Like dried clay, earth toned, not yet fired
Like eggs, hit together, then pulled apart
I see myself cracked this way
spaces made where I can fall
where new color,
light and water
can get in
What will make the difference
now that I am fragile?
Can I choose
the sky blue glaze
the green sea foam
the steely gray
to fill in all the gaping places?
I ask to choose these things because I value what
I have not lost
and what there is that I might gain by
bearing up under the heat
The fire takes
the guilt and shame and love and hope
and makes
the promise of redemption
A trial by fire is just that:
a trial
nothing more, nothing less
But
time it takes
and patience
patience
patience
I want to paint myself
with prayer and tears,
friends and full relinquishment
No more accusations
No more isolation
I see the hope
though I can’t grasp it
I see the wholeness
finely shaped
~Christie Tarman~
February 2008
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Confessions from Paradise
I have some confessions to make.
First, concerning my last posting, I never had a dream about Simon. I made that up as part of my strategy to make you smile (maybe even laugh?). But if it’s okay with you I’d like to take little liberties like that… with the promise (of course!) that I’ll fess up once the story has achieved its objective…
Second, I haven’t been posting every week(obviously!) like I promised a whole slew of you I would. I haven’t even been pretending to write posts these last few weeks—my laptop has not left the protective cushioning of her backpack except to chatter through emails or tantrum through taxes. I have lots of reasons I could parade for this long time of no-blog-land, but as I stare them in the eyes, I find they are lying about their weight and validity. My reasons are no more than a smoke screen of excuses hiding my fear of failure.
Perhaps you are now wondering this: what is there to fail at? A blog is just a place to jot down thoughts, experiences, opinions, whatevers. The only way to fail is by not… blogging. Not metallurgy here. But for me there is this constant driving need to become better than I am as a human being, with each day I live, and I can’t seem to escape my own loopy measurement of this “bettering”, when I’m writing in a place outside my journal. The things I write become a sort of proof of whether or not I am growing into more of what I “should” become—a strange and intangible thing that not even I can defend. I’m like a mission statement that has no end because it’s always trying to state a mission that doesn’t exist yet. As long as I keep my thoughts, experiences, opinions, whatevers un-published in any form, my failure or success is kept at a safe (unreadable) distance. Once I finalize anything for the public eye, there is no escaping my own inner tyrant of a perfectionista …
And yet there is hope for me. Even as I confess to this egocentric obsession with trying to be better than I am I find myself compassionate and accepting toward what I really am—a unique and lovely creature who deserves to be freed from all her self-defeating standards.
I hope this inspires you. Not those of you who already have all your shit together (you know who you are, and more importantly, WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE), but for those of you who have your own nifty form of self-annihilating conversations and premonitions… I confess my weakness now in the hopes that you will find some power in validation from my articulation.
”Huh?”
Exactly.
I should confess this too: for at least two weeks I’ve been bitter at and envious of my laptop. She has spent time in a veritable spa of relaxation, while I have been moving from item to item to item in my list of responsibilities necessary to complete in order to earn the right to rest, reflect, write….
But before we go too far into ponderings about the woman who’s husband went back to school to get a degree in marriage and family therapy...
I WANT TO WRITE about the bluish-purplish-pinkish mountain lupines blooming on the steep South sides of Figeroa mountain. They are courting all the orangish-yellow poppies popping up to drink the sunlight of this month between the evening frosts and mid-May mid-day HOT that’s soon to flood us in this canyon.
I WANT TO WRITE about the birds who built their nest against the glass of our top window on the right above the table where we drink our steaming coffee to the music of the finch-song. Five blue eggs will stay above our heads like sky-blue prayers for life that gives us second chances to be kids until we hatch out of our fears into our passions.
