Nine Lives

I used to write letters late at night when I couldn't sleep, my insomnia born of feelings that were too big to fit inside the darkness of dreams.  I wrote to a number of friends and loved ones about different things.  Worries I had, things that reminded me of them -- I shared my hopes and dreams for their futures and mine.  I kept a book of stamps beside my lamp, and, more often than not, I'd send the letters the next morning.  Sometimes, though, I'd re-read them, find them to be too personally revealing, and hide them in the spines of my journals: I thought of these as letters to myself.  It's been a long time since I've written a letter like that, something to comfort myself when sleep is evasive; lately, I watch movies.

So, it was past my bedtime and I was flipping through the channels a couple of weeks ago, trying to find a good late-night film.  I settled on something called Nine Lives (directed by Rodrigo Garcia and starring, among others bright stars, Robin Wright Penn, Amy Brenneman, Sissy Spacek, Dakota Fanning and Glenn Close).  The film, composed of nine Steadicam, single-take shots, shares vignettes looking at singular events in the lives of nine very different women, how they manage their love, and (because of love) how they cope with their ultimate losses.

The film builds to a final scene in which we see Glenn Close and Dakota Fanning playing characters who walk through rows of well-groomed headstones.  Close is carrying a blanket and picnic basket while Fanning skips around.  Fanning's character asks, "Who waters the lawn here?"  Close answers: "There are sprinklers on timers."  "So nobody sees it, because they're all on timers and everybody's dead," comes Fanning's matter-of-fact reply.  You watch these two for about 8 minutes, and as they discuss the headstones and climb trees, it suddenly blossoms around you -- the knowledge that Close is at Fanning's grave.  She's visiting her daughter's grave, and this is all a tragic, poignant daydream.  The film ends, as Close quietly, peacefully, sadly rests her head in Fanning's lap.  "I'm tired, honey," she says, and that's all.

I wept.  Oh, how I wept.  For at least 45 minutes.  Love is loss, I kept thinking.  When I couldn't quit crying, I called Corey.  At 1:45 AM.  Dear friend that he is, he picked up the phone, "Nic, are you ok?"  He sat silently while I continued to cry, asking him if life ever stopped hurting,if we ever would find a place that felt safe and home.  "That's a good question," he pragmatically, yet sensitively answered.  And though he meant it to be, it wasn't enough to comfort me.  I calmed to say goodnight, close my phone and pull enough together to get up and walk into my room, where I emptied myself into my bed.

I pulled the nearest notepad and began writing the first late-night letter I've written in months.

It's 2:21 AM and I've honestly been considering walking up the stairs, filling a glass with cold water and drinking it to wet the dry ache in my throat and then going to your room to ask if I may sleep in your bed until I feel better like I did when I was a little boy.

Without meaning to, I had begun writing to my parents, musing about how they could always give me comfort.

I so want to come upstairs and feel safe because you'll tell me you love me and that life stops hurting sometimes.  You used to rub the ache out of my legs, and now I think I need you to massage it out of my heart.  But I'm not a little boy anymore -- I'm a young man, and I need to trust the truth that I can take care of myself.  Trust reveals Truth, right?

I haven't felt such a drive to seek out physical comfort in many years.  Loneliness and displacement had never taken me in their arms so powerfully.  Alarmingly so, actually.  You have to pull yourself together, Nic.  No one can give you the comfort you think you need, I told myself.  I finished composing the letter (which I never gave them), and somehow found an empty, hollow sleep.

I've thought a lot about lessons I learned that night.  Here are a few:


Love will Eventually Couple with Loss.

Loss is an inevitable price we pay in order to love some place, some thing, someone in the fullest way.   We leave home.  We lose track of childhood friends.  We grapple with the deaths of those we love.  Loss is hell, but once you realize it's a part of the deal, it makes Love all the more worthwhile and sweet. 

The Sun Always Rises.
I woke up the next morning, yes, with a bit of a night-of-depression hangover, but I woke up!   The sun was shining, my shower was lovely, and I could choose to see the bright lights in my life -- I could choose to focus on goodness. 

Part of Being an Adult is Taking Responsibility and Taking Care.
I so wanted my parents to fill their old role for me that night -- PROTECT ME!!!  But it just wasn't a possibility at 2 AM.  I found the whatwithal within myself to stop wallowing in self-pity that night, and I took care of taking care of myself.  I'm not writing this clearly, but I found I have what I need when no one else can give it to me. 

Trust that Your Friends will Be There when You Need Them.
I didn't worry much over calling Corey at the witching hour.  Usually, gearing up for a late-late night phonecall takes me about 20 minutes -- They're probably sleeping.  I don't want to wake them.  It's nothing, and I can talk to the tomorrow, etc.  But I called him as soon as the thought entered my mind.  He picked up after two rings.  Corey was there when I needed him, and I know he always will be.  I know I have so many other friends who would come to my aid as quickly as I would go to theirs. 

Cats May have Nine Lives, but We've Only Got One.
Seek truth.  Gain wisdom.  Practice tolerance and and mete out grace.  You've been given only one go at this thing called living, so don't fuck it up.


I never want to feel so lonely again, but these kinds of experiences are the beams and supports which build and harbor the homes of our lives, if we choose to learn the lessons they teach.

Another character in Nine Lives and her estranged sister sing this song to keep time as they clap and clasp their hands together, searching each other's eyes for the love they used to share.  I think every word of it is true.

Row by row, I'm gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe,
and a piece of fertile ground.
Pulling weeds, pickin' stones,
we are made from dreams and bones.
I need a place to call my home,
when rain comes tumblin' down.

Go well, my darlings.

My Christmas Carol

I locked my heart to the holiday spirit this year.  Yes, I played in holiday concerts and yes, I wished everyone holiday cheer, but I just didn't want to feel it.  But Christmas is insidious, winding and slithering its way into the heart of even the most stony Scrooge, and there were a few nights when I was caught up in the glimmering, hearty holiday and invited to ponder on the reasons why Christmas is so special.

Sam (my cellist), Katie (my violinist) and I (our pianist) were finishing finishing up a Tria Fata rehearsal last Monday.  It had been a great rehearsal -- we'd made some noticeable progress in the Mendelssohn C Minor, and the Babadjanian was just as exciting as ever; an added bonus: Sam's fiancee, Anna, had done a superb job of turning my pages.  As Sam was putting his cello back in its case, he said we'd been invited to play in "a living room concert" at the home of one of his students.  Katie wasn't too keen on the idea, and my only focus after a rehearsal is finding the nearest place to eat, but we decided we'd all go after, of course, finding Nic some food.  We needed the practice performing anyway, as we were preparing for an upcoming competition in Hawaii.

We giggled in the car on the ride over about Katie's newest crush and told her she should just go for it! I smiled as Anna scolded Sam over driving too fast around the icy corners of the twisty canyon.    And we all fawned over the loveliness of Anna's lemon-head-scented lotion while slathering it over our arms and hands.

