Poetry and Love

Saying I love poetry is an understatement.

I adore it. I obsess over it. I read it and I’m pretty sure my soul starts salivating. When I’ve finally ingested a particularly meaningful piece, my soul digests it and it becomes part of me.

I’ve discovered that poetry, unlike any other form of literature, feeds me and moves me in a very similar way to love.

In my life, poetry is love.

I know many people don’t like poetry the way I do, and I blame the education system for that. Poetry is a living, breathing animal and is meant to be observed and studied from afar, and then up close if it will let you. The education system assumes poetry is an already dead animal, to be cut up and cadavered and studied in detail, whether it wants you to or not. The education system makes poetry reek of formaldehyde and plastic gloves and face masks, not bare feet and warm breezes and clean air.

If I were to teach poetry, here is how I would teach it. If you read poetry, I think this is how you should read it.

1. Read it out loud.

Poems are meant to be musical and heard, not just read. Reading a poem silently takes away some of its impact, while speaking a poem magnifies its power tenfold. Or perhaps even more, depending on the time and day.

2. Just let it be.

Some poems make sense the first time you read them. Some poems you read and they make no impact, but then you read them a year later and suddenly, that poem knows your most private bits of life. Some poems have a certain meaning one day, and then morph into a completely different meaning another day. Just let it be. Don’t analyze the metaphors or stanzas. If you do that, it’s not speaking to you properly. If you don’t sigh and say, “Holy shit” after reading a poem, it wasn’t the right poem. It’s not worth analyzing.

3. Eat chocolate – dark chocolate preferably.

I read once that the Bible should be read while eating dark chocolate. I agree with this, and I think it goes for poetry, too. My theory is that since chocolate induces feelings of love, and since poetry is love, the two enhance and complement each other.

4. Share.

When you do have that sigh of recognition at the end of a poem, when you do feel like the author is your most intimate friend, when you do say, “Holy shit” at the end of a poem, you must share it. It would be a crime to not share it. It’s like when you know you love someone – I really think one of the worst things you can do in life is not share that love, even if it’s unrequited. It kills the love and it kills the poem and it kills some of its power to change you. So share it. On Facebook is okay, calling someone up and reading it is better, reading it to someone in person is best. Then they can see what it does to you, how it changes your face, how your mouth moves, and the poem becomes not just a mystical being, but a real animal.

Believing.

My camera broke this weekend. The camera itself is actually not broken, except for an insignificant piece I was able to snap back on, but my lens is…separated. That’s the best I can come up with to describe it anyway: it has broken into two separate pieces, which cannot be snapped back together, but each piece by itself seems fine. In fact, the lens itself may be fixable, if I take the time to take it somewhere where it can be fixed.

{I just realized this is basically a metaphor for my life right now, but that’s neither here nor there.}

My point is that I am unable to take photographs. The camera on my phone died a little over a week ago, leaving me to lug around my Big Girl camera, which in turn led me to drop the camera from about a foot off the ground. And even though my camera has literally fallen off mountainsides and received hardly a scratch, that drop of about 12 inches is what did it in.

My initial reaction to this was that since I have recently been thinking about becoming more serious with my photography, God must not want me to take photographs right now. And I’m not sure what to think of that. I’m not sure what to think of the fact that my first thought was that this is part of some bigger plan. First of all is the fact that this seems like a rather insignificant event in my life, something which would be very easy to write off as a random event. Then there is the fact that I keep having trouble with the idea of a large, overarching plan.

There has been other stuff happening, too, since the messy end of an important relationship last week. Constant messages literally telling me to open up about the big, dark, deep stuff that virtually no one except myself knows; messages to be more open in relationships and friendships; messages to believe in a bigger plan. And part of me wants to believe all these messages are random and I’m just noticing these things because I’m thinking about it, but they aren’t really messages for me and they aren’t really important. It would be so easy to ignore them. And I get that for some people, that works for them. It aligns with how they live their lives and it works. And I totally understand why that works for them. How am I supposed to believe in something that scientifically and logically seems unlikely? So I start to think that there is no plan. That we’re tiny people who have randomly evolved on a giant planet made very small by an infinite amount of space and how can all of that be part of a plan? When you add in there the idea of free will and parts of the plan relying on other people to also follow their path, and what happens to your path if those people don’t follow through on their paths…honestly, my brain feels like it’s about to explode.

But then, there is another part of me that connects to these messages, and recognizes them as intended for me. And something inside me says, I know there has to be a plan. I know it because when these messages appear, I can feel something reach into my heart and hold it, very gently but in a very tactile and real way. I know there has to be some plan because in my really deep, dark hours years ago when I was wobbling back and forth between wanting to be alive or dead, something told me I had a purpose. In that moment (or moments, because I’m sad to say there were more than one), it was more clear than anything else that I was here to do something. I know there has to be a plan when one of my students opens up to me about his own thoughts of wanting to hurt himself and I want to hug him and cry and jump up and down because I am indescribably relieved and thankful and happy that he has decided to be honest because I can feel that he too has a purpose. And I can feel it move inside me that all of my students have a purpose, and that everyone has a purpose, and if only everyone would believe that.

