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?