I WANT TO GIVE you some of all the Paradise that comes when breezes sway the grass as tall as cats and purr between my legs as sweet as sweet peas ripening with shooting stars that point at things that you might miss:
The firmness of the earth
The mystery of shadows
The wanderlust that calls the feet to kick off shoes and feel the mud that billows up like love around black tadpoles
I CONFESS my need for you who had the sense enough to let me vent and thus become a part of what I absolutely need: a community of folks who want to risk the time it takes to find the love between the toes of frogs who are not frogs just yet
I CONFESS
my absolute failure
my absolute success
at being one
who can write
to make you hungry
First, concerning my last posting, I never had a dream about Simon. I made that up as part of my strategy to make you smile (maybe even laugh?). But if it’s okay with you I’d like to take little liberties like that… with the promise (of course!) that I’ll fess up once the story has achieved its objective…
Second, I haven’t been posting every week(obviously!) like I promised a whole slew of you I would. I haven’t even been pretending to write posts these last few weeks—my laptop has not left the protective cushioning of her backpack except to chatter through emails or tantrum through taxes. I have lots of reasons I could parade for this long time of no-blog-land, but as I stare them in the eyes, I find they are lying about their weight and validity. My reasons are no more than a smoke screen of excuses hiding my fear of failure.
Perhaps you are now wondering this: what is there to fail at? A blog is just a place to jot down thoughts, experiences, opinions, whatevers. The only way to fail is by not… blogging. Not metallurgy here. But for me there is this constant driving need to become better than I am as a human being, with each day I live, and I can’t seem to escape my own loopy measurement of this “bettering”, when I’m writing in a place outside my journal. The things I write become a sort of proof of whether or not I am growing into more of what I “should” become—a strange and intangible thing that not even I can defend. I’m like a mission statement that has no end because it’s always trying to state a mission that doesn’t exist yet. As long as I keep my thoughts, experiences, opinions, whatevers un-published in any form, my failure or success is kept at a safe (unreadable) distance. Once I finalize anything for the public eye, there is no escaping my own inner tyrant of a perfectionista …
And yet there is hope for me. Even as I confess to this egocentric obsession with trying to be better than I am I find myself compassionate and accepting toward what I really am—a unique and lovely creature who deserves to be freed from all her self-defeating standards.
I hope this inspires you. Not those of you who already have all your shit together (you know who you are, and more importantly, WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE), but for those of you who have your own nifty form of self-annihilating conversations and premonitions… I confess my weakness now in the hopes that you will find some power in validation from my articulation.
”Huh?”
Exactly.
I should confess this too: for at least two weeks I’ve been bitter at and envious of my laptop. She has spent time in a veritable spa of relaxation, while I have been moving from item to item to item in my list of responsibilities necessary to complete in order to earn the right to rest, reflect, write….
But before we go too far into ponderings about the woman who’s husband went back to school to get a degree in marriage and family therapy...
I WANT TO WRITE about the bluish-purplish-pinkish mountain lupines blooming on the steep South sides of Figeroa mountain. They are courting all the orangish-yellow poppies popping up to drink the sunlight of this month between the evening frosts and mid-May mid-day HOT that’s soon to flood us in this canyon.
I WANT TO WRITE about the birds who built their nest against the glass of our top window on the right above the table where we drink our steaming coffee to the music of the finch-song. Five blue eggs will stay above our heads like sky-blue prayers for life that gives us second chances to be kids until we hatch out of our fears into our passions.
I WANT TO GIVE you some of all the Paradise that comes when breezes sway the grass as tall as cats and purr between my legs as sweet as sweet peas ripening with shooting stars that point at things that you might miss:
The firmness of the earth
The mystery of shadows
The wanderlust that calls the feet to kick off shoes and feel the mud that billows up like love around black tadpoles
I CONFESS my need for you who had the sense enough to let me vent and thus become a part of what I absolutely need: a community of folks who want to risk the time it takes to find the love between the toes of frogs who are not frogs just yet
I CONFESS
my absolute failure
my absolute success
at being one
who can write
to make you hungry
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