Where there is a purpose, there is a plan. I can believe in that. It’s all the rest I don’t quite understand, and I don’t know if I ever really will. But I’ll probably keep trying until my head explodes.

{Edit: I really really welcome conversation and thoughts about this, so if you’ve got ‘em, feel free to share ‘em.}

Fedora

I bought a fedora today.

This is exciting in that I haven’t worn a hat in probably 10 years. My head is unnaturally tiny, so normally I can only wear children’s hats. This conversely means I had an unusually large head when I was a kid. I think I must have looked a little like a cake pop, with my large head and stick body.

Moral of the story: I like my fedora.

The end.

The Confession of a People Pleaser (Soon to be Former)

Let’s just get this out there: I haven’t posted in a while.

I hate when writers start off with a whole “I haven’t posted in a while, and I’m really sorry and I promise I’ll be posting more soon” plea after a long absence. No, I don’t really hate it, but it does bug me. After all, it’s your blog, isn’t it? I suppose if you’re doing this sort of thing for a living you may want to take it more seriously, but otherwise…own the fact that it’s your blog and you don’t have to apologize to anyone.

Ironically, this is coming from a reforming people pleaser. I thought I was reformed, but I realize now it’s going to be a process, so I am reforming and I realize it will probably be a life-long process. One in which I will take a few steps back and then a giant leap forward and I’ll keep going back and forth until I’m 90 or I die, whichever comes first. I thought I had gotten over my fear of being judged, and then BOOM. There it was again, and it sucked.

And the truth is, I haven’t been a pleaser so much as an avoider. Last week I called one of my co-workers a drug addict at lunch (I was joking, I swear; I also want to point out that the actual joke was much funnier and thank God my co-workers laughed at it otherwise I think they might hate me), so I don’t know that I’m trying to please people so much as I’m trying to avoid judgement, and judgement from everyone in my life – strangers, friends, family. It’s ridiculous and I admit that and it’s incredibly frustrating that I still have to fight it. But fighting it is better than letting it consume me.

When did this start? I’ve been trying to figure this out. The earliest I can remember was in sixth grade, when my best frenemy would yell at me for doing something ridiculous and outlandish. I particularly remember touring the 9News center in Denver with my school, and when it came time to take the picture I posed in a ridiculously goofy pose, and she immediately snapped at me to stop embarrassing her.

Two things about this:

1. I wish I had been the kind of kid who could have said, “Screw you.” But I didn’t cuss (I also remember when another sixth grader told me I was a motherfucker and I had to ask my mom after school what that meant) and that was in the height of my people pleasing stage. I wanted to make her like me so badly. So learned it was better to be subdued than silly and goofy because then more people might like you. Other people could do it and still be cool and attractive and funny, but I could not. I was not that kind of person. I decided I was sweet and quiet and not embarrassing at all.

I’m going to teach my children to say, “Screw you” (in nicer words) to the people who try to belittle them.

2. This is more important: The why isn’t as important as the now. Yes, it happened. No, it shouldn’t have. But it did and now I am an adult and I get to choose. I get to choose to not listen to that girl, or any of the other miserable middle school experiences, or any of the judgmental voices in my head. There is power in being an adult, and one of those powers is the ability to choose what to listen to.

As I said, I thought I had been doing well. I had been doing well, actually. I had gotten quite good at saying “Fuck it” to the voices and the fears of being judged, and I felt like I was living life to the fullest.

And then what happened? I’m not sure of a specific event, but I do know I became afraid; afraid of losing so much, that I censored myself. I stopped living life to the fullest. I was me, but diluted. I like to think I was like a Hershey’s chocolate bar, which is chocolate but watered down so much it doesn’t taste like anything (don’t even fight me on this; if you think Hershey’s is good you have not had real chocolate). And dammit if I didn’t lose things anyway, and make a mess of it in the process.

(I’m still sorry for that mess.)

So here I am, claiming back my right to say Fuck It to the voices, to the sixth grade girl who cut me down, to the sixth grade girl who was scared. I want my life back again.

It seems appropriate to add that I’m scared of posting this, but in response to that I am saying…..Fuck It.

PS This was me (on the left) in like fifth grade or something. Hey everybody! Come look at how awesomely dorky I was!

Good for you, fifth grade Christine. Good for you.

Additional note, just because: I’ve decided to be Richard Simmons for Halloween this year. This is the first time I’ve ever come up with a costume more than 2 days in advance. Congratulate me.

Knees and Happy Drugs

I’m going to preface this post by letting you know that I am currently under the influence of pretty heavy pain medications, and have been since yesterday. I’ve been sleeping every twenty minutes, sending questionable text messages, “reading” magazines (which just means staring at pictures) and really, all I can say in regards to these “Happy Drugs” is thank goodness for spell check.

