Tuesday, April 25, 2017

I’m so tired a I prayed for a nap

I started drinking coffee again. Everyday, around 9 o’clock with my breakfast. 8 ounces pre-blended coffee with creamer and sugar. Twice I mixed my coffee with almond milk for a total of 8 ounces of coffee and 8 ounces of almond milk making 32 ounces of liquids and effectively not leaving much of an appetite for breakfast.

Not that I had that much of an appetite. I’ve sported a stomach ache all week. Everyday before my shift starts at work I attempt to take a nap. But, I’ve been drinking coffee again so it’s been very hard to sleep at night. Interrupted sleep leads to auto-mode life where smiles are short and every other moment is spent making a cowl. And that leads to stress. And stress leads to minor injuries or overworking of oneself.

Which led to today. I bounced back and forth between clinics, ERs, and phone calls to clinics in the past two days to find someone to reassure me that the pain in my right knee was nothing major. At first, I couldn’t be seen because my insurance, or the specific program it is designated for, doesn’t allow physicians to bill me for care outside of the program. When I finally saw someone for a “band-aid” relief I ended up with a prescription that didn’t help completely. AKA wearing off in the middle of the night and landing me back in square one. Interrupted sleep.

Today. A few hours after lunch. Urgent care room with the trash can overflowing. I closed my eyes after an injection of “fast acting pain relief.” And I prayed over and over again. Nothing fancy, just the Lord’s Prayer. At times a pause would stumble in between the words. Each pause followed by a small question, “what goes next. It’s…”

Quiet.

I had been given 15 minutes to not worry about my knee. To not think about going back to work on Wednesday. To not wonder if my phone will have reception enough to contact my sister. To figure out how I would pay for every last needle and hospital minute.

Just 15 minutes of me and God. And a third of a minute afterward to nap, because my blood pressure was significantly lower than when I first entered the building. Maybe this new medicine is going to work. And maybe the following few weeks will create a change for me in terms of finding a better insurance or a way to find a primary care provider. Soon, I’ll have uninterrupted sleep.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

Seven eternal lives

Sometimes I write something that seems too silly or corny. For example:

A love that survives
7 years and counting
Is one that exists through reincarnation
Ever lasting
Ever changing
From one life to the next
Together


I used to get myself into self-repeating relationships. You know, the type where it doesn’t matter the person, but it’s the same pattern. Lifespan of two months, because any longer than that then it wouldn’t be exciting. Because ultimately after two months, nothing really meaningful or long-lasting would develop.

Then there is my one true love. I guess you only find one love that continues to grow like a saga. For some it could become that love that got away. Or for others it could be the love that they live with until they die.

For me, this true love is the love that knows me at all times. Knows what I really mean when I say certain things. My true love knows my likes and dislikes. Knows my strengths and my weaknesses. Through the years, has even known things about me I was never aware of. Yet, as true as this love is, it’s also an impossible love. Tragic love. A love that can never be realized in this day and age.

Better phrased, a love that cannot be realized without first changing everything and abandoning everything that we know of in this time. And I know that I won’t be able to sacrifice everything for this true love. In the same manner, nothing will be sacrificed on my love’s end.

In the end. I will end up sacrificing this true love. Though I know it’s only temporary, I’m sacrificing very valuable time with my family in South Texas. And through all the sacrifices I’m finding important answers that cannot reincarnated. In the end I won’t have everything I want, but in the end and since the day I was born I’ve always been so fortunate. So blessed, and because I have that assurance and gratitude it is an honor and joy to help my world.

And that’s the best eternal life to have.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

The future is uncertain and changing

The minute I decided my work schedule was great and my meal prep was a great beginning success. And the minute I decided to open up to my pastor about my intentions as a publisher and teacher and in some ways a trendsetter..

The minute I began incorporating 20 minutes of extra activity into my mornings before starting my day. That's the minute I accepted the challenge to engage in the creation and production of my next poetry book. The book that exists only as an outline and portfolio in my Google Drive.

The book that I printed over 50 pages of poems written in the past seven years. I circled and crossed out the chosen poems, the poems that would reflect my skill and intuition about the craft. It would be the easiest book to publish, since most of it is already organized and some of it has received acknowledgements through publication.

But that all changed this morning during breakfast right after sunrise service in Urdu. My home church being a multicultural entity, loving and exceedingly talented, of course there is a South Asian community in its fold. Engaged in humanly conversation we talked under the guise of breakfast. And the discussion resulted in the statement that we have one eternal life through Christ as opposed to seven lives through reincarnation. I admitted, "I wish I had seven eternal lives." And took a big spoonful of my breakfast.

