#187 / 2011 Winter: Santa Fe

SANTA FE WRITING WORKSHOP

#187

Margo Chavez, for whom I was house sitting and dog sitting in Santa Fe, is the sister of Denise Chavez, director of the Border Book Festival in Las Cruces. It is a very literary family. So Margo invited me to join her in attending a writing workshop she goes to once a week.

The workshop is loosely organized according to the book “Writing Down the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg. Basically you set a timer for a specific amount of time, then put your pen down on the page and don’t stop writing no matter what.

If you are stuck you just keep going and see what comes up. The group included five women my first visit – all quite beautiful and accomplished. I was flattered to be invited to be among them.

We were asked to bring a quote for inspiration. We listened to each other’s quotes, reflected upon what the intent was, and commenced writing. 

My quote by William Wordsworth:

Though nothing can bring back the hour

of splendor in the grass, glory of the flower,

we will grieve not,

rather find strength in that which remains behind

in the primal sympathy

which having been, must ever be,

in the soothing thoughts that spring

out of human suffering,

in the faith that looks through death,

in years that bring

the philosophical mind.

I write:

In the soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering… I’m not sure I know what that means. I have no soothing thoughts and I’m suffering.

In Las Cruces, once, Joe Somoza commented upon a hapless person in our community – cold and non-spiritual: “He must have had a poor mother.”

How profound and understanding. Soothing thoughts…soothing thoughts. Nope. I have none. I am pitiful in my neediness. A void shopping did not fill.

I am not who you think I am. Hopes for the future turned to ash, rising as a Phoenix, weeping. From the steering wheel my fingers reach out to the edges of the universe. I am alone with the knowledge and the knowledge split me in two. Two heads, no heart – broken – only thoughts.

Joe, I am not who you think I am. When I walked into your hospital room I was wearing a mask – a mile that didn’t exist in my heart – for your sake. You didn’t even need it; you were so ready. I am a wildebeest bellowing, a sheep bleating for mercy, but there will be none. My pathetic optimism, my tokens of hope, useless.

We slid and slid down the ladder – faster and faster – until it became the rabbit hole of no return.

You know who I am – I don’t know who I am – who will I be without you? Your gifts raised me up for what purpose? It will be she – the one I don’t know – maybe the one I wanted to be – calm and elegant.

My anger is parched now. There is room for grace now. Emptiness that rattles with so much open space. So much space. How many years will it be before I see you again? Thirty? I wake up crying this morning – thirty years at least. Who will I be in thirty years? Of what use can I be at ninety five?

Hopes for that future turned to ash. You were supposed to grow old with me. I don’t recognize myself; I don’t recognize you on your death bed – only eyes, no voice.

How could you suffer so quietly? I am loud, screaming into the sea air, my hands on the steering wheel – driving, driving – into an alternate universe.  It’s that Alice-In-Wonderland world where everything turned upside down, inside out. In that world you can have all you aspired to – all you ever wanted – it costs a pretty penny, my dear. 

Death blew past me, whispering in my ear, nuzzled close then flew off taking the most precious thing of mine with it.  Checkmate.

It is too much; I exploded; all of my atoms lodged in the high clouds, scattered in the winds, then fell back to earth rearranged. I don’t know who I am. 

You knew. In that little room where you died, I watched television and you watched me.

“What are you looking at?” I joked, but I knew you were taking a last look.

“Take a good look,” I said to myself as I watched you go into rigor mortis. “Take a good look; it’s the last time I will see you in this world.”

I am an awkward beast not fit for society right now, unable to control my emotions in public or private.

A Phoenix, can I rise as a Phoenix? I am lead right now. Stones piled heavily upon the earth – the earth you left – the weight keeps me low down, ground level. I certainly can’t rise up now.

Who am I? I don’t know myself. Are there indeed soft feathers under this leaden skin – a skin of heavy stone. I am heavy; you gave me the lightness of being.

I yearn for air; I am not breathing. Iwant to float – float – rise – rise like a Phoenix and chisel through bone to feathers.