We finally drove up to a beautifully lit, big and inviting house, its long front drive packed with minivans and SUV's.  It was a gorgeous house.  We're playing in there? I thought. We've played in mansions before, but this takes the cake.  A walkaround porch framed the perimeter, and large windows let their lights spill out on the snowy ground.  We knocked on the the heavy wooden door, soon to be ushered into a large foyer littered with shoes and coats and mittens of all sizes.  A brawling herd of five- and six-year olds ran, zipping around us to climb the stairs as we added own winter wear to the haphazard collection.  A big black lab sniffed at our instrument cases, and deciding we weren't a threat, wagged his tail and licked at our hands.  Paintings of a beautiful mother and each of her seven children smiled warmly, looked thoughtfully and embraced us quietly as we walked down a short hallway to the kitchen and music room  where everyone was gathered.

I was buzzing with the invisible, effervescent pillars of joy pulsating throughout the house full of adults and teenagers and children, all gathered to sample holiday treats and listen to a myriad of carols played by an array of performers.  I could not stop smiling.  Anna was standing next to me, "Can you feel the happiness?" I asked her.  She turned and looked at me, grinning that specifically elvish, Anna-grin.  "Yes," she whispered.  The mother-in-the-paintings came from the kitchen to greet us, welcoming us and telling us about the little girl who was at the piano, playing an Easy Note version of Jingle Bells.  She halted every time a new line of music began; she played a few bad notes; her rhythms weren't always perfect, but when she stood up, she was beaming.  So was everybody else, and we applauded like we'd just heard Krystian Zimmerman perform Beethoven's three last Sonatas at Carnegie Hall.  It was supreme, and it was delightful.

We heard all sorts of performances that night, all of them accompanied by the racket of boys chasing each other on the floors above us.  Some performers were beginners.  Others were a bit more experienced.  Some played classically rendered holiday favorites, others were a bit more down-home and twangy.  We heard fathers playing violin duets with their young daughters; middle-school girls singing sweet hymns penned by Christina Rosetti; and we watched young mothers directing their toddling youngsters  in dances about Santa Claus and sugar-plum fairies.

We were announced, and we went to the front of the room.   As Sam and Katie set up their chairs and stands, I stood up to say a few words.

"Oh, you guys," I said to the room full of happy people sitting on folding chairs from the nearest ward building, "We have had so much fun watching and listening to all of you who've performed!  As a trio, we play a lot of music over and over and over, trying to get it just perfect.  Sometimes we forget that music can be just a lot of fun.  Each of you has had so much fun!  Sometimes we classical musicians need reminding that music can bring people together, like it's done for all of us tonight.  Thanks so much of reminding us of that."

And then we played parts of our Mendelssohn and Babadajanian.  It wasn't seasonal music by any means.  We couldn't really hear each other.  We couldn't really see each other.  But we played, and we loved it.  And our audience loved it.  And it didn't matter that babies were crying or that dogs were barking or that the dishwasher was running on its highest cycle.  We were making music in a house that was brimming with love and merriness and cheer, and that was what we all needed.

The holidays are special because they do give us what we need -- Christmas invites us to take time to reflect upon the love in our lives.  It gives us means to recognize the need we have to share love with others.  As my best friend, Corey, put it in his blog,

"No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that."

I'm so glad I was reminded of this lesson in time to appreciate spending my Christmas with the people I love most.  I hope you had Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, too.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling" (II)

I didn't know how to answer the man sitting across from me.  I felt attacked.  I hurt.  And then I fumed.

I sat in my hardbacked chair for what was probably only 30 seconds, calling on any god who would give me some fortitude and patience, along with the affirmation that I wasn't spiritually dead or numb.  I found myself looking down at my hands -- they were resting open-faced on my lap, and the words "the kingdom of heaven is now close at hand" came to mind.  And then, I remembered this time when I was a little kid, romping in the lawn at my grandma's house because she had asked my cousins and me to go out and snap the heads off the dandelions.  It was such a glee, bending down and ripping the yellow flowers, smearing their heads down our arms and on our cheeks, pretending the jocund streaks were war-painted stripes; but my favorite part of that afternoon was picking up the dead, dry-tufted heads of seed, and blowing the white petals at each other.  I turned and turned in those dandelion seeds, relishing the soft, kissing heaven of them as they landed on my lips and lids and legs and fingertips.  I knew when I recognized the feelings from that vivid memory that I was still capable of feelings immense things, even if (for now) they were only recorded in a memory.

I also knew I had every right to be angry.  And I was exceptionally upset.  I may have dammed certain of my emotions for my own defensive purposes, but I was still a feeling person.  Goddammit, I thought, I'm a musician!  I create beauty!  How dare you tell me I'm beyond feeling, even in a religious context?  You deny my ability to feel and create, and you deny me, bishop!  And I will not have it!  He read a scripture, drawing a comparison between the pure and humble and obedient character of Nephi and the proud, obstinate and doubting portrayals we have of Laman and Lemuel. He then begged the question, "Which do you want to be, Nic?"  I didn't offer him any answers.  I was too angry, and I knew I would say ultimately divisive things.  He said a prayer, and I left, sharing little more than a cold goodbye.

I drove up the gravel road to my parents' house, but didn't pull into the driveway.  I kept driving up the hill until I reached the gate my dad and I had spray-painted with the words, "No Trespassing."  I turned my car off, stepped outside, climbed over the gate and walked westward.  I have always gone to the mountains when I've been profoundly furied or sad or grateful or happy.  My mountains seem to have the only places large enough to root soul, and I needed a place to plant down before I lost myself on the wind of my anger.

"Where the hell are you, God?" I yelled.  "What do I do?  How do I live and find happiness?"  I didn't hear any instant answers, but as I kept walking and ranting, the clouds darkened like a scar across the face of the summer sky and I could feel myself becoming a sort of sieve.  I reflected on how I had decided to come out; on why I had told my family and a few friends, but had elected to keep "those in the know" a small group; on silent lies I had created in an attempted relationship with a certain young woman who would have been my wife.  Grief filtered out of those thoughts and other memories, and I keened and moaned and cried.

And as hackneyed as this image is, rain honestly began falling.  Walk back to your car, a thought directed.  Feel the rain falling.  Go home.  Clean up.  And then the big moment, I am in you and you are in me.   I hadn't heard those words since I had been in Sunday School, but they rang with such power.  I quit crying.  I walked back to my car, and I felt how the rain fell, landed on my head and followed the course of its falling down my face.  I walked in the door to my parents' house, and I felt the first breath of "I'm Home" I'd felt in way too long.   I knew I had been created by Love, and that, should I look after it, I'd always be in Love.

I called Corey, my best bud, later that night and we had a long talk about the events of the day.  "I'm not going to visit with him again," I affirmed.  Corey agreed, "No.  No one should ever have to 'visit' like that.  You don't need to be broken down."

Emily Dickinson wrote,

Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.

