No Complaints

Sunshine and Shadow, Winslow Homer, 1872

SUNNY, CHANCE OF SCATTERED STORMS

O Memory of mine, if some trifling irritation should
happen to at any time arise and try to shape itself into
a shadow something like complaining… if, perhaps, my
pillow is too hard or soft or otherwise refuses to
cooperate with the odd shape of my head... or it
occurs to me to wonder, Did I forget to lock the door?
and I, grumbling, get out of bed and stumble twenty
feet to check — the door indeed is locked, and I am
cross about the wasted effort —

Remind me gently, Memory, about the day when I
believed I had nowhere to stay... and then about my
lying in the dark on cold faux marble tile in hostile
territory, as it seemed, behind a door marked “Detox
Intake”... about the racing heart, the inward violence,
despair thrashing crazily in a bottomless, vast lake of
peace that maddeningly would not swallow it —
serenity that would not yield....

And, Memory, allow me never to entirely forget the
brisk, efficient kindness of the human hands that
brought a blanket; tired eyes yet bright with hope that
read my vital signs; exhausted voices — gravelly with
having been pressed into shouting for ten-and-one
half-going-on-eleven brutal hours in a facility both
understaffed and overcrowded — that still could ask
with genuine compassion, Are you having thoughts of
suicide? Remind me, Memory, of that sudden and
eternal and surprising certainty: I didn’t want to die.

And then release me, Memory of mine, from history
back into life, the bliss that is this very minute, warm
and glorious with sunlight and the possibility,
however slight, of thunderstorms.

The Detritus Pocket

SPIRITUAL HYGIENE

Sometimes I still forget to meditate — well, more

of a neglecting than forgetting, to be honest

with you, even though I tell myself I’ll meditate

at noon, and I intend to. My authentic self

knows better and it sends a message to my

mind to that effect. My mind, however, blows it

off or stuffs it in the pocket set aside for an

assortment of

(a)   brain lint

(b)   minor obligations (if that’s not an
oxymoron) I’ve forgotten or put off

(c)   untidy thoughts

(d)   that vague uneasiness about who-knows-
what-all, and

(e)   one peppermint that melted in its twist of
cellophane and then collected grit and the
ubiquitous odd penny now and
permanently welded to it.

I call it “the detritus pocket.” Meditation tidies it.

Playing God

Forgiven

I wondered at another's strength
begrudged her victory
despite the cost
and was ashamed
of being not as strong

I contemplated Jesus on the cross
while I forgot the resurrection
and the lessons: gratitude, compassion
and I walked away from grace, ashamed
of clinging to my body and not
making of it such an offering

I shunned companionship, ashamed
of wanting it—a friend, an intimate
would be too soft a pillow for a
head that ought to bear a crown
of thorns instead—and with such cruel
thoughts, in solitude, I clawed my spirit
even as I prayed for God to spare me
suffering and loss