miminibetty's Xanga

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 04:03:16 GMT

my grandpa, in his bed in Puyallup died yesterday at 10:30. I wonder why the time is important.
Aunt Krystal said 12:50 three weeks ago when she called. And dad called yesterday and said 10:30 as if it matters...because all time does for me is make me feel guilty for living at the exact moment someone i loved no longer could. I was ringing people up at the register at work at 10:30. And three weeks ago, at 12:50 I was looking at an apartment with Kiersten. An apartment that I officially move into at 10 to 11 on Saturday. In actuality, from 10 to 11 on Saturday I will be in Wenatchee at Grandpa Jess's funeral. I will read his biography into a microphone, and will read over the program in my seat, especially the poem printed in the front cover. And when the time has come, my eyes will open with tears, and i will truly realize that he is gone and his house won't wait for him to come back, and his girls will sing without him and he will not play the guitar in the corner, or pick tomatoes from his garden again. And i will not laugh with him, drink coffee with him, spy on the neighbors with him or comb his hair for him, because he is gone.
And i seem to have run out of grandpas.
as of 10:30 yesterday morning.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 16:06:16 GMT

apparently grandpa...you were a big deal.
i always knew.

they're lowering the flags in Alaska for you today. Just thought you'd want to know.

sung into glory?

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 22:53:53 GMT

On Saturday, right before work, my Aunt Krys called and said at 12.50, with everyone singing hymns in his room, my Grandpa Bernie was "sung into glory". I don't know what that's supposed to mean, really, but it sounded good at the time.

When I was three or maybe four, I got a lace white wedding dress from Santa. I didn't know at the time it was only a discounted prom dress. But I loved that dress. I loved it. And on my birthday, 2 days later, after cupcakes and chocolate chip ice-cream, in the living room, under the christmas tree, i decided to marry my grandpa in my new dress. So I walked from the front window to the fireplace, and even on his knees he was much taller than me. And i married my grandpa, who played baseball in Greenland during the war. And I kissed him on the lips, and felt beautiful.

For Christmas in the big house that my grandpa built, at the beginning of Alaska, all 30 cousins, and aunts and uncles were all together, twice a year. And when it was time, all of the granddaughters ran downstairs to a basement full of large garbage bags covering our treasures. Unsure of what was inside, I carefully untaped everything and uncovered my gift. My grandpa had built with his then, strong and sturdy hands, a baby cradle, a full sized cradle. And my grandma had crocheted baby blankets. A wooden home for my dolls. 10 girls, at Christmas, with their own, new doll cradles that their grandpa had made.

In third grade i visited my grandpa and grandma at their sunny villa in Surprise, Arizona, and in the swimming pool, wondering how a kid from Alaska, in the middle of winter, could be so lucky, i raced my grandpa back and forth underwater, from on end to the next. And then we held our breath and sunk to the bottom and pretended to play cards. And then, I started at one end, and he started at the other, and we swam to each other underwater, and met somewhere in the middle, and fish kissed, and giggled. And then we ran out of air and had to come up.

His bass voice always boomed in the pew at church, and scared me sometimes, but always made me feel safe. And I always felt special when i got to sit next to him in the church he helped build.
And I imagine him still building a life in Alaska for his family, and driving the AlCan over and over again. And when I told him I was going to do it, it was not big deal. "Just make sure you always have plenty of gas" he said.
And at his place in Redding, California, he drew portraits of the residents at breakfast. He was always doing something with his hands, even when they were spotted with age.

I wish I could be with everyone grandpa, to say goodbye, but I'll say it in my own way, and I will visit you, just like I visited the grandma i never knew, and write letters and sing you songs. It's what I do.
And I will always be your Bethlyhem.