I haven't been in the bishop's office since that day, but I have been on the search for times when "the Spirit" moves me, opening "every door," I guess to prove to myself that I am not, nor will I ever be, beyond feeling.  And so many feelings and memories followed in these past few months, landing like soft dandelion tufts in the places where my soul is hungry and aching.  I let them come.  I gather them in.  They break their heavens upon me, filling my open hands and guiding my healing heart.  I post some of those experiences here, on my blog, just to remind myself, and any readers I may or may not have, that the Spirit always speaks to those who want to listen.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling"

My bishop called me the day before my birthday in 2009 and made a pressing invitation for me to go to his office for a little visit.  I had just moved back into my parents' house from a couple of prodigal years on my own, I wasn't "actively engaged" in the good cause of The Church, and I was angry at what I felt was the shit life had thrown at me.  I didn't know exactly what he wanted to discuss with me, but I suspected the bishop wanted to explore the reasons I chose not to maintain a high level of activity in the ward.

So, I took a deep breath, rolled up my white-shirt-sleeves, buttoned my black slacks and, wearing a fabulous pink tie, I met him one evening at the church meeting house.  He welcomed me into his office, where he had conspicuously placed two chairs in front of his desk, one for him and one for me.  We sat across from each other, and (after the obligatory, everyday salutations) he suggested I offer a prayer.  I hadn't prayed aloud for quite some time, and the words "Dear Heavenly Father..." felt like an old, forgotten language in my mouth, while at the same time, I found a starchy, hard kind of comfort in talking to God again.  We said our amens and then the bishop gave me a tender, pained looked and quietly asked, "What's wrong, Nic?"

I didn't want to be there.  I remember asking myself why I was there in the first place.  Because he called you in and you don't know how to graciously say no to authority figures, I thought. I don't feel like I've done anything which would merit the help of a bishop in repenting.  I don't want to repent.  He thinks I need to change something.  I shouldn't ever have agreed to come here.  But he looked so sincerely concerned and -- with the pictures of Jesus were staring me down -- I decided I'd just be as honest with him as I felt I could trust him.

Over a series of visits, we discussed what, for years, I had called my "guilty question" : I told him I was gay.  I told him I didn't know how to make that work in The Only True and Living Church on the Face of the Earth Today.  I told him how I had tried to ignore it away, to pray it away, how I had tried to serve it away (as an LDS missionary), how I had tried to date and engage and marry it away.  I told him how it had never gone away.  I told him I was tired of hearing I was fighting a "tendency," a "weakness," that I needed to be fixed.  I don't need to be fixed, I gritted my teeth many times. I silently testified, Homosexuality is not an illness.  There isn't a cure, and we won't find one here.  Jesus loves me as I AM.

He was as empathetic as any married, Melchezidek Priesthood bearing, rural, straight man could be about it.  He cried over my heartaches when I wouldn't.  He offered me hugs and blessings I didn't accept.  I prickled every time he said he just wanted me to talk with him about what I felt.  I didn't believe him when he said he wouldn't judge me.  My emotions were becoming raw when all I wanted to be was callous.  I admit, I looked for reasons to quit meeting with him. 

I found that reason in our last meeting before I left for a midsummer music festival taking place in WI.  We had been making progress in understanding why I had felt the need to ignore all emotions except anger, and he blurted out, "Nic, I think you're beyond feeling.  When was the last time you really felt a prompting of the Spirit?"

I was so shocked I couldn't think or hear or speak.

(End  Part I)

The Beauty Is: Love is for Everyone

*My goal in writing this blog is to record the discoveries, the beautiful and transcendent events, transformations and tender mercies I find in life which lead me to greater good.  I do not wish to turn "flowers" into a "Gay Mormon"  or "Moho" blog, although those types of blogs have their place.  This post is a reflection on an experience which has fueled a lot of thought for me, and I'm sure posts on similar subjects will follow.  I'm not afraid, nor am I ashamed, but I do ask any Reader to read with love and empathy.


My university's musical theater department is putting on a production of Adam Guettel's The Light in the Piazza.  It's a beautiful story in which the main character (Margaret, a middled-aged mother from North Carolina) begins to see how love can make a person blossom as she witnesses the way her daughter (Clara, an innocent and beautiful young woman) grows when she falls in love with a young Italian man (synopsis here).

I've been brought on as the production's pianist.  Auditions and call backs were held about two weeks ago.  I was impressed with the exceptional level of talent and preparation that many fresh-faced and bright-eyed students brought to their auditions; I was also a bit unsure of how these young actors would be able to pull off characters who are 20+ years older than they.  I knew that when my friend, Kathy, entered the audition, she'd be sure to impress.  Kathy is a 40-something, conservative LDS woman, thoughtful and empathetic, and she has a fantastic soprano voice.  The only thing standing against her playing the role of Margaret was the fact that she's a voice major (read: not a musical theater major).  She gave a great audition and made both call backs, but didn't get the part.

We were talking in a hallway at school, just after auditions.  I was tired from having just sight-read what seemed like the entire American Musical Theatre Songbook for the past three hours, and I was hungry.  Kathy began a conversation I wouldn't quite realize I didn't want to have until it was too late.

"I learned a new phrase today," she said.

"Oh?" I queried.

"Yeah.  We were sitting outside auditions, talking about the characters.  The fact that Fabrizio is a tenor role came up and one of the girls said that whoever plays Fabrizio has to be able to 'keep his fruit in the fridge.'" Kathy giggled.  "I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I thought about it for a minute.  And then, I got it!"

"Ah, that age-old stereotype that every tenor is a gay man, and Fabrizio is a straight role" I rolled my eyes and smiled.

"Yes, that." Kathy said.  She paused for a moment, and then went on.  "You know, they don't have to be gay."

Oh, shit, I grumbled inside myself.  I don't want to have this conversation with you right now.  Deflect Nic!  Deflect!

"Oh, I think that depends on who you're talking to, Kathy," I shrugged.

"No," she posed.  "It's a choice they can make.  We all have to make tough choices.  Why do they think they have to be gay?"

Now let me tell you, I love Kathy.  She is a dear, dear friend, but I was incredibly stunned and hurt by what she was saying.  I wanted to tell her that -- having discussed the very topic of whether or not anyone "chooses" to be gay with self-identified gay men and lesbian women, and also being a gay man myself -- I know that sexual identity is not a choice.  True, identifying one's self as gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered is a choice of recognition and reconciliation with one's self, but the attractions which lead any human being to identify as GLBT is not.  Coming out is a very delicate, difficult process (that action deserves a series of posts in and of itself), and I commend anybody who finds the courage to do it.

For my own reasons, I decided to withhold the disclosing of my sexual preference from Kathy.  It wasn't imperative.  We work regularly together in a variety of musical settings, but I don't believe I'll have much need of sharing any information about possible significant others with her.  I said something about needing to heat up some food and get my blood sugar back in balance and I left, agitated and upset.

