Like the still-fragile shoots of spring, each yes a reaching memory of sun, and the sunniness of reaching.
Under the care of a new physician—one of Oregon’s most respected naturopaths who “likes complicated cases”—I begin to feel buoyed, not pummeled, for the first time in two years. True to the naturopathic approach, Dr. Vickers doesn’t target the dizziness directly (I still don’t have a diagnosis) but instead, slowly, judiciously, supports my whole system—balancing hormones, regulating sleep, identifying inflammation factors, and releasing the fascial grip in my head and neck from two years of bracing against constant movement.
It’s not immediate, and I arrive at her clinic in tears more times than I care to admit, but slowly, timidly, I feel a shift. Pairing her intuitive and skillful approach with my newfound practice to find “peace that passeth understanding,” I begin to grow a spaciousness around the dizziness and my gripping resistance to it. The unsteadiness doesn’t go away, or even diminish most days, but just as a clear, blue sky is always above the grayest clouds, a pervasive sense of calm starts to hold the constant oscillation. Two unlikely bedfellows—stillness and movement—learn compatibility.
I challenge myself to take more risks — small, calculated risks—and say yes more than no. Like the still-fragile shoots of spring, each yes a reaching memory of sun, and the sunniness of reaching. Each experience a welcoming, not a regret. I meet a friend for an hour. Dave and I eat out at a favorite taqueria. I venture to Powell’s Books. And even though I often pay for it, my nervous system overstimulated from habitual under-stimulus, the little wins build courage within the monotony of eat-needle felt-walk-sleep. I’ve become a REALLY. BORING. PERSON but allowing, instead of fighting, my pared-down existence creates the safety my brain needs to finally rest and adapt.
Syd starts attending a day program at a large, private home in Washington for adults with disabilities. Offering intellectually diverse individuals an independent, community-based experience, the facility intimates a brighter future for Syd. Our hearts are tentative though; having hope is a lot harder than having none. Dave and I practice patience—with ourselves and each other—there is so much to process, too much, and neither have the foundational strength yet to face the collision of emotions head-on. Our enduring love allows for time to rebuild, and that alone, rebuilds.
I also need to sell my house. My income hovers near zero and happy, domestic memories of years past are buried under the dank flotsam of two years at sea. Our bedroom is littered with abandoned prayers. Mirrors discard a face no longer recognizable. Dave and I need more than a fresh coat of paint over our heartache; we need a new shared hearth.
So when we receive a wedding invite from Cousin Greta, enough little yeses inspire a bigger RSVP-YES. It will be a great opportunity to meet more of the Brauer clan and to reconnect with those already in my heart. Our communications are regular now. Not a week or two passes without some sort of hello : a snap of a recent snowstorm or spring flowers with a string of heart emojis, a letter or package in the mail, a phone call, and Rich’s favorite (and my least), FaceTime. But I cave, always surprised by how easy it feels…with him.
Without deliberate planning—only moments of small yeses to rewrite a lifetime of unwitting no—we have become family.
Tuesday Thirty June So now June passes to join that two-room dimension where all things lost reside Fountain pens marbles sweaters fill one room (the smaller) while a room the size of sky holds friendships experiences virginity The first room rarely returns a thing though often of necessity cleans house and gives to finders The second room retains for the lifetimes of the losers and returns everything upon deathbeds - Charles Brauer and my reply So now Yes returns to join that dual dimension where all things resisted reside Pain vulnerability angst fill one breath (the inhale) while an exhale the size of infinity holds hibernal emptiness silence surrender The inhale always expects an answer though often of necessity more demanding than giving The exhale replies for the lifetimes of resistance and delivers grace unto both
I read this first a few days ago, Kimberly but was reticent to attempt even a little 'yes' in comment. And an emoji didn't seem even close to speaking meaningfully.
There is a temple in the midst of sprawling, noisy Bangkok older than the city of Bangkok itself with an immense, reclining Buddha where prayers and incense have been floating upward in hushed praise and supplication since at least the sixteen hundreds. You may know it, or perhaps not. I'd be mortified to attempt to mansplain its sense of awe to someone who already knows it well. It is one of 'those' places, Wat Po. A living, working temple with a sense of calm that defies its surroundings and settles beside me just thinking about it again. One removes one's shoes to enter this wondrous temple and if one can locate and invite that quiet place within oneself to rise and feel, and listen there is big, soft, earnest magic to sit with and within, magic that smells of incense and Thai spices warmed by the bodily heat and scents of countless earnest supplicants over time.
Stepping into such a personal story, standing beside someone's offered and risked vulnerability feels like entry into a temple for me. I am there, but I don't want or need to draw attention to the fact that I am there or make my being there part of the story.
Would that there was a way to light a stick of incense, having read a story, an affirmation, an acknowledgement of having been there, of wanting to make some meaningful gesture without interjecting oneself into the story.
🙏 Hands together, head bowed momentarily... Namasté
These poems, the call and response between father and daughter, spanning years and crossing the veil…they make reality dissolve a little around the edges (and all good poetry should) while they somehow crystallize the seemingly unreal. Echos meeting is a meeting, nonetheless. I’m just fascinated by what these poems do to my brain. Thank you, and Charlie.