The moment I admitted to wanting seven eternal lives I understood what the real challenge in the book is going to be. See I ended up laying in bed after church and lunch and laundry. And I slept. And then the final dream in the sequences of sleep thoughts unfolded. And finally, after 11 years of not existing in the physical world, my childhood home burned down. If in this physical world the grasps of a bulldozer couldn't bring it down, then in the metaphysical world it couldn't go any other way than with the flame of rebirth.

As the fire began within the oven and leaped into the cabinets on the right, spilling onto the floor and to the left over the kitchen sink. We ushered first the children. Screaming to all my siblings, "It's time! It's time to go now!" My voice carrying through all the narrow rooms and broken doors.

Of course I really woke up because I slept right into dinner time. Or because my homie Paul in Acts was being too loud and just no one can get any decent sleep when he starts. Please keep my new book Straight from the Heart in your thoughts as I use the ashes of my childhood home as ink.

Friday, April 7, 2017

I read a poem aloud

I decided to talk to one of the coworkers I had never spoken to since starting work. He always kept to himself, writing during the lunch break. One day I even asked him why he was quiet, but it wasn’t because I wanted to talk with him. I just thought it was polite. But that changed, we talked on a one-to-one level. Just us two in the break room. So I told him about my magazine and that I was a poet. And he told me that he wrote song lyrics.

And I thought it was weird, that two poets could sit with each other and talk words. I can’t tell you the last time I talked to a writer. Weirder thing, I decided to talk to the coworker again. But this time he read to me one of my songs. And I absolutely downplayed the whole writer thing. I sat as if I was hardly moved by the words (which were good, and I said so). I downplayed myself as a writer.

But the words spoke for themselves. I read a poem aloud. I, the writer, made an appearance.

And all the downplaying and all the relaxed talk about writing a literary and art magazine editor became thin air. The air thinned and thinned until I found myself into a human trap. My coworker shared his hardships with his grandmother and I vaguely told him about my hardships with my grandmother. And he spoke of the grandeurs his art has provided for him and lamented at the lack of a partner and Queen. And I became quiet. The candid and pressing discussion opened a pocket door into a world far unimaginable and endless.

The world inside of pain and hurt.

There are two words that I roll my eyes to without thinking: pain and healing. And somehow I have the personality to deflect both at all times. I could be proud sometimes that I conquered my the different obstacles I’ve experienced in my life. But, I wouldn’t say that I’ve healed from the experiences. If anything, the pain and agony of each situation replays itself. It grows and grows and grows, like a volcano that’s constantly evolving and erupting.

For the first time in the whole of my life did I finally express reasons why I closed my first magazine. I told my coworker that being an editor and poet led me to seeing a lot of people going in and out of total despair. That I had seen a lot of people get sucked in and flown out of habits that aren’t so easily medicated or cured. That I just can’t always sit there and help people go down the sharp staircase into their most intimate feelings and experiences for the sake of art. Because I can’t do anything about those feelings and experiences.

So back to the words pain and healing. Two of my hardest challenges as I walk this path as poet and editor and future seminary student. How can I heal myself? How can God heal me? How can I help a writer, artist, or friend go down that staircase and build pocket doors into a world we can’t always deal with?

Monday, April 3, 2017

This day that was made especially for us

Of all the Sundays I’ve had at church, nothing had ever compared to this previous Sunday. It must have been the thunderstorm, or the closeness we feel as church goers. Whatever it was, it was OFF THE HOOK.

I had three objectives Sunday. One being laundry, y’all know how much I LOVE LAUNDRY. The other two were start the crochet phase of the plarn mats and attend a workshop. Boy, did I forget it was also Family Table, the monthly luncheon and combined worship. Totally mind blown about my forgetfulness I arrived at church exactly at 9:35 am to teach Sunday School.

Oh, and this teacher forgot to read the lesson before class AND forgot to bring the lesson book to class. So we improvised. But, because the normal space was taken up by Family Table, the class sunk into the corner of the room. And the bags came out. And the folding began. And the talking began. And I grasped at thin air for a lesson for the day.

So I started with a question. “What does it mean to be Christ?”

“Don’t you mean Christ-like?” one of the attendees asked me immediately. But, of course. I wasn’t aiming to know what Christ-like means. We talk about being Christ-like every day all day. I’m not sure if it ever sticks or if people are just tired of wanting to know how to be Christ-like! So what does it mean to be Christ? I asked. I stopped innocent bystanders and asked them as well.