Perhaps playing Maragaret would have lead Kathy to make discoveries about why it is we love, and why we must give everyone the room and space to love whoever it is they love.  Perhaps I should have used the conversation in the hall to give Kathy a larger vision of what is "right" and what is "wrong."  Maybe, like Margaret's character, Kathy would have have the epiphany that LOVE IS FOR EVERYONE.  I'm sorry she didn't get the role, and feel a little regret that I didn't say anything more.

"Love if you can, oh my Clara!
Love if you can, and be loved--"

May we all come to that kind of understanding.

Skinny Jeans

Ok. I did it.  I purchased my first pair of skinny jeans, a feat which I never imagined I'd undertake.  You see, I don't have the best relationship with my body.  At 5'10" and 130 lbs, I'm just a little slip of a thing, and I've never liked being skinny.  I've avoided any sort of clothing that accentuates my slim and slender frame; in fact, I usually have worn quite a few layers, just to feel like I look a little bulkier than I am.  Or, I'd buy everything a size too big and end up getting lost in fabric.Those tricks never worked, though: I usually looked like I just didn't know how to wear clothes.

I've worn my new jeans a few times since buying them, and I've received quite a few compliments, which has helped me feel more comfortable about wearing such ass-hugging pants.  Enter my dear, delightful mother.

"I thought you didn't like skinny jeans," she commented yesterday.

"Well, Mom," I answered, "I'm trying them out.  A lot of people have said I look great in them."

She frowned as she walked toward the laundry room with a bag of clothes, "But they make you look so...skinny."

I was upset by her disapproval, but didn't want to argue with her.  I have, however, thought quite a lot about why I was angered by her comment.  I think it boils down to the fact that I'm coming to terms with the fact that, hey, I am skinny.  I've become more comfortable with my body.  I'm buying clothes that fit well, rather than buying things a size bigger and baggier so I can feel less little.  I feel like I look good, and other people are noticing.  I guess I wanted my mom to see the way I wore the skinny jeans -- with confidence and style -- rather than seeing that they were only skinny.

I know my mom wasn't attacking me, but I'm kind of glad I got defensive about how I'm dressing myself.  That flare of whatever it was shows me that I really believe there's nothing wrong with my small frame.  That I'm taking pride in myself.  That I can -- and sometimes honestly do -- see myself as an articulate, successful and (yes, even this appealing adjective) an attractive young man.

Cabaret Night

My best friend, Corey, sent me a text last weekend, "Hey, my plans fell through this evening.  Are you doing anything tonight?"  I smiled and rolled my eyes, trying to remember who it was he was supposed to be going out with that night, but he has too many admirers to keep straight.  Nice, I thought, a bit ascerbically. I really just love being the back-up plan when his dates cancel.  Rehearsals had gone long that Friday afternoon and I hadn't had any food; I was in a sour mood.  "I'm going to Cabaret Night tonight.  A few of my friends will be in the show.  You're more than welcome to join me," I texted back.  "Meet me around seven."

I was late meeting him, as I usually am.  He was waiting, smirking as I got out of my car, rushed and flustered and carrying an empty Arby's sack.  I offered my apologies, "Sorry I wasn't here right on time.  I had to grab a bite to eat."  We ran inside, payed the suggested donation and waited outside the door until we heard applause after the first performance.  After entering the room, we scouted out a couple of chairs on the back row and sat ourselves down.

We enjoyed the numbers, gasping with delight when Kaylyn sang Sunday in the Park with George; clamping our hands to our hearts as Angela belted about leaving the schmuck she'd been wintering with; sighing as Cameron sang a lovesong from Adam Guettle's Myths and Hymns; and getting "the church giggles" as Liz milked it like crazy in "The Alto's Lament."  I was as impressed my friends' performances as I've ever been, and I quite liked watching Corey's varied reactions to the powerhouse talent at Weber State.

"And now, for something a bit out of the ordinary," Gregory, our MC for the night, introduced the next performer.  "Please welcome Harrison to the stage as he performs a dance piece he choreographed."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect.  Now, in the kindest way possible, Harrison is just not always someone I understand, and I was a little embarrassed for him as he bumbled along, setting up his CD player at the front of the room.  Isn't that a little tacky? I wondered.  Bringing your own CD player onstage?  That should've been set up before the show--

"Um.  So okay, guys.  This is a dance choreographed to Ingrid Michaelson's 'Men of Snow,'" Harrison announced.  "I'd just like to thank you guys for allowing me a venue to perform this in."  Oh, our Utah grammar makes itself known, I silently chided.  Someone should tell him it's "a venue in which to perform."  My sense of smug, snide superiority sometimes worries me.  I thought, I'm a bitch.

And then the music began--

Once I made a man all out of snow
He had the darkest eyes and a button nose
I told him all my sadness and my fear
And he just listened with a snowy ear...

And Harrison danced.  Beautifully.  With a snowman he created in the air.  He looked so happy to be dancing with this invisible man of snow we all could see.  He used such long, lyrical movments in connection with short, sharp, almost seizing guestures.  I was taken aback, and I coudn't take my eyes off him.

But when I came around the next day
My friend had gone and melted all away
I saw his eyes lying on the ground
And I made a sound that was something like crying

We watched as Harrison bent down and picked up the snowman's eyes, shock and fear filling his own.  He continued to repeat those siezing guestures as he moved and circled across the floor.  I imagine it was his way of expressing the ceaseless question of "Why?  Where did you go?"

Oh one day you will go away from this
Oh one day you will know we're men of snow
We melt
One day

I heard that lyric in the chorus, "you will go away from this," and I thought of Grandma.  I wasn't prepared for the ache in my throat which was the ache in my soul which was witnessing the poignant beauty and sorrow in life and death expressed in dance.  I tried to keep my composure, but my tears started to fall.  I continued to watch Harrison dance, safe with the belief I'd just cry quietly and no one would notice.

Ingrid sang the last verse, telling us that "...It won't really matter when we disappear."  There is a slight break in the music before the last chorus.  The chorus, accompanied by strings and a choir of voices, rises up the scale and crescendos beautifully.  I rose with with it, and Harrison's choreography became such an active evocation of passion and grief -- so much honest movement.

Then, the piano played its motive, passing the song to the strings and chorus.  He stopped dancing.  He heaved his shoulders and sighed the heaviest, saddest sigh.  He stayed there for the remainder of the song, on one side of the stage, staring down at the floor, where a man of snow once stood.  The image was too much.  I broke.  I sobbed.  I tried to ignore the fact the the people on either side of me (one of whom was my dear Corey) were concerned at my emotional purge.

I left during the applause and found the nearest bathroom and wept and wept and wept.  I knew that Corey, kind friend that he is, would be coming to find me if I wasn't back by the next number (and he later told me he was considering doing that very thing), so I took time to compose myself and then went back to see the rest of the show.