There was, of course, a reason for this medication: I had knee surgery yesterday. Specifically, two things happened to my knee: 1. I had arthritic cartilage removed from my knee and 2. I had a part of my tibia bone removed.

 

So, in summary, I had arthritis in my knee and had a surgery usually done on people from 40-60 years old. Can I just call myself old now?

My dad drove me to and from my surgery, and decided he wanted to take some pictures. For the most part, I’m used to his taking pictures at random times, but when I asked him why he wanted pictures of this particular event, he responded, “Just in case.”

Just in case of what, Dad? Just in case of what?

Anyhow, lucky for you my Dad did take pictures, because now you get to see them! Or you could stop reading at this point, since I’m not delusional enough to think that all ten people who read this blog are interested in seeing me sitting around in a hospital gown.

It makes me a little sad that if I had died in surgery, this would have been one of the last photos of me.

Even before my surgery, I was reading Runner’s World magazine. It’s going to be a little while before I actually get to use the information I learned yesterday.

This anesthesiologist was fabulous. I don’t remember his name, but by golly, he did an awesome job. Typically I wake up at least once during surgeries, but the last thing I remember from the surgery was this guy putting the oxygen mask on me and telling me it would make me a little sleepy (or completely knock me out for an hour and a half…six one way, half dozen another).

My dad asked if he could take the surgeon’s picture. And here is the last picture of me, should I have died in surgery. Ugh, is all I have to say.

This woman told me I looked like a ballerina when I was waking up from the surgery. She was a lovely woman, although a bit of a liar.

Let me tell you something: Everyone who worked with me in this surgery was wonderful. Here, Keith the PA is explaining to me that I am old and they had to remove a bunch of arthritis.

Yep, she was a lovely woman but a definite liar.

Maybe it’s the drugs I’m on, but instead of feeling upset that my entire spring break will be spent on the med, and I have fair amount of rehab in the future, and I’m on a strict schedule of ice 30 mintes, off 30 minutes, I feel incredibly lucky to live this life – to be able to have this surgery, to have wonderful friends and family who are supportive of me. I don’t know why this surgery had such an impact on me, but I woke up feeling immensely grateful for everyone in my life, and even for this surgery.

Strange ending to this post? Perhaps. But then again, I’m calling them Happy Drugs for a reason. Now excuse me as I pass out for the 50th time today.

 

Awesome is as awesome does.

I had a birthday this past…day. It was cool. It was fun. I got flowers for the first time in my life from someone besides my dad.

The end.

No, not really. Actually before my birthday I went with friends to a really “awesome” place called Casa Bonita. And when I say awesome I mean: awesomely awful.

If you are familiar with South Park you are probably familiar with the Casa Bonita episode, and yes, Casa Bonita is a real place. The sad thing is, South Park made Casa Bonita look so much better than it actually is. For instance, Cartman is seen eating the food at Casa Bonita: I warn you against doing this. I ate three bites of my cheese enchiladas (the cheapest item at $12) and immediately felt sick…and continued to feel sick for a couple days after that. South Park also makes all the stuff in Casa Bonita (the waterfall, the tables, the rocks, etc.) look pretty awesome, and let me tell you, they are not. They are plastic and they are shiny and they are dyed and they are probably covered in germs.

But every kid who grows up in Colorado loves the place. It’s a bit of a rite of passage to be called a native in Colorado. Everyone knows about Casa Bonita, which is quite a feat for a crappy restaurant in a strip mall. And even though I got miserably sick afterwards, it was still a grand time, probably due to the wonderful people I was with.

My only suggestions to Casa Bonita to make the atmosphere better (aside from making the food edible, because that’s just stating the obvious): 1) Have someone dressed as Cartman running around the restaurant 2) Where are the drug cartels? It’s just not believable if there aren’t drug cartels.

(I kid.)

My Fail-Safe Tea

This weekend I associated with someone who had been sick all week, with a head cold and fever and sweats and all sorts of things that should have scared me enough into running the other way. Luckily, however, I have created quite the immune system. I specifically thank the student who picked his nose and then turned in his homework. Because of him I have a sore throat and a bit of a cough but nothing else. And a sore throat and cough I know how to deal with.

I’m going to just outright say that this tea has helped me be one of the only people who did not succumb to the second semester flu and bronchitis. (I guess the nose picker and my white blood cells should also get some credit.) If I feel a bit of a tickle in my throat, I drink this non-stop for a day or two, and all is well in my world.

If you would like to try:

-Licorice root tea (I use the Yogi Breathe Deep kind, which also has a bunch of other congestion-clearing herbs)

-Ginger juice

-Lemon juice

-Orange honey

-Cayenne Pepper

It sounds weird, but I swear by it, and it really doesn’t taste bad. In fact, I think it tastes quite good. If you had a little rum or brandy to it, I’m sure it would be even more effective.

Also of note: I touched a stingray this weekend. The five year olds who weren’t scared were taunting me, so obviously I had to.