Lekshe's Mistake

You Wonder

You wonder if you will ever be loved. You wonder. Not like you wonder if there will be tea at 3, or dinner at seven, but still, you wonder. You wonder so much and so long that you also wonder if the idea even makes sense–like when you say the word, "shoe" over and over and slowly you realize you have not ever really heard this word, and that it has no meaning whatsoever. "Shoe." You don’t dare rest your mind on that knowledge, or the whole language will unravel itself and you will be lost without words.

You wonder who will tuck you in and who will wake you up and who will tell you when you’re making a Really Big Mistake. Who would want that job, anyway, and why?

You wonder who might love you if you were not who you are, and who might love you if you changed. You wonder if there is anyone who would love you just as you are. Not as you appear to be to everyone who thinks they know you, but as you actually are. Even you don’t know what that means.

You wonder.

fragment III

truth is possible

but as you say, complex.

try telling that to the something-year old who lives inside me.

she's been waiting all these years to say it

but no one has been ready to listen.

i know that now and i have always known, even then

that the real story cannot be told in words.

you had to, as they say, be there. but even that

was not enough.

years had to embroider themselves along your understanding

and you had to learn something more, even, and

wars had to happen and

people had to die--

some of them you and people you loved.

now the truth is something you're not so sure about

like santa claus or your body or oceans of fresh air.

you thought you understood and then you

startled youself by realizing you knew what they were saying all along

just wasn't so

and that you were, after all,

one of them.

maybe you said, as it slipped through your fingers

like air, like rain, like all beliefs,

maybe it was a rabbit track, this idea of truth

but then your heart said, "no. definately not."

even that could be a lie and you might be the last to know, right?

I have lived one hundred lives before this one

each time dancing, each time crawling, each time

loosening the question of whether or not

we are big enough, you and i,

to hold the truth.

it's not words i am talking about.

you know that.

i am talking about your eyes meeting mine

and all things are revealed in a single

thunderous jolt

and then you say, "would you like some water, leks?"

can we take it?

would we survive?

Hands On

I magically happened to get here when the massage school was doing internships and I have had a massage every day. This is good fortune, indeed. What they lack in spa ammenities, they make up for in heart, for sure.

Each therapist has something to offer. Yesterday, B did great leg stretches that left me energized till late in the evening. I liked her a lot. She was young and powerfully built. She works in a prison.

Today, J gave me, in the middle of a 1.5 hour session, one of the best foot massages I have ever had. I closed my eyes and later he told me, "I did most of your session with my eyes closed. I thought of the book, and I felt your body." I assume he means the anatomy and physiology book. If he had not been such a stunningly beautiful man, I would have felt more comfortable to kid him about perhaps needing to choose his words more carefully. As it was, I just smiled and melted.

Life is good. I'll be back here in September. I hope there is at least one student who takes that long to finish. Let's hear it for tardiness. :)

It Rained

Hello from Houston, where it rained today. A heavy, warm monsoon rain that slipped inside the window of the BMW and made me want to put the top down and just get wet. I am here for a week, working with 17 different businesses. I can see the Enron building from my hotel room.

Hibiscus are blooming here. And so many things thrive in the wet heat. My favorite, always, are the oaks and the few expanses of deep green; filled with song birds and life.

You are reclusive. Why? I know why I am, but the way you protect your privacy puzzles me. For so many years I have pondered that now, always loving you, still, and waiting for an opening.

Funny, isn't it. We could die waiting for that opening.

Charlie

Charlie is my physician. Ayurvedic and alleopathic. Dopey and bright. I promised Charlie I'd do my best to get 8 hours of sleep a night, and since January, I have made a real effort, and been, for the most part, successful.

So, after this brief poste, I am off to dreamland.

They borught  home the neighbor. Six paramedics carried him up the stairs. A social worker or home nurse came later, while I was watering the herbs and roses.

I miss Peter of Slow Reads. Have to get over there. And Beth, and Whiskey and everyone. Most of all I miss Savoradin. Never to be seen again, I bet. I miss his words, both poetry and live. I miss his breath and passion. I miss his searing criticism and his upside down behavior. I wake up at night missing him, though I have never seen his face. I will never recover from missing his pen. I know this. We shared a sliver of space that meant something to me. I would give a week of my life to have it back.

I finally settled a year old credit card dispute over $50 today. It was a moral crusade for me. They gave up and erased the charges. I did not, in fact, owe them.

I am off to Houston and Florida and Park City, Utah. Do you live there?

The bamboo is taking over the garden. Advice? Shall I bring it inside and put a dumptruck load of dirt on the floor of my bedroom and let it take over? I love bamboo that much.

My teacher gave me a book today. I wept. It was a paperback. The whole path in a book. The book is nothing unless I practice what's in it. That makes me weep, too.

I love us all. You know that.