I love the theater because it does that sort of opening-up-thing to you when you're least prepared for--and when you're in most need of--being open up.  I wasn't even thinking about the deep, heavy parts of my life when I met Corey in the parking lot that night.  I was late and rushed and in a hurry to get inside and sit down and ride the wave of a light and entertaining show.  But Harrison's dance piece invited me to stop, take stock, and remember how to feel.  I'd sent my feelings on vacation for quite some time, but it was nice to have them back that night.  And every day since.

Thank you, Harrison, for reminding me that deep beauty can be found where you least expect it.

Musings at Midnight: Rachmaninov's Song, "Son" (Sleep), Op. 38, No. 5

The opening motive in the piano tentatively weaves, and then, her voice -- enticing as any dream-drenched siren call -- to tell how

There is nothing
more desirable
In the world than the dream.

Sung in the soft consonants and lilting rhythms of French, the song intoxicates me with "the magic stillness" sleep promises. I sit here, listening, and I marvel at how Rachmaninov can cultivate a feeling of endlessness when, all the while, the piano drifts in currents of 32nd notes. It's the lack of traditional harmonic progression, I guess. The pianist plays around a few notes, accompanied by simple chords in the LH; the soprano sings a kind of texted vocalise, describing sleep's "bottomless eyes." She searches for a harmonic footing, but doesn't quite reach that place of rest. The piano, in muted octaves, begins to add triple to its duples, then 16ths and a crescendo of arppegiations and turns -- almost like some graceful bird rising, wings taking flight.

She finally finds a melody, dark and reverent and powerful. Rising up for six notes, and then descending, yet to rise and fall again. She reaches, sings the scale up to its soft, sky-filled xenith. Yearning, yearning for being "as light as the shadow of midnight," the piano echoing in countermelodies beneath. I know that yearning (my love affair with the music of Rachmaninov).

It's unfathomable
how it carries them,
and where and on what;

She finally settles into a transcendent musical line, ends the last measures of her phrase just short of the tonic note. The final 30 seconds of the song close with a lovely piano solo, diaphanous as angels' wings.

It's an amazingly fulfilling song. Desire, stillness, dreaminess, longing, homesickness and finding a place of rest -- such a symphonic living out of emotion with just one pianist and one soprano.

God is worshipped with music of this sort.

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part III

I walked over to a rack where Jenny was fingering the green scarf she had worn earlier  as well as another in a deep maroon shade.

"Ok, Jen," I said, using my most commanding voice, "You're getting the coat."

"But I can't--"

"No, not another word.  We're doing this for you because you deserve something nice.  It's about time somebody treated you to a thing like this, and we're doing it.  Somebody grab that coat before somebody else does.  Corey, give Jules your twenty.  I'll give her what I've got, too.  Jen, you get yourself a couple of scarves.  They're two for twelve.  You can afford that, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," came the shocked response.  "You don't have to do this."

"We know," Corey and Jules both said.

"We're doing it because we want to do something good for you.  How did you feel when you put the coat and the scarf on?" Jules asked.  "Pretty great, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Then let us get it for you."

"I'll pay you guys back when I get a little bit of money.  Really?  You're really doing this?" Jenny couldn't believe it.

I loved every bit.  "You bet we are, my dear."

We walked up to the register, where Julyn bought the coat.  We walked out to the car, where Jenny promptly put it on.  We arrived at the reception just barely in time to see the ring ceremony.

I've thought a lot about how great it made me feel to do something like this for Jenny.  I didn't feel any anxiety about giving up a chunk of money that could have paid for a tank of gasoline of a couple of nice dinners with friends.  I wasn't worried that I may not see that money come back to me for a while.  I wasn't upset about any of that because I was so happy to see my friend happy because she felt good about how she looked.  It was totally worth it.

We often hear about people giving the clothes off their backs to show love and support, and Jenny has always done that for all of our friends.  She has been one of the first to show love and the last to mete out condemnation when any of us have struggled.  She is a beautiful individual, and I want her to see herself as such.  I guess, in a small way, we kind of did that for Jen when we bought a coat to put on her back.  We did it because we're old friends.  We did it, because, really, when it boils down, we've become family.  And families -- including the ones we create outside our biological ones -- work best when we build each other up and help each other feel our bests.

And Jenny LOVES her new coat!  :D

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part II

We all knew she looked good, too, and our chorus of compliments grew in crescendo.

"You've got to get it, Jen," I said.  "It's a good, warm coat, and it looks great on you!  The way it cinches around your waist is superb -- so flattering."  Jenny was just smiles.

And then, she looked at the price tag.  One hundred some-odd dollars.  A sum far and above what Jenny has ever been willing to pay for any item of clothing she purchases.  "No," she shook her head in disappointment and started untying the scarf wrapped around her neck, "I've got some bills to pay and a few other things and payday isn't until next week.  Still, it was fun to try it on and pretend for a minute."

"But Jenny," I was incredulous, "it's 50% off."

"It's totally worth it, Jen," Corey concurred.

"And," chimed in Jules, taking the scarf from Jenny's hands, "if I buy it for you 'as a gift,' I can add my employee discount to the sale price."

"I just can't do it right now," Jenny argued.

"What if Corey and I put in the cash, and Jules adds the discount, Jen?"

"And you think of it as your Christmas present," Jules continued.

"And maybe part of your birthday, too?" Corey finished.

Again, Jenny refused, "I'm not going to let you guys do that.  That's nice and all, but I just can't have you do that."

Oh, we were disappointed, but that didn't stop us from dressing the rest of us up in coats and sweaters and scarves.  We had a grand time selecting winter fashions for each other, modelling our picks for the dressing room attendant, and posing as she took our picture.

When we took our items back to their tables and racks, I took Corey aside.  "We've got to do something, Corey.  It will be a tragedy if she doesn't walk out of here wearing her coat.  It is the last one in her size.  I checked.  I've got about $40 I can give her for it."

"And I've got about $20.  Let's do it," he motioned Julyn over, explaining our idea to buy the coat for Jenny since she wouldn't do it herself. 

Jules was all for it.  "Did you see how happy she looked when she was wearing it.  Sometimes, a girl just needs a good piece of clothing to help her feel good.  Give me the cash, and I'll buy it.  With my discount, $60 should be about right."

Now, we just had to convince Jenny.

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part I

Oh, the joys of living the Life Trendy in Small-Town, USA!

Julyn, Jenny, Corey and myself had just finished the delicious wedding luncheon of our dear friends Jamie and Dan, catered by the most expensive restaurant in town.  Jamie was one of the most beautiful brides I've ever seen, and Dan was radiant with joy.  It proved to be a lovely dinner: Jules and I, being naturally theatrical and a bit flamboyant, serenaded our table-partners with the old standards of Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra while Jenny and Corey sat at the end of the table, giggling together about our musical antics and commenting on the intricate, silvery beadwork on Jamie's bodice.  And now, we had two hours to kill before the reception was to begin.  What to do?

Jenny suggested we drive to the nearest Borders and peruse the shelves.  "That sounds like a great idea!  What's better than spending a pleasant, drowsy afternoon in a fabulous bookstore?  Let's go," I agreed.  So we left the restaurant and headed down the street.  Five minutes later, we were parking our cars at the strip mall where our Borders was located, neighboring our town's only Old Navy clothing store.