One of my innocent bystanders kept coming back and forth trying to answer the question until he sat down and joined us in the creation of plarn. And then he asked very pertinent questions that led to the conclusion that the only reason we fold the bags is so that we can cut them into strips so that we can join the strips together to make plarn. Of course, being an engineer of sorts he made a list of how to speed up the process.

And then someone came around taking pictures of the class and their flash was so bright that we thought it was lightning. Not once, not twice, but three times the flash of the camera spooked us as the hard sounds of hail and rain came down over the church roof.

But the conversation of the class wove itself into the production of the plarn. We came to a conclusion that being Christ is like being a servant to the will of God. And though we could be servants to everyone else, helping everyone else, if we don’t do so for the Glory of God then we’re almost doing a bunch of nothing. Yet, I counteracted. “Do we really think that when we are only doing things for our glory that we’re not subconsciously doing some things for the Glory of God?”

I’ll stop my story about last Sunday here. So much more unfolded. Many laughs were shared. At the end of the day I crawled into bed around 3 o’clock and napped the most glorious nap ever. And I woke up with the assurance that I’m at the right place at the right time. I just have to learn about what is like to be Christ (not Christ-like). I have to learn that deep down, there is this assurance. There is this strength and confidence. And that every day is a day made especially for us to live in.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

If today was the apocalypse

If today was the apocalypse, or if the apocalypse were to happen tomorrow, or if it happened Monday and I was unaware; then I'd be in sad shape...

In fact, it feels like the apocalypse is nearing. It's inching over the horizon and not only do I know it's coming: I'm unprepared. I haven't been able to get a grasp on some things. Sometimes I don't know how to sit out and rest. Especially at work, where sometimes I'll skip a quick minute to drink some water or to catch some air or to sneak in a protein shake...because I'm caught up on work things. Running around things; only stopping once to take care of a nose bleed.

What if I'm in a too stubborn to see that I pick challenges that are just about too challenging for myself? Why would I have led myself to believe that I have to operate at 150% all of the time? It's impossible. And as I grow older, I feel like I only like doing impossible things.

So maybe I need to consider the spoon theory. Or something, to pace myself and not burn myself out. Or maybe I need to religiously take my medication. Which means working more to afford my medication. Which means not working in a super demanding job? I'm not sure, but if I don't stop and change something the apocalypse be here sooner than expected.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

My first question about the Presbyterian Church

Setting: Presbyterian church in Spring, TX.
Inner climate: Incredibly dispassionate about life in general, but holding on to the excitement of going away to college in another state.
Outer climate: hot and sunny.
Forecast for change: nill.

I had the honor to attend my first Presbyterian worship service in the summer before my freshman year in high school. At the time I closely associated myself with atheism, maybe a whitewash of pantheism, but mostly ignorant and disobedient to God. In fact, just five years before I had a very long conversation with God and told him that women are superior than men. He’s undoubtedly full of it if he thinks he could just get along with being perfect and holy while the rest of us had to work, pay bills, stay up late, fight for our rights--Just exactly who God thought God was resonated in the opening sentence to my argument.

And God didn’t really answer me back so I kept going. What was the point of being on this Earth as imperfect people if we are surrounded by imperfect unloving people. Just where did God think God was while the rest of us were sold and murdered by our neighbors for greed, power, and money.

Again silence. I grew angrier and just about had it with God. How dare he not honor my existence by answering some simple questions about eternity with his vast knowledge. I was in no mood to put up with that kind of attitude. I progressed into my closing argument: You know what God. You sit there and watch me. I’m going to take care of all the people that hurt. I’m going to be there for all the people that experience loneliness. I’m going to grow to understand people so that I could be understood. I’m not going to let anyone else get sold or murdered. And I’m most definitely never going to talk to you ever again.

I was thirteen. Clearly, I knew all the answers to the world.

But the summer after high school, I had the most wonderful opportunity to learn about Christianity in a home setting. A family opened up their home to me and let me into their lives so that I could nurture and take care of their four children. I received my first bible I actually looked into, which I left at home. Because it’s more than a bible, it’s a treasure. And not only did I have this wonderful opportunity to learn; but I blew it. Well, because there was a nill forecast of change.

My one and only question during that summer was: Why does the cross have a circle around it?

I’m aware at how enlightening the question is. I can’t tell you what answer I received. Also, I’m not going to run around looking for the answer at the moment. But that question felt so important to me. Through my previous knowledge of popular culture it felt like I was an imperfect unloving person sitting in an imperfect loving church and that cross was a bullseye pointing me out. That’s the one. The one that can’t give of herself because she can’t love herself. How untrue it was, if anything it was a bullseye pointing the way in. The target on the cross should have been the focus of my question.