And her's, askew

I always ask questions.

Seeking, panting for an answer

That I want to hear in response

So maybe it would be better

To say I give questions

Not that I ask them. Because

There is no option for answers

But right

Now

Right now

Right now I want to hear you

Choose whatever answer you want

Your response without a question

It is your turn to talk

First

Talk first

Talk fast before I forget

How to listen, how to listen

Without expectations, preconceived

Answers worked out in my head

Say them before I ask

You

Ask you

Ask you

Ask you

I don’t want to

Ask you

Ask you

But I want to

Know

I want to know I want

To know

I want to know but I don’t want to

Ask you

Talk first

Right Now

Before I twist your answers, askew 

Help a stranger

Make the life of as many people you can as happy as you can

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Ajar

A mason Jar is so defined
by what things lie within
The glass and lid, forgettable
Filled not, mean less than skin

Though painted, can originate
Though jeweled, can please the eye
But decor'd glass with empty fill
Will not be soon to buy

And so what hope lies for the Jar,
Whose insides have spilled through?
Once butter spread or soap been pumped,
Is his fate emptied too?

But no, for Jars have heavy lids
Still light enough to lift
So unscrew that which keeps things out
And outside, let in-drift

And filled this Jar will become
With sunshine, light of day
And re-secured
the lid will keep

Rain or dark away.

Oh, how I wish to be a Jar
To be filled by whats outside.
But rather, I have sturdy walls
Trapped darkness in, reside.

Pain: plants and people

This semester I have the privilege of working with a number of professors about the nature of genocide and reconciliation in preparation for a group service trip to Rwanda. Today, one such professor shared with us what he knew.

He spoke of the mindset. Of being misinformed and threatened. He spoke of neighbors slaying neighbors and of watching friends in the eye as they die at the machete clenched hands of teachers and doctors and strangers. He spoke of radio stations calling out names, of men being assigned targets like a childish game of basketball, marking up man-to-man. He spoke of some men who, unable to complete their assignment themselves, paid strangers to do it for them, assuming innocence by the act of ignorance.

But, most chillingly, he spoke of the adaptation. How, once a man has killed another it becomes exponentially easier to do it again and again and again and again. Numbness and routine, he spoke of, another life is just another life, here or gone. He told us that this is unavoidable and that we do it, though less severely, everyday. I stepped on a strangers foot on my way to class, I cut someone off to make it into a closing elevator, I jokingly nudged a friends shoulder a little too hard and, undoubtedly, I will do it all again tomorrow. But, nothing we do will alter the course of the universe so we continue to hurt one another.

Naturally, I was troubled by the ease at which one man can slay another and, perhaps more naturally, I tried to focus my attention elsewhere. My eyes gazed passed the professor and on to the leafy plant growing on a table in the back of the room. I rested there for awhile, at the thought of plants. Plants grow, I assured myself. They grow and they never slice one another with machetes. It is okay if the human race is terrible because there are things on this planet that are not- plants.

My eyes dashed, for the rest of the meeting, between the face of my professor and the leaves of the plant. I felt dirty when I left, ashamed of my species for being so hurtful when others are not. I so often joke of leaving society, abandoning man-kind and spending my life with nature but, after this meeting, the thought of polluting a seemingly innocent species with the innate harmfulness of my own seemed selfish. I will stay with people, I thought, because I do not want to contaminate goodness with the evil that is unavoidably part of who I am.



I tripped as I walked back to my dorm. I tripped over the root of a tree. I stayed down for awhile and thanked the root for causing me the pain I deserved for being part of such a pain-inducing culture. I sat there and tried to appreciate the tranquility of the plant I was beneath. I could not.

Trees have roots. Roots dig themselves into the ground to soak up rainfall which feeds the tree. They will strangle anything in their way to settle where they will be most successful. They slice and they displace and they kill the roots of other plants, their own kind, for their own benefit.

Everything causes pain. Everything. It is easy to hate the cruelty of man kind because I can understand the language that tries to justify it but it would be foolish to limit that blame to just myself. Every fish and bird and squirrel and bee and tree would strangle its neighbor if it had to. It is inevitable. It is inescapable. And I have no idea what to do about it.

To want to wilt

I often dream of life as a flower
Being planted just to grow;
Living from spring's start to its end
Three seasons I'd never know

From seed to soil I would return
And never think it wrong
I'd expect nothing from having bloomed
And accept brevity as life's long

But I am not a daisy, rose
Or a Texas Bluebonnet
So I will suffer life's end-
Know my existence and not want it

And I am not a daffodil.
My flesh not petal, but skin
Springtime's destiny is not mine
I'll bloom not, nor from within

Waiting to thaw

If I keep digging
Will I soon find
The part of me
Unknown left behind?

Is it somewhere here
Beneath this snow?
Did it jump on the powder
And sink down below?

The winter blanket,
Though cold to be felt,
Is warmer than sunshine
Strong until melt

Above snow it's frozen
And crisp to the breath
I'd rather be buried
As the me that I left

Are you warm, there, dear captive?
Are you comfortable, too?
Do you fear that this sinner
Have moved on from you?

This whiteness has covered
My thoughts and my class
I'll have it back only
If this winter would pass

Thermometer

When I was in 7th grade, my science teacher tried to explain to us the concept of heat. I didn't really pay attention because, proud as I was, I thought I got it. Heat. Easy. I feel it everyday. Hey, I'm a human; I make heat everyday.

In reality, heat is determined by the concentration and movement of molecules in a space. It is a complicate process which has to do with speed and size and pressure but, for 7th graders, it can be simplified into two statements. As molecules become closer together, the space warms up. As they spread, it cools.

Regardless of my obviously Einstein-level knowledge of the abstract subject, my teacher asked a dozen students and me to help in a demonstration. In the front of the room, she had outlined two boxes in blue tape, one about a quarter the size of the other. The twelve of us would represent molecules.

First, she had the group of us stand in the smaller box. This is hot-she told us. The twelve of us awkwardly rubbed shoulders in a space obviously designed to hold 6. I remember feeling trapped, unable to move or turn. Plus, being so close to so many people made me not want to do either. Hot was limiting.

Happily, we moved to the larger box, which our teacher called "cold." In this box, I could move freely in whichever direction I chose. Wanting to share the freedom of cold with someone, I scanned the box for the eyes of my friend. Free herself, my friend was facing away from me, unaware and uninterested in what was happening on the other side of the box. Cold was lonely.

I think about this experiment a lot. Each box, each temperature, seemed so ineffective to me.

To be hot, to trap all of yourself in one small space, eliminates the possibility of growth. It gets gross after awhile, all that staying in the same place, all that looking at and smelling and hearing the same things.

But, to be cold is just as bad. In the cold, you are too far apart, too unable to focus on any specific spot. It makes me shiver to think about it- having so much space to run but no one close enough to share it with, so many things to do with no passion for any of it.

I know, in between there is a temperature which allows for growth and loyalty, though I fear I am far from finding it. When I do, I will know because I will shed myself of the AC and the thick sweatshirts and the other things which helped me adjust my temperature when wherever I was felt wrong. I will know because it will allow me to help a lot of people and help them well. It will show me new and different things but remain loyal to them as I move on. It will be comfortable.