Julyn, recently employed by Old Navy, advertised their latest special to our quartet, "We're having an exceptional sale on outerwear this week.  Everything's 50% off."  Then, whetting the impeccable taste for fashion Corey and I share, she smiled and teased,  "Oh, and boys, our argyle is to die for!  And, the scarves that came in the new shipment are great, too.  Wanna go in for just a minute?  I need to check my schedule, anyway."

No one objected, and we marched right in.  After indulging the boys for more than a few minutes in the men's clothing section, the girls meandered over to the women's.  Following them, my eye lit on this wonderful ode to American style and seamstering.  I called Corey over.

"We have to find a way to get Jenny to try this on.  It's perfect for her.  Look at the cut, and the buttons!  Oh!  The the lining! -- that's a superb shade of fuschia!  It'd pair beautifully with that black handbag up there.  Where did those girls go?  They're not at the clearance rack, are they?!"

"You're not kidding.  It is beautiful," Corey agreed.  "Jenny!  Jules! Get over here, and bring a couple of pretty scarves with you.  We've got a little something we want Jenny to try on."

I could tell Jenny wanted that coat as soon as she saw it.  I sensed we had to find a way to convince her she had to get it as soon as she started slipping her arms through the sleeves.  I knew we couldn't leave the store without that overcoat in a sack on Jenny's arm as soon as we had buttoned it up.  It fit her perfectly.  Corey, Jules and I were speechless for a moment (a feat in and of itself), and then Julyn started tying a green, sparkly scarf around Jenny's neck.

"That scarf doesn't match the dress I'm wearing," Jenny tried to protest.

"That doesn't matter at all," Jules asserted. "You can wear whatever color of scarf you want with this coat, and no one can tell what you're wearing under it.  This camel color is perfect -- it'll match anything.  Now, take your ponytail out and let your hair down."

"Jules is right," Corey said.  "And it looks great when you fluff the scarf up like that."

"Here," I added, "try this bag.  No, it's not too big.  Yes, it's black.  No, it doesn't have to match.  It's just right.  Trust me."

Once we had Jenny all spiffied up and accessoried, we took her to a mirror to see our handiwork.  The moment she saw herself is one of the priceless memories I'll always keep tender.  Jenny is not the kind of girl who wears make-up.  She doesn't really agonize over what she's going to wear (she works as a teacher's aid in the schools, so how fancy does she need to be?).  I don't think she really considers herself "pretty."  I watched Jenny as she appraised the image in the mirror.  The slump of her shoulders straightened up.  The shuffle of her feet took on a more confident step.  Her smile put the overhead flourescent light to shame, and you could see in her eyes that she knew she looked good.

On How to Live Abundantly

Last Sunday's Brunch, or "You Ever Been Crossed by a Black Cat Like That?"

Ah, Sunday brunches at Karen's on 25th with the select elite: my favorite musical theatre folk.  We gather, never quite sure how many of the gang will show up, but always quite certain we'll have a gay old time, full of gossip, dirty jokes, Jenn's effortless grace, and, of course, the the coffee, carbs and grease.

I walked in late this last week, after having stopped at school to pick up some scores for a collaboration coming up next spring.  Not sure where my group was sitting, I listened for the corner of the cafe broadcasting the most vibrant laughter and choruses in various shades of witty sarcasm and mimicry, exclaiming things like "Oh no, honey!  Professor So-and-so is more like this..." or "You know s/he's got the best [insert any explitivie or noun here] of anyone in the department."  I spotted Phil (a fabulous friend and fashionable mentor), my lovely Tiara (she lives up to the name, but you'd better not say it like the fashion accessory!), the divine Miss Jennifer P. (yes, she really is divine) and the ever-welcome and -welcoming Jean-Louise (our own kind of Mary Poppins, but with a Sewing with Nancy, punk-rocker chick mix), and sat down at their table, expecting as uneventful a brunch as we ever have.

They had all cleaned their plates, so I ordered a glass of water, and took up the tail-end of the conversation.  Soon, it was time for everybody to grab their tickets, walk up the the ancient stove-top sagging next to the cash register, pay for their meals ("I had the Fisherman's Breakfast.  Shouldn't have, but I did."), and bid adieu.  I offered to drive Phil -- who was uncharacteristically ill and rather a bit flushed following a lovely bout of surgery-- home.  He had some fabric he wanted to show Jean, so she decided to meet us at Phil's place.

Upon our arrival, we met a Jean-Louise who was trying to avoid the mangiest, sickliest black cat I had ever seen.  I thought it was a sort of early Halloween prank some kids were pulling.  You know, drug a black cat and leave it on somebody's porch -- see what kind of bad luck they could wreak.  But nothing of th sort: the cat, having decided Phil's porch was a sunny little spot upon which it could convalesce, sat directly in front of the front door, bending its nose awkwardly to the porch floorboards, breathing heavily and trying to die while at the same time blocking the path we all needed to take to get inside Phil's cleverly decorated and richly furnished house.  Phil grimaced in disgust at the animal's black muzzle, strung with foamy saliva and (with me following closely behind) took the intrepid step to join Jean on the other side of the ill-fated feline and unlock the perfectly shabby-chic, distressed front door.

As soon as the key was in the lock, the cat started yowling.  It was the most terrible sound I've ever heard.  Jean put her hands over her ears, I began nervously giggling, and Phil, drugged with expensive pain-pills, groggily whined, "Ugh!  I can't handle this today!  Do something.  Well, do something after you see this gorgeous fabric for Piazza."  Trying to ignore the death-cry comgin from the wailing cat on the porch, Jean and I admired the shimmering fabrics and spectacular lace overlays  (they really were "gorgeous" with exceptional italics) and then set to work trying to find the number for local Animal Control using Jean's iPhone apps.  When that didn't work, we just 4-1-1ed the number.

I called Animal control while Phil and Jean tucked their heads in the curtains to watch the black cat on the porch.  The phone kept ringing and ringing and ringing.  Phil gasped -- I thought he'd ripped a stitch or something, but he said, "It's...it's....it's convulsing or something.  Oh, God, this is awful.  Oh, oh God!"  I walked over to the window to see, and it was awful.  The poor cat shuddered, its ears folded back, eyes half closed and its tongue hanging out its mouth.  Jean looked horrified, and I was impatient for someone from Animal Control to pick up the phone.

Finally, an answer, "Thank you for calling your local Animal Control Center.  Our office hours are Monday through Saturday, nine to five.  We are closed Sunday..."  What?!? I'm thinking.  How can animal control be closed on Sunday?  What are people supposed to DO when they are experiencing an animal emergency?"  I looked at Jean and Phil and told them the office was closed until Monday morning.  Their reactions, deflated at how local civil agencies had again let them down, were exact copies of my thoughts.

"So what do we do now?" Phil asked.

