Either/Or
As children, we are taught in absolutes.
Good or bad.
True or false.
Left or right.
One or the other.
There’s a date on the calendar when summer vacation ends and school begins. There’s a number of right or wrong answers on a multiple choice test. A grownup tells me how many bites I have to eat to get dessert.
The lines are drawn, pointed out, and enforced by others. Learning to walk presupposes that the ground is solid. Once you’re sure of it, you’re willing to take a step.
Experience over time, of course, inevitably yields an unraveling of the dichotomous worldview that had been so carefully administered. We become aware of exceptions, gray areas, ambiguities, biases and discrepancies. We fall and skin our knees. We study natural disasters in fifth grade. And suddenly we realize that, at any time, an earthquake could crack open what had once seemed settled. And then we watch the news and hear that it’s happening somewhere in the world right now.
There is a lot of fear in this place. Vulnerability. Disillusionment, confusion, cries of “That’s not fair!” and “Wait a minute,” and “Why me?” The sting of the bandaid being ripped off. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by a bully, and sometimes by the person you most trusted. Turn inward and face despair. Outward, betrayal.
And then the earthquake happens to you. Crisis. There is no luxury with which to utter accusations anymore. There is only survival.
Thankfully there is an open door—the next level of awareness, and one that I’m slowly awakening to. Familiarity. Acceptance. A growing ability to tolerate discomfort. A wisening and softening to the understanding that the earthquake is part of the plan. And somehow, so are we.
Yes, things first look like “either/or.” And it’s a human thing to wish they still did.
But the power—the peace—lies in the “and.”
On Guard
At night I put on my armor.
Eyes open. Ears sharp. Muscles taught.
Awake that you may sleep.
I’ve been alert all day, protecting you
from demons
of
a different sort.
My loyalty
is fierce enough
to bat away the sleep
that yawns at me.
But deprivation
takes its toll
on the body and the mind.
The spirit
is not
untouched
by fleshy need
and mortal care.
The outside battle mirrors
the one within.
Can I relieve myself
of duty?
Never.
Can I find a way
to care for myself
and you
at the same time?
I try and fail,
by my own standard, anyway.
Can I trust
you can stand
alone
long enough
for me to breathe
and remember the hedgerows
at their peak
in the green summertime
so far from here?
That’s a lie.
A story someone else has told.
I’ve never seen them,
so there is no memory
to dust off
and recall.
But I own a few
seeds that I pocketed
long ago,
before you were a whisper
on the wind.
The Daffodils in
that soaking April…
the gnarled old tree
I claimed,
I sat in,
longing for home
and discovering it
all at once.
My two minutes of solitude,
head ducked against the rain,
feet treading on tired cobblestone
as strong as it ever was.
It was a taste
that awoke
a lifetime of hunger.
I yearned most of all
for you, my love.
I must remember that.
Why do I forget the most
when I look at you?
What threat was I imagining
I spotted on the horizon
when you lost the roundness
of your cheeks?