform while unfolding secrets melted their hearts together.

"I'm afraid," he confessed. This love was playing in a territory neither of them had known with their high school romances. Those relationships played house; this one threatened the reality of four cracked walls and oatmeal breakfasts. "What are you afraid of?" he asked her.

"I'm not," she told him, "'Perfect love casts out fear,'" said with bewildering confident assurance. She was not afraid. If there were such a thing as a soul mate, he was hers. They seamlessly worked along side of each other serving people throughout the week. They spent hours in respectful, engaging dialog in philosophy and theology. They enjoyed the same epicurean delights and foreign films. Their histories were so similar that empathy and sympathy enveloped all their confessions and errors. She could not fathom a more perfect companion.

He was at a loss for an adequate reply, but began talking all the same. He worried about how their news would effect his best friend, Z. He asked her how long they would have to wait to wed to give Z enough time to recover from seeing that his ex-fiance had only ever loved his friend. She thought a year would do to wait for engagement, and perhaps another month of silence before exposing their affections to him. Silence seemed impossible. A year seemed like more than seven, but at least they could count the days.

They did have a few confidants, one of which, C, chaperoned their good-bye a few mornings later as she was taken by train home to see her family to celebrate her 20 years of life. They hugged their usual farewell but he handed her a book steeped in incense to read on her journey. The cover was understated in a way that promised richness with a simple title, "Broken Wings". He leaned in for a first kiss - on her forehead, their lips would not meet for another year longer - and watched C drive her away to meet her train and separate her from him for what would feel like too long.

As the train wheels set in motion, her mind began spinning through all the events, confessions, and plans of the last few days. She inhaled deeply the pages of the book as she began to read a tragic tale of two lovers in a culture where love was not what bound one in marriage. Devouring the poetic pages she came to the end long before her destination. Then in tears, she fell asleep.

A Picture of Loves - part 2***

2007-08-01T14:18:00.000-07:00

***The parts are numbered as they come to me, not necessarily as I will order them later***

She sat in the passenger seat mostly listening and making the appropriate responses as she watched the familiar terrain of Eugene slipping quickly by her. She realized it was probably too late to change her mind, too late and too impolite to ask him to turn around and take her home.

"What is it?" He asked, perceiving her discomfort.

"I really don't want to be dating anyone right now," She answered with the unhindered honesty that had accompanied all of her conversations with this man. She thought back to the evening a week previously when they had ended up spending a few hours shooting pool after a long discussion about Russian literature at the coffee shop where they met. She had explained to him her full perspective on the failure of modern dating methods, and how she would not undergo "courtship" again. She had explained the reasons why she herself was unwilling to be dating anyone right now. The same unhindered honesty explaining that it was far too soon for her damaged heart.

What she did not share, was that it was too soon for her heart for several reasons. The first was that she was afraid, afraid of trusting again, and of hoping again, and of rejection again. The second was because her heart still loved another, and though she had already long since mourned the loss of this love, and was determined to stop loving him, she also knew it would not be fair to let a new man love her fiercely, when she could not return the devotion. She hoped that given enough time, her heart would heal, and then she could venture to love again.

"This isn't a date," He assured her, as they continued down the highway leading to the coast for an afternoon of beach exploration together.

"Yes, it is," She argued. She knew his intentions were clear. He liked her, he really liked her.

"Okay, so it is," He shrugged, maintaining his light banter.

"I really don't want to be dating anyone right now," She reiterated.

He paused. "Well, I can turn around," He offered.

"No," She sighed.

"No really, I don't want you to not want to be with me the whole day," He said genuinely.

She gave this much thought as the car continued west with the irresistible pull of the tide. The moon was plotting against her. Just three weeks earlier, she and her roommate were investigating astrological signs and personality and compatibility when she had jokingly suggested that she just needed to try dating a Cancer...and lo and behold one showed up across the counter ordering lattes again, and again, and again and now here she was in his car headed to a crab's territory, the beach.

Irritated at allowing herself to be in this predicament, and determined that this would be their last outing - since it would not be polite to ask him to turn around, she replied, "No really, let's just go as planned."

"Okay then," He said with finality, and the chatting continued. They exchanged stories from their pasts, his adventures in bible and music college, her wild encounters doing unconventional outreach. Neither mentioned the heartaches, neither mentioned the mistakes. They were not hiding per se, but rather honoring the boundaries one ought to have with their heart and stranger's. This was new for her. He made her laugh often. His company was enjoyable, but she was sure her time with him would soon be over. They were too different.

After finding the agate beach they had been seeking and spending some time watching the wind whip waves against the oceans pull, they began a hunt for unique stones. She found one that she had mistaken for a guitar pick and gave it to him for his music stories. He was highly mindful and protective of her, which she found amusing. As they began wandering towards the tide pools to find crabs he looked at her smiling and pronounced, "I just know you're going to like me," with the same unassuming confidence with which he had showed her how to improve her pool game.

The corners of her mouth smiled, worried, but not too worried, she might break his heart, and worried, too worried, he might be right.