"I guess we try calling dispatch or something?" I offered.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Jean-Louise confirmed.

Dispatch:  "Thank you for calling local dispatch.  What is your emergency?"

Nic:  "Um, we have a dying cat stuck on our front porch.  We think it's a stray.  What do we do? Can someone come remove it?"

Dispatch:  "Animal control tells us that they're closed on Sundays.  They can't come out until tomorrow morning."

Nic:  "Yes.  We got that from their answering machine when we called.  Isn't there someone else who could help us?"

Dispatch:  "They really don't do house calls for cats.  Maybe if it were a dying dog or something, then somebody could come out.  But you're pretty much on your own for cats."

Nic, with an increasing sense of futility: "Um, it's foaming at the mouth and we really don't want to touch it."

Dispatch, with mounting frustration:  "Like I said, we really can't do anything, and they won't come out for cats."

Nic:  "Um, ok.  I guess we'll figure it out on our own, then.  Thanks."

By this time, I can see Phil and Jean in that place where they didn't really want to keep looking at the convulsing cat, but they didn't quite know how to quit watching.  The poor dears, they were just in shock.  I decided we had to rescue Phil's porch and do something to get this cat away from the house.

"Phil," I took control, "go find us a cardboard box and a sack.  We're gonna take that cat somewhere else."

Phil rummaged in the back for a minute and came to the front room with a department store sack and a soup-stack carboard lid.  Fearless Jean and opened the door and went out on the porch to pick the cat up and put it in the box.  The cat had stopped seizing for a minute, and I stooped down with the plastic sack to pick it up.  It started moaning again, "Yeeee-ooowww.  Yeeeeee-oow."  I said, "I know, cat.  I know.  We're just gonna cover you with this sack so we can pick you up and put you in this box."  I didn't think the pathetic creature had any energy left to fight me too much; what a startle when it tried to get up as I reach down to wrap it and pick it up.

Jean held the box as I tried to get it in the box.  The box was to short -- I was nervous the cat would get out and find its way back to Phil's porch.  We must have been a sight.  "Phil," I called into the house, "can you find a taller box so this cat can't escape."  He came back a few minute later with a box that was just a bit better.  We picked the cat up and kind of scooped it as carefully as we could into the taller box.  The thing was just yowling.  It was pretty awful.  I kept laughing nervously, and poor Jean carried the cat-box and all across the street to an empty parking lot.

Jean left.  Phil was worn out.  The porch was covered with wet spots where the cat had spat up.  I asked Phil if he had any bleach and dish soap.  He directed me to the kitchen where the supplies were.  I fixed up a bucket of sani-water and commenced to sloshing the porch in hopes of disinfecting the place where the cat had been.  Finishing the job, I rinsed the bucket out and thoroughly washed my hands with hot water and antibac soap.

"I'm gonna go home now, Phil," I said.  "Call me when animal control comes tomorrow.  Get better, and stay outta trouble.  Hopefully, no bad luck:  we didn't cross that black cat, it crossed us. Right?"

I picture us, a week later now, and I have to laugh.  What a sight we must have been.  A recently stitched up convalescent, a fashionable young musician and a wicked-awesome seamstress, stooping over some dying black cat, doing everything we could to keep it as comfortable as possible so we wouldn't catch bad luck.  The silly suspicions we adhere to.

Guess our kindness didn't work.  Swine flu hit a week later  Damn cat!

Sleep is for Those Who Take Comfort in Knowing That They're Small (for my mother and father)

Nights,

when sleep won’t weight my eyes with heavy insignificance,

I remember other, older nights

when my child-legs, throbbing with small pains,

led me to the cotton-counted valley

your bodies spared

for me.

            soothing oil

palmed across my aching calves and thighs

            sleep-slurred sighs

promised I’d wake to waffles in the morning

star-glazed windowpanes weep for 3 AM

I could sleep there,

in the breathing inbetween

where your bodies moved like lungs

to keep me safe,

and small.

    
I wasn't sure why I woke to the dark last Tuesday morning (October 20), around 1:45.  One o'clock isn't usually my waking hour -- usually, that's around 3:30, so I wasn't sure why I was up.  I mused, trying to remember if I'd had any unusual dreams or nightmares which would have unsettled my sleep. My dream-memory was as blank as the starless sky.  I did, however, remember a poem, above, which I had written for a class last semester, and I coveted the sleep of three-year-olds.  I've always wondered at how little children can sleep: there are no nagging worries steeping in their easy sleep.  They know that they are small, and fit within the borders of blankets, pillows and beds. There is a safety in that tiny knowledge, and thus, children peacefully dream.

So I was up, and questioning why.  I had been worried about Mom for days.  She'd stayed with Grandma almost every night the week before, and I had sat with both of them Sunday night.  Watching Grandma dwindle and shrink into herself had been taxing on me, and I knew that it must be as wretched as it was sweet for Mom.  I was concerned for all of us, and figured that was why I was awake.

The phone rang at about a quarter past two.  I switched my bedside lamp on, turned to face my brother's bed and said, "Gavin, I think that's the call telling us Grandma has passed."  Mom came downstairs about five minutes later and confirmed my thoughts.  It was a relief, almost, to hear that Grandma had finally let go and passed on.  She had finally allowed herself to die-- some sort of knowledge of what lies beyond had been given her, I think. It freed her from the tension, fear, pain and confusion which balled her fists and beat her heart those last few weeks.  She had been so afraid of dying, but she held on to peace Tuesday morning and just fell asleep, taking comfort in knowing she would fit wherever it is she would be going.


I've thought a lot about life and death and faith and eternity, and I feel a part of all things and I feel a part of no thing.  I am in awe of everything making sense: my life, Grandma's death, Mom's faith, God's eternity.  The sleeping of babies.  I've slept well every night this week.

Do Not Go Gentle

That last post was taken from a Facebook note, dated October 7.  My grandma was able to sit up on her own.  She could speak and chew and eat and swallow.  She recognized us as her family, calling us by name, and she loved having my little niece in her bedroom that sublime, sacred Sunday evening.

I sit, now two weeks later, after having sat with my mother in Grandma's room earlier this evening, listening to her slow, uneven, shuddering breaths and small moans and sighs.  It is a difficult experience to describe, witnessing the weakening and darkening of the loved one who was so solid and full of sunlight and smiles.  I remember staying overnight at Grandma and Grandpa's with my cousins.  We'd record our "Radio Shows" on tapes Grandma saved for us.  Grandpa was a chronic tease -- he liked to slap our feet and spit out his teeth (and it always made me nervous when they shot out!).  We'd wake in the morning to pancakes with rabbit ears, bubbling syrup, scrambled eggs and hot chocolate made with evaporated milk.

I've watched her decline as I've helped care for her over the past few months, but tonight's visit left me reeling.  She's on morphine for the pain.  The only really noticeable response we see from her happens when we have to turn her in an effort to reduce the indignity of bedsores.  Her eyes, usually heavy-lidded anymore, open bright-wide and fish scale blue (not her eyes at all), and her eyebrows slant in a voiceless agony.  It's hard on all of us. 

