Tonight was another night when my mind was all over the place. I read a bit more of the book I started. Loved this passage – almost spit my drink out. It’s about an Irishman on his first trip to New York in the 70s.
I boarded a bus amid the swelter and noise. Later on the subway I loitered beneath the whirling fan. A black woman stood beside me, fanning herself with a magazine. Ovals of sweat at her underarms. I had never seen a black woman so close before, her skin so dark it was almost blue. I wanted to touch it, just press her forearm with my fingers. She caught my eye and pulled her blouse tight: “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Ireland,” I blurted. “I’m Irish.”
On and off I thought a little about the comment that was left today on one of my posts. Suggesting that while those of us who knew my ex-fiancee, B. think about her and still care about her, she is probably with someone new by now, being taken care of by him. It was in response to my saying (or attempting to say) that my writing this past year has kept her informed of my feelings – given her the satisfaction / safety of knowing that she was deeply cared for and about. And it’s true. I think on some level, we all want to be missed. Other than the weeks immediately after breaking up, she had never suggested that she thinks of me or misses me… I suppose if that were my goal, I wouldn’t have kept a public blog (that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing). She very well might be with someone else. Though that doesn’t sound like the person I know. Prior to us meeting, being in a relationship was not a priority for her – healing and learning was her main focus. I know she is more than capable of being alone and taking care of herself. So I just don’t see her as the type to try to fill voids or seek someone to take care of her. If anything, I could see her doing the opposite and deciding to give up on the process, deciding that she wants to focus on her. At least that was what she told me when she left, and throughout our relationship – that she still needed to heal and in ways she wasn’t aware. But who knows? I try to not spend much time thinking about where her head and heart is – instead I focus on where mine is – unabashedly and not overly concerned about what signals that sends out or doesn’t
After dinner, I read and edited a bit. I watched a few videos on how poets go about their writing. I was curious about their habits. I watched some Billy Collins videos – one of the few famous poets who I had the chance to hang out and drink with. There were fewer videos than I expected, and what was said wasn’t terribly insightful. Everyone has their own process, and I simply need to trust and evolve mine.
I also read an article from Brain Pickings on some of what Pema Chödrön says about Buddhism and how allowing everything in, allowing ourselves to constantly be annihilated and rebuilt, allowing ourselves to be present is a path forward through difficult times.
Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.
…
The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don’t get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It’s a very tender, nonaggressive, open-ended state of affairs.
To stay with that shakiness — to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge — that is the path of true awakening.
Reading this made me think of creating room for everything… and it tied in nicely with some of the things I had been reading about art and creation – mainly that you have to allow for all types of feelings and experiences. You have to have a level of bravery and stupidity and honesty with yourself. I came back to a phrase that was the title of one of B’s poems: “There Is Room for You”. The poem was about trying to start a family, and I was thinking of the phrase in terms of the self: there is room for anger and disappointment and love and shame…. as I thought about these two approaches to the same phrase, they became a little less indistinguishable. Family, children, self – all of those feelings apply. There is room for you, there is room for everything. Thinking about that poem, sent me to another poem of hers “Be gentle, Don’t Tell Me” When I initially read that poem, I thought it was about a lost lover, maybe a first love. This time as I read, I began to think about it being about losing a child or losing the ability to have a child and the sadness, strain, and frustration associated with that. Lines like “witness the rumors of my future” could certainly apply. Even back then, brokenness was theme for her – maybe that’s where it started. I sat and played with her words a bit, began to cobble something together, but abandoned the effort – though I like what I did with the first stanza. I have a Stephen Dunn poem that I’ve been meaning to rearrange. It’s an interesting way to approach poetry – a merging of two voices.
Very briefly, I thought about seriously taking some time off to write – getting a whatever job, buying a crappy house where I’d have almost no expenses, and just really focus on the craft for a year. I don’t think I’m going to do that, but I feel like I need to produce more and get better – at least in terms of poetry. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still surprised that I’ve kept up the daily writing for as long as I have, and I’m pleased to have written as many poems as I have, but poets like Billy Collins and Stephen Dunn have amassed hundreds of poems.
I read a few poems before bed, and I could tell my mind was racing. I turned the light out and breathed deeply. I thought about an encounter I had out in Missoula (an idea for a poem). Turned the light on and jotted a few notes down. I turned the light back out and again tried to focus on my breathing and the dark and suddenly remembered that years ago, just before I met my ex-wife, I had dug out three tapes (yes, tapes – cassettes) of a type of Indian music – lots of sitar. I had gotten the tapes from my friend Raj (he passed away from alcohol a few years later). At the time that I dug them out and gave them a listen, I had broken up with my girlfriend of seven years. I found the music to be calming – it was probably my first attempts at meditation. I turned the light back on, jotted it down in my notebook. I turned the light out and pulled up a video for a fifteen minute guided meditation. There was no calming background music, and the monk’s voice rose and fell in ways that were, at times, jarring. His voice was high and nasal and cracked a bit and I just couldn’t concentrate – instead I found myself laughing. I pulled up a ten minute meditation. This one had a calming woman’s voice and the sounds of birds and water in the background. For a moment I thought about the therapist back in Philly and the calm environment there. As I breathed in, I loved hearing the bird chirping. This made me want to get outside, be in nature. On the one hand it was calming, but on the other, it was stirring something inside of me. She then began the body scan, and no sooner did she say focus on the top of your head, what do you feel… the word that came to mind for me was dented. I felt a slight pressure as though my head was being dented. This made me crack up, and I thought about all the ways I was failing meditation. I tried to regain my composure, but the cracking up just made me crack up more. Which brings me here…. writing about a racing mind that fails at meditation. As I write these things, I wonder if this is what I should be turning in to poems. “Meditation on a Friday Night Failing” I know, it’s Monday…. I only sometimes tell the truth in my writing. Maybe tomorrow.