Love, me

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 21:31:41 GMT

every once and a while at work, someone will comment on my necklace. it's loaded down with charms from all over the world. When i first met the chapel band that would be my family for a year, i had to bring an object that represented my life. i simply wore the necklace i've worn every day for years. I'm pretty sure i could explain my life by whats hanging around my neck.
ahem.
i sleep with the necklace around my neck because its who i am. the cross, is the beginning. It is where i've come from. And today, I don't know if its where i'm going, but it is still a part of me. I start there. it's simple and complicated, and simple. a cross. i think you can figure out the rest.
Then there is Africa. It is the biggest charm on my necklace because it is the biggest in my heart. Never far from my m ind. 6 years in a place is meaningful, no matter how sheltered those 6 years were. And Africa hold my pain, and my joy and my angst in so many ways. I tis the place i wish i could take those that I love. its where my meaning comes from and is something i have struggled to communicate. There are a handful of people, who when I say, " want to hold a dying baby in my arms" don't look at me as though I am crazy. they have been to Africa. They have done the same, and they ache for it too...every once in a long while. They know watching someone die of AIDS holds meaning that is hard to find anywhere else. And so I wear Africa for my joy and sorry. Joy for the things that have been born out of sorrow. And deep sorrow for the things that can not touch joy.
The third charm is a tiny fleur de lis that i found in a market in new Orleans. The market was down the street from the superdome, that now, bears not trace of the bodies left behind there. The fleur is an old symbol of the lily, brought from France to be a part of the culture. the French Quarter. the history of a crazy, modge-podge city. And for me, like anything that blooms, or grows, like a seed into a tree, or a lily, it represents a hope for a city that housed me amidst the rubble of wind and floods. And I walked through a noisy market, my last day in New Orleans, only because i first walked through the 9th ward, where houses became tombs and peoples lives, pictures, food, wedding dresses, rotted and molded inside wet and soggy foundations. But I had to see the sorrow, before i could understand the joy and resilience of a city that the nation seems to forget. And I wear the lily on my chain so that I don't forget.

And finally - a medallion from the sisters in Kolkata, India is the last charm that hangs as a reminder around my neck. It was in a home for the dying in India where I found that silence was golden, where race and religion was erased, and where i observed faith that was louder in action than words.

There are also rings and bracelets i wear. Decorations that hold significance. Masai bead, tanzanite from the country in my heart and today, a silver bracelet that says "this too shall pass." I have hope, today, that this is true.

A Waltz for my Grandfather

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 21:30:29 GMT

learning to count
one two three
one two three
and watching the fish swim at the bottom of the well.
i don't remember it;
only pictures.
but i do remember the field behind the big house
and the noise of the crickets
Wenatchee in summer.
i remember more stores from her bitter lips than seeing it on your face
or in your eyes.
but what can a five year old really see?

i'm sure it was bad. i believe what i hear.
but i want you to know
as i learn to count
one two three
one two three
the things that matter
to me.

i always wanted to play my best for you.
what i whispered in your ear at Christmas was true
and i saw how you loved your wife
and how you lost her.
time slipped through your fingers and left you with regret.
but count with me.
one two three
one two three.

you have loved me
made me smile
and laughed at the horrible gas station coffee that you always over thank me for.
you made anyone with half a wit feel loved in that place
that smells of plastic and disinfectant.
and you flirt with reckless abandon.
its ok.
i'm counting the steps.
one two three
one two three
of our waltz grandpa.
because you always heard me.
one two three.
i hear them plan your service.
one two three.
i watch you sleep.
one two three
i would read you the psalms again
and i will ache to hear you sing in six part harmony with your girls.
i will hear "beautiful dreamer" in my sleep
and i will always play my best for you.
one two three
one two three.
and i will count the steps for you.
we are almost there.
and our waltz, full of redemption
and honesty
is beautiful.

one two three
one two three
one two three.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 18:10:08 GMT

Last night, much like many nights long ago, I was laying with my face to the floor, and there was a tiny Silas boy with his face very close to mine. He asked me all about my friends, and what their names were and why they were my friends. And then I looked at him, and he scrunched his nose as me, and I said, "Silas, what are you going to be when you grow up?" and he looked around and whispered in his silly Silas whisper "i don't know!" And so I said, "What do you think I should be, when I grow up?" And then he sat up and looked at me and said, "A clown! You can be a clown when you grow up." When I asked him why, he said, "Because clowns are silly, and you are silly, and you make me laugh." When I told him I didn't think I wanted to be a clown he asked why. I said, "Clowns are pretty happy...and I'm not happy all the time, sometimes I get sad and it would be hard to be a clown and be sad at the same time, right?" And then he looked at me again, and with all the seriousness in the world said, "You will grow up and be a sad clown, and sad clowns can't have any friends and you will move far far away and not have friends and be sad."

