Saturday, February 13, 2016

A Capricious Universe?

A story I told myself was that something bad would happen to me if I let loose and fully enjoyed being in my body. I don't remember when it started, but I have a long history of having physical fun that is halted or followed by injury.

Fun on a skateboard ending with a skinned knee. Fun at the beach ends with near drowning, or a grain of sand scratching my eyeball, or a major sunburn leading to skin cancer.

The occasion I remember most clearly, I was at a retreat out of town, and we got to singing together. I banged joyfully on bongo drums and my thighs, and soared into an altered state of consciousness. The result of my heedless pleasure didn't appear until the next day, when we took a walk and I saw some rabbits in a hutch. I stuck a finger though the wire cage, and the bunny nibbled at my finger. It tickled a little and was strangely sensuous. Then the beast bit down on my finger, drawing blood.

I felt foolish and punished. That my mindless pursuit of pleasure then and the night before had somehow racked up a debt that the universe had to repay with pain. Like I'd strayed beyond the safety of self-control into a hazardous world. Like my life traversed perilous depths that only self-control keeps me out of. maybe there's a bit of logic in this story I tell myself, but not a whole lot.

Sometimes I wonder if there's a way to inhabit my body without drawing retribution. Surely there are places and occasions where ecstatic pleasure is not followed by pain. Surely there is room for some pleasures that don't court punishment. Maybe there are ways to accept gifts of joy with enough gratitude and thanks that the universe will hold the books to be balanced, and I won't get clobbered again.

I have a similar dread of counting chickens before they hatch, because on several long-ago occasions (I learned this lesson early and have followed it assiduously) I rejoiced in some apparent or approaching victory or gift, only to have it snatched away before I could grasp it.

This dread probably started in elementary school, when some friends played an April Fool's joke on my by lying to me that I'd been chosen to be on the school's safety patrol - to wear a belt of white straps and guard a crosswalk. I got all excited before they told me that they'd lied. The letdown hurt unbearable, and I felt stupid for letting them fool me. I didn't plan to be that foolish ever again. So ever since, I have held off rejoicing until I have taken possession of the cause.

Things You Learn

Things you learn through the dark times, the disruption, the transplanting. Things you learn when you have to start anew--in a new city, with a new guardian. WHen the only constants are your 11-year-old self or your 15-year-old self and the brother whose major role in your life has been as your sparring partner.

What do you learn from such times? Not to rely on what has gone before, not to rely on parent or grandparent, or friends, or uncles or aunts. You learn to walk a tightrope -- with longing for what is now gone on one side, and fear of the unknown on the other; each side descending to an invisible abyss.

You learn to root yourself in yourself, and in the present, and in whatever belongings have accompanied you in the latest move.

You rely on your intellect and your musical talent, and on your ability to just keep on going. Even if the world looks so bleak that bedtime is the brightest part of the day, or when you start crying for no clear reason and cannot stop.

And books are always your friends; a source of beauty, companionship, adventure, and escape. Escape into worlds where challenges are resolved and kids belong securely where they are. The adults in your life aren't cruel, mostly, just distracted and immature themselves.

It sucks when the teenages is the most responsible member of the household. You become more serious and less light-hearted. More cautious and less adventuresome. You look to the future with more dread than hope.

How I Want to Be Remembered

If I were to tell you how I want to be remembered, I'd start with, "as a kind person." I'd want no one to remember any cruelty of mine or at least not many of then, or at least not mentioning them aloud.

I'd want people to remember me as smart and funny, as a clear and moving writer, as a pleasant singer, and as a compelling actor.

I'd want people to remember my efforts to improve health care in our benighted country, with some success at least at the local and federal levels.

I'd want people to remember that I spent many years buying my home, so I could leave it in trust for poor lesbians to live in.

I'd want people to remember that I survived a childhood of deaths and disruptions to become a relatively sane, relatively useful person.

Some Things I Carry With Me

The fear may be starting up again. A thought while lying in bed about how I might feel when knowing myself to be dying is quickly repudiated, but it interrupted my sleep at 5 am for an hour or two and caused me to sleep in in the morning instead of meeting friends for breakfast.


The fear may be starting up again. Unlabeled anxiety pays a brief visit then lurks just offstage, waiting for its next cue. My bowels clutch and loosen with no apparent cause.

The fear may be starting up again. The fear that sent my appetite away for most of a year about a decade ago, so that I lost so much weight I was certain I was dying of cancer.

The fear may be starting up again. I cower in my home, glued to the couch, afraid of some unspecified bad thing happening to me if I go out into the world. But I do go out, at least several days a week, when I stumble into a reason that seems worthwhile, and I've survived so far.

The panics and loss of appetite haven't appeared, yet. Maybe the Prozac will continue to keep them at bay; maybe not.

I cast about for triggers. Maybe the short days are still weighing on me. Maybe my sedentary habits are getting to me.

Does it even matter how I feel? Not so much in the context of lead poisoning, random shootings, massive waves of refugees from war, terrorism, and gangs. Anxiety is small potatoes in the great scheme of things.

But still I am limited by this filter on my vision, this source of paralysis, the paper barrier between me and accomplishments. The barrier that looks like a brick wall, but crumbles when I put my foot through it. I know this barrier is soft; I've stepped through it again and agaiin. But it still takes me so long to get up the nerve to step through it. The courage to step over the edge of my stifling but safe nest. The willingness to act again against the cocoon of fear.

Activism and Writing

The first and only piece of creative writing I sold was a hybrid piece--partly a report on my participation in a political action about a police killing, and partly a rant about the recent spate of white police killing unarmed black men and boys. The change I want to make in my life right now is to get back into political activism--both to be contributing to social change, and to have some interesting activities to write about.

My chapter of an interfaith community organizing group is in some disarray, and I haven't found another issue that resonates with me. This is not to say that I'm entirely out of politics. I follow the news on MSNBC and PBS and NPR, I sign some petitions that show up on my Facebook feed or in my email, and I share petitions that I feel strongly about with my own FB friends.

But that's not enough. I need to find a cause that energizes me, and to get to work on it. I want to help brighten my corner of the world, and, not incidentally, also have events to write about.