A Picture of Loves - Part 1

2007-07-31T15:23:00.000-07:00

She had said it.

The words that had been making a deafening roar in her head for a months finally erupted into audible bliss. They had tried to find their way out for weeks through her eyes, through her elusive word choice, through the sheer quantity of correspondence, and through her actions, but they desperately, desperately had wanted to be voiced aloud.

"Maybe this would be easier if we knew how each other felt?" He had said.

"Of course it would not be easier!!!" she thought. Yet, how could she possibly deny him the answer to what he was truly asking, which was, "Do you? Do you know what it is I feel for you? Do you feel it too? Am I crazy!?"

"I love you," she had blurted. As the words hung on the cold air between them it seemed so obvious. Now the noise of the river was a deafening roar as she awaited his response.

"I love you," he replied.

There, it had been done. It was over, and the forbidden relationship had begun. No, not being together would not be easier if they knew how each other felt; it would be impossible. She leaned into him for warmth and realized the morning would come too soon and well before her eyes would sleep.

Impulsive

2007-06-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

Journal excerpt from 2004
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Circling the underground maze. Finding a space. Backing in...slowly. Inch, inch, inch. Wouldn't want to hurt my husbands bumper. Stop. Finish song on radio. Climb out of truck. Floor 2. Watch for "traffic". Find elevator. Push the *1 button. Wait. 21-person capacity. You have got to be kidding me. Imagining myself multiplied across the elevator in a 4 by 5 grid. Okay, maybe 20 people if they are all me-sized, but come now, have you seen the suburbs lately? They are not all me-sized. I guess this is a city elevator, maybe suburb elevators would approximate differently.

Doors open and I'm out on the street in search of the nearest bathroom. A kind looking woman is stopping me to talk about an environmental agency concerned with rivers, mercury, and something about not eating fish if I'm pregnant. Am I pregnant? I had shrimp last night. My period is eight days late. Two different tests have produced only the single "not pregnant" line. I'm not pregnant. I need to find a restroom.

Lady, I wish I had the money to help clean the rivers. I can't even afford health insurance right now and I could be pregnant. Look, I won't eat fish okay? But let me have my priorities. My priorities which include finding a bathroom, and not supporting your cause right now. How 'bout I take a brochure. Okay, thanks.

Bookstore. Bathroom found! Hallelujah chorus. Bathroom in a bookstore - THE bookstore. So many books. Bathroom conveniently located next to the books I want to buy - but can't. Kierkegaard and cookbooks. How can a girl resist? But I do. Besides, how many books do I currently have that I haven't finished?

Triumphantly leave the book city without purchasing anything and sink into an Italian coffee shop to write and read and enjoy a cappuccino. Crazy thing these coffee houses. Find out Starbucks just bought these guys too. Damn them! They want to own the whole coffee industry. Priorities. For them: global domination. Okay. For me: find a new coffee shop not owned by Starbucks.

I can't believe how many coffee shops there are now. I don't even drink caffeine, nor like trends, and yet even I am a sucker for a good coffee shop. They are the modern city square. That place where everyone gathers and converses and you get to know the regulars. It's a beautiful thing, community.

Maybe that's why I secretly hate drive-thrus. I won't go - never mind I don't drink coffee - but why would you? Take FIVE more minutes and park somewhere, stand in line, observe people, remember that there are more people in the world than you, your boss, and bad drivers. Face it, we all think everyone else on the road is a bad driver. I have a friend who admits to being a bad driver, but boasts that she is at least better than her husband. Anyway, back to your line. Order your drink from a person - enjoy the first sip without a lid. Come on now, LIVE. Stop existing and start recognizing the moments of your life that are trying to find you! Smile at people. Start to recognize people. Get back in your car and breath as you drive. Realize all the other people aren't bad drivers all the time, but just when they stop at the drive-thru for coffee. Crazy thing these coffee houses. That's where the conversation is happening. That's where our young intelligentsia are congregating. That's where I can chat with people about Kierkegaard. Lovely.

I'm headed back to the underground cavern that's holding my car. Ooh...there's that cute store I saw the other day. What isn't cute in here? Cute housewares and cute clothes. I'm not dressed funky enough to be shopping here. I haven't found a box I'm comfortable labeling me just yet.

I think I need these earrings, very modern-antique. So I haven't worn earrings in ten years, that's because I didn't own THESE. NO. Put them back. Ooh...find cute mugs. Pick out and "A" one for Husband, and an "M" for me. Sales rack?! Uh oh, cute shirt. Wow, that's a sales price? I can't afford shopping here. Buy the shirt anyway...and the mugs. All that and they don't even validate parking.

Back on the 21-person capacity elevator. Button 2. Hold the elevator for another shopping woman, also parked on 2. Who are the people that find spaces on the first level of parking garages? I want to know. It's never happened to me. I want the secrets.

Climb back into truck, shopping back sitting next to me. Sigh. Sometimes I swear the harder I try not to consume things that I don't need the more it bites me in the end. Pass up a $12 book I would cherish for two more mugs and a shirt that's pink. I don't wear pink. What's wrong with me anyway?