Hm. Awesome.

Then we pranced around the house, and snuggled on the couch and told stories about race cars made out of pizza and strawberry pie lullabys. And then we went to bed.

Sunday, January 06, 2008

Sun, 06 Jan 2008 18:51:30 GMT

Again. A great deal of moments have come and gone that i don't record or write down, but i remember them. i remember them all. And they are all right now, jumbled in my head, saying different things to me. I would tell you, if I knew how, that I don't know how to love my mother, that although you embrace the new year, i wasn't ready to let go of the old one yet, that i am still afraid of spiders, that i wish i was in the middle of the riots in Kenya, throwing rocks at the sky. I would tell you that i lay awake each morning listening to what innocence sounds like. I read books on my lunch breaks about photographers who have changed the way i look at the world. And i'm jealous of them and their seeming resistance for relationship, as though they didn't need them. people. i do. i need people very badly, and today, i thought over again about my dependence on community.
if i could, i would tell you about the ache in my heart to hold dying babies in my arms again. i ache for the feeling of accomplishment i had when i saw over 500 people laying down in Pioneer square, or when the crowbar went through the rotting walls in new orleans. but i don't think people understand that. especially the dying baby part. or, the fact that the more dangerous, the more i want to be there. The more freedom, the more options to do what my heart sing to me about at night, the more i feel like jumping out of my car as i drive home from work at 11:23pm.
guess what i discovered? no. not discovered...just finally accepted as true? Money actually does make the world go round. it takes you the places you want to go, and release you from the stresses this world has deemed necessities. i don't have any, and sometimes it bothers me. Not because of THINGS but because i want to GO. And not have to ask for help. i want to be able to go. on my own. and discover, fall down, fuck up, be afraid, be brave, gorw taller and on my own dime...so i stop letting people down.
i can't right now. i actually don't know if i ever will be able to. maybe thats ok.
just tonight. just tonight its not.
i want to know just once, maybe twice, if that all i get, what it would be like to throw 50,000 african kids a christmas party and have the holiday finally mean more than fighting and angst. I wish i could help people get or stay where they want, and because i can't, i wish the world spoke some other language rather than money. I wish we spoke empathy and love and other.
i want to finish my book and start another.
i want to go to all the places i dream about when i look down the dark road, late at night.
And i would want you to come with me, if only you wanted to too.
if only dreams were true,
and real,
and came true.
i don't know how to make that happen. and i can't right now.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 20:00:47 GMT

don't think for a moment that the irony of this whole situation is lost on me. I am soaking in every moment.
Immanuel was 10, laughing. And in the film he is playing basketball. In his interview he said his brothers beat him and when he became too sick, his family gave him away. When his AIDS became hopeless, they let him go.
And this 10 year old, with old eyes told me this.
What 10 year old should even know what its like to formulate thoughts around being abandoned?
And then Mama Zipporah came along, and brought Immanuel into a how home, gave him hope for a future and loved him.
And in the film...he laughed and played.
And the irony is not lost on me.
Because Immanuel, whose name means GOD WITH US
died last week.
And he won't play basket ball anymore, or share his story with other volunteers who are so caught up with 10 year olds who can speak as thought they are 100.
God With Us.
Immanuel.
Rest peacefully, without fear of being abandoned again.
You were braver than you know.

bumblebees (thanks martha)

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 19:15:06 GMT

If I died today (i thought again)
what would my life speak? (i've thought before)
and I screamed in the sky (not outloud)
how lost it is, (or is it how i feel?)
and wondered (am i alone?)
if I could pull myself out of this.