Tonight, I entered Grandma's bedroom after Mom sat down on the hospital bed we recently traded with the one my grandparents had slept in for years.  Mom was leaning over, stroking Grandma's face and calling her "Mamma."  An overwhelming sense of wonder, as well as a desire to shield my own mother from the unconscious and open pain written on her mother's face flew up in front of me, and I was almost ready to weep or run or collapse.  I stepped up behind Mom, making sure I didn't step on any tubing or anything like that, and told Grandma I was there.  I don't really know if she saw me -- her eyes were so dim and milky, filmy with the morphine and fevery dehydration, I guess -- but she did turn her face toward my voice a bit, and, after a little coaxing, gave me a brief, fleeting smile.  I felt so tender I had to leave the room for a minute.

In the end, I was there for about an hour and a half.  I've cried for 3 days.  I've thought a lot about death, and the divorce that splits the body and the spirit or essence of a person when death happens.  The divorce of death is as ugly and hard and terribly powerful as any divorce I've ever heard of.  It seems to me, in seeing the struggle my Grandma is experiencing, that the body and the spirit do not want to give each other up, though their separation is inevitable.  I think our bodies are such incredible creations, giving our spirits a wonder-ful vehicle for feeling and emotion and physical sensation; I also think our bodies crave the energy of our spirits.  Can you imagine not having a body?  I believe one of the reasons death is so difficult is because we really can't imagine not having a body, even if it is weary of its 80-some-odd years.  I'm seeing this in my thin Grandma.  It's 2 AM, and I don't think I'm making sense, but that's what it is.

She's not going gentle -- she's trying to so much to stay here, for whatever reason.  I wish I could whisper to her peace and tender to her release, if not for her sake, at least for us, the heavy-hearted who have been watching.

i thank You God

You finish watching movies like "Seven Pounds" with no one but yourself and a roll of plush toilet paper plucked from the nearest bathroom (because, once engrossed in the film, Kleenexes cannot be got), late at night when you should have gone to bed two and a half hours ago, and the tears are drying in the corners of your eyes: your spirit clears, becomes a pensive pool of heavy thoughts, beautifully garbed -- like enigmatic goldfish you see swimming in black-bottomed garden ponds, breathtaking as they rise to the surface in red and white and yellow -- and you ponder the cutting divinities and sweet inbalances of your life. One thought -- one sinuous, shimmering fish -- catches you, and you study it for a moment that seems to speak for hours. And then, if your name is Nicholas Maughan, you write a Facebook note to understand it, and secretly hope somebody reads it and understands it, too.

My brother, my exceptionally pregnant sister-in-law and my niece arrived from Phoenix last Friday, visiting with the feeling that this, perhaps, may be the last time they will see our Grandma. We had quite a lovely time with each other: joking and teasing and arguing and eating and eating and eating and just being a family. My two-year-old niece woos me with ever more skillful practice each time I see her, and neither of us can conceal our glee at our rendezvous for very long. I loved watching my 16-year-old brother as he giggled and napped with her; I smiled at my parents, relishing their new(er) roles as proud and contented grandparents; I felt a subtle joy (and a keening for my own "someday") when I saw my brother quietly touch his wife's arm or tender some other silent affirmation of "I love being your husband."

Anyhow, the seven of us spent about an hour and a half at Grandma's house Sunday night. An uncle, who had been with her before we arrived, said his goodbyes shortly after we walked inside the door. Grandma has recently begin confusing this uncle with my Grandpa, who passed away. "Why don't you just come back after you've finished up? Isn't this your home?" she timidly asked him. I looked at Mom, who looked at me, and we both kind of smiled that smile which says, We'll get through this as gracefully as we can. And then, my happy little niece walked in the room, talking and laughing and calling for my mom, "Gamma! Gamma!" and I saw the first real smile on my Grandma's face I've seen in months as she said, "Isn't she just beautiful? She's so cute!"

We took photos of Mom, Grandma, my sister-in-law and her daughter and pictures of my brothers and me sitting with Grandma. I remember thinking that the only person missing was our own Elder Maughan, away in the Dominican Republic. But I kept thinking, too, about the strange and beautiful, bittersweet place we were in: We were a family in the middle of all the parts of life -- my niece, really just beginning her human experience; my 16-year-old brother, turning into a young man; my brother and his wife, readying themselves to welcome another soul into this world as they try to provide for the one they already have; myself, discontent and struggling through my twenties to find some peace and confidence; my parents, watching their children as we fashion our adult lives, wincing as we make choices they may not always understand, and beaming when they can sense our happinesses; and my grandma, at the end of her life. Her body is getting so small, and her mind is stealing away into confusion, but there are times when I still see her, times when she recognizes her Self. We were ALL THERE that Sunday night, in a perfect circle of life and finding ourselves present in the power of our abundant love.

I've had this particular thought swirl to the surface -- my beloved little koi-thought -- many times since Sunday: I know I was there, experiencing that, but at the same time, I wasn't. I was one who saw, a spectator. I saw everything. It was one of these moments when God gives you His eyes, and maybe you see your life the way He sees it, with the Truth, and you trust that everything is right.

I think that God gives this gift of Seeing constantly, more often than we're willing to recognize. It's too delicate and too sharp to have floating in my awareness all the time, but man, how I search for these lucid and breathtaking moments of awe infinitum.

this flower picks himself

who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
   it's
     Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves

Oh, e.e. cummings!  He questions our knowledge of the moon 

and where our flights of fancy take us with such hope.  To 

think of those flowers "in a keen city," so trusting of 

their beauty that they pick themselves.  What a lovely 

confidence that must be--not to be confused with conceit--

to see your self with such truth you'd  want to pick your Self, 

not needing to be "picked" or chosen by others. 

I like to believe that the reason we, as human beings, are living

life is to learn to be divinely confident, just like cummings'

flowers, and be at peace with the Selves inside ourselves and 

also with the goings-on of all that exists outside our own, singular 

experiences.  We achieve godliness, Eternal Life, Nirvana or whatever 

name you choose to call the perfection of the Best Self when we

can confidently and honestly say, "I belong here, in this beautiful,

creative, eternal place, because I am beautiful, creative and eternal." 

I sometimes reflect on the name God used when He was a burning

bush and talked with Moses :

"I am that I am." 

The Charleston Heston version of God kind of mumbles it, 

"Ayummh tha dayummh," but that's not how I envision 

it; perhaps it was said "I am THAT I am;" with an emphatic that,

directing Moses' attention to the beauty and creativity and

eternity of God, to that statement of "I AM [all good things]." God knows

that He is all good things, and my hope guides me to believe that He

is trying to show us that we, too, are all good things.

God wants to take us for a ride in his balloon, full of pretty people, where 

we ride "up higher and higher", than all steeples and churches and creeds 

and He shows us that we are the flowers, that we can pick ourselves.