I want life to be about purpose. A service to others, and while I know that I am (in service?) it isn't enough for me. I have to ache with it (am i not aching now?) but no. A different kind of ache. blood sweat and tears, knowing the service is creating something and not destroying it. some kind of profit. dying today would write my eulogy as sad, bitter and lost. people would say things about dreamers and dreams not coming to fruition.(don't you know i can see it in your eyes?) if get frustrated with myself. ENOUGH. don't you see it? (i know you are too) but enough.
i need you.
i need me. to get up, to get over whatever it is that has my hands tied to the floor, behind my back, suffocating me, holding a pillow over my head. i'm not fighting it anymore. i am sleeping, with gasps, with eyes slightly open, waiting for the pillow to be lifted. for now. i'm living with it. it's becoming natural. and that scares me too. how long can a person go on like this? (depends on the person) and who am i? which kind of person am i?
i wonder what you would say if you could sit in a room with me and unleash. maybe it wouldn't be an unleashing. maybe you could (would you?) take me by the hand and look me in the face, fully, and tell me that you love me. I don't know what that would be like. (it would render you undone)

a little girl dances, dressed up like a bee.
tap dancing? jazz? a little ballet? does it matter.
she dances and dances and dances and dances, and finally
is laughed off the stage.
her talent in the talent show...not good enough.
she is laughed off the stage.

and so she wanders...the people at the talent show didn't understand.
she takes her shoes, and her bee outfit, and she wanders.
walks.
and dances.
she dances for people on street corners.
she dances for people in shops.
she dances along the sidewalks, in shopping malls, in the middle of the road.
And there are people that watch her and laugh.
and so she moves on.
they don't understand her bee dance.
they don't understand her.
her tights are ripped.
her antenna are crooked and droopy.
her shoes are scuffed.
and she doesn't have any more dancing left in her.
not anymore.
so now she just walks.
shuffles. no rhythm.
and she sees a gate, and wraps her tiny, pudgy hands around the bars and looks inside.
and there are a handful of people inside.
and they are dressed up like bees.
and they are dancing.

where are my bumblebee people?

Friday, November 16, 2007

Fri, 16 Nov 2007 20:36:26 GMT

there are days when you are reminded that everything....is probably wrong.
yikes.
i can't pretend either. i don't mean yikes....in a cartoon, ouch it must hurt to fall off a cliff kind of way. i mean yikes. in the depth of who i am, the life i'm living is screaming at me, and clawing at my insides, and today i listened to the screaming for a minute. And sat in the screaming. And wanted to scream out loud.
did i?
did you hear me?

there is no difference in my screams and my silence anymore.
you don't hear me screaming. you don't hear my silence.
and maybe you never will. which is even scarier than whatever i seem to be living in.

I am completely terrified of everything I'm doing right now. And it isn't life angst...post-college fear. I get that you think it's a phase, and it will pass....but this isn't a phase. This is ME.
All of me. The good the bad, the angsty, and I wish for just a while, we could all slow down and hold on to each other. Because people... PEOPLE are real. you and I and the skin we have, and the feelings we feel and the beating of our hearts are real. What do they beat for anymore?
What does mine beat for?
Who suddenly decided that we were to be about decorations, expenses, impressions and checkbooks. Who suddenly ruled that relationships were something for college, and friendships had to change. Who said? Who gets to say these things, and why do people believe them?
This is what I believe.
Love. it gets a shitty wrap when 15 year olds whisper it into the sky, and babies who cry out for it, not even knowing what it is they are crying out for, are stolen from. Love gets a shitty wrap, because we put other words with it. Like, love you have a good night. and love you see you soon. But love....is what i believe in. The love that means in 50 years, if you called me and we hadn't spoken past today, I would still fly or walk or wheel to where you were, to be near you. Love means friendship and community, and intentionality and Love means forever. And if that scares you...it should. Its permanent. And real. And I am losing sight of what it feels like to be loved. And so I shovel out all of it I can give. It's returned in snuggles and laughter by little boys right now. Maybe someday it will be more. And sometimes it won't be. And maybe someday I can add to it, instead of living fully in the shit, the bad wrap, and the brokenness of it. I'm adding to the brokenness. I know. Oh God. I know and I'm sorry.

It's not an adventure if you already know the ending....and i'm living mine a day at a time. it sucks. it hurts. its lonely.
i drove back.
i came back.
and i am empty.
But I'm looking.
I hold on tight when I hug and I don't let go when I'm supposed to. i've always been just awkward enough to get away with it. Laugh at me. But let me love you.
Because that's all I have right now. Ears open wide, and a heart that beats for nothing if not for you and everything we've ever known and everything that's next. Not everything that is past. The past is past. We are now. All of us. Together. I said it before. It would be beautiful if only we'd let it.

and wow. that was a lot.
yarg.