Blood Buzz

I’m on a blood buzz.
Sort of, intoxicated-like,
on family and history and potato salad.

Sadness is a tingle,
much like when your foot falls asleep,
but you are very much awake. 

God, am I awake.

I tingle here and there,
this is how I know:
I’ve lost a great love.

Vibrations, almost.
a bit of shell shock.
my ears muffle when you talk to me.

Not all the time. I try to listen.
I try not to think about her.
I realize it’s a losing battle to not think about someone.

how does one snap out of this?
to fall in love again?
to kiss in the dark again?

yes, I know this.

but today, I stare outside my window
I see mostly brown,
but then again, I would.

The green is coming.
daffodils line them Miss’ippi highways;
I can see them!
(something deep inside of me proclaims)

and I am hungover
from big pains
and too much fried catfish.

buzzed. like with too much wine,
but for my family,
my history,

drunk-like,
with them old southern ways,
and hummin’ the hymns
I used to sing.

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falling off your bike

Look at me y’all, posting three times in one week!

I’m sorry, I won’t usually be this persistent. 

And I promise I will write about food again. Eventually. There is something to be said about living in food every day. I don’t necessarily have the mental energy to digest what it is I do, and why it’s different than cooking at home. For a lot of reasons, but mostly because nailing a cake at home and posting pictures is different than nailing a cake every day for 360 days a year. That takes a different kind of energy. 

But I realize, those are the choices we make when cooking becomes a passion. 

I guess what I wanted to fumble around with today, are things that have been helpful and not helpful in the process of moving and changing and growing. Mostly because I know there are folks out there who are in all sorts of positions. They feel stuck, either in their own hole, or are trying to help a friend or family member get out of theirs. 

I was recently distracted by a video explaining the differences between empathy and sympathy. Let it be clear, both are inherently good things. Don’t think that I’m making out one to be better, though different actions call for different responses. 

I am an empathic person. Meaning, I don’t quite know how to respond as quickly with words as I would if I were to give you sympathy. I also don’t necessarily need to give you words. I give you what I feel your heart needs. Most of the time, it is silence. I can give you proximity. A hug, if you feel safe enough to accept it.

I will not give you advice. At least not for a while, or even if I feel capable of doing so. 

What I’ve come to believe, is that we all have the answers to what we need inside of us. What we don’t have are tools. We don’t always have ways to get at what we need. Especially communicating that to another person.

When someone tells me they’re having a hard time with something, my first and best response is to just listen. To be with them and to let them know I am listening. And to also thank them for trusting me with their words. 

Because letting people in is hard. Regardless of what kind of introvert or extrovert you are. Telling someone what hurts is sometimes like being a kid when you fall off your bike, “Tell me what hurts!” and in response, usually in a barrage of tears and panic we reply, “I don’t know! Here, and here…and I think here too!”

We see the scrapes and tears, but most importantly, we just want the other person to know they are being taken care of, and that they have our attention. 

I can sense instantly when a person isn’t paying attention to me. I don’t require much, but I can see your eyes wander and immediately, I disengage. Usually I don’t care, but if it’s something deep and intentional, I need you. And that’s pretty much it. 

I love when you can cuss with me and allow me to wander off from the pain to talk about God knows what. 

Most importantly, keep coming back.

When one feels abandoned, as I have so much this past year, there are those who have left and those who keep coming back to check in. To say hello and that they’re thinking of me. They are not giving me advice on what to do next. There is no possible way to ask that of them. 

But what is meaningful to me, is that they give me a nudge from time to time and say, “Hey. Thinking about you. Let me know if you need anything.”

All of a sudden, I don’t feel so alone. Without having to say anything I realize I am being thought of, which to me, means the world. 

And in that world where words and volume mean you are powerful, there is nothing more important than meeting someone on their level, and to value their place in the mess of it all. 
In their world, it is dark and sometimes very lonely. 

What we need from you is to climb into that hole and just be there with us. 

And as we both stare into the light poking through, occasionally saying a word or two, 

we are grateful to have you sitting next to us. 

If only for a little while.

 

 

to whom it may concern

There was a girl I once knew.

We used to hide under blankets and call them giant samosas.

We sat under the stars in Darjeeling.

She would finish my rice when I couldn’t.

She even called me her Sparrow.

 

I suppose we all get a little lazy about love.

We stay in when we used to go out.

You don’t make out as much.

The excitement of seeing each other dulls a bit.

(Though it was always so nice to see you walk through those doors.)

 

For a bit, I knew you liked it being your home. (and me, being your home.)

You grew a little chubby (which I loved). Happy, it seemed. At least to me.

I know being ‘happy’ is an odd and conflicting thing to you.

There is a picture of me and you on your sister’s front porch.

I am quite chubby myself, and I am holding gently to your right hand with my left.

You are wearing such a pretty flower dress.

This is how I’d like to remember you. Us.

 

When you loved me fiercely enough to say, “I will never leave you.”

And one day, you did.

As did your friends. Who I’m sure sympathize with me and are sorry and hurt.

But they choose you.

I understand that.

As will your family.

 

And I will sit and mourn.

They will not know my pain, regardless of how often they say sorry.

Because they know I will leave them, soon.

And they will still support you. Still call you “favorite” and “love” and “honey”

and I will sit and try not to cause more harm to myself than I have already done

because I know, I will never have their love in that way again.

 

Abandoned.

 

You see, my days are filled with light and dark.

I will joke and laugh.

But in the dark recesses of a lonely night, while I imagine you with him, and your family and friends supporting you out of love,

I will sit

I will mourn.

I will still want my place by your side.

I will know it is not my place to be had, anymore.

My visits will not fill the same hole as they did before,

because my home is moving.

 

Out of your heart, out of theirs, a bit too.

I guess that’s how humans work.

They recognize strength and power. (Regardless of who’s side it’s on.)

When you lose a person, you gain their ghosts.

No more haunting than if I saw them in the dark;

Reminding me of how it used to feel, when we were all warm,

drinking tea,

talking about the babies in them bellies,

imagining what you would have looked like,

so precious, I always thought.

 

Then things hardened. Face. Defense. Movement.

Sleeping over at his house while I wept in my brown chair, alone.

Saying, “I spend time with them because they know how I feel!”

Me, in response,

“Yeah, but they don’t know me! And they never will.”

 

So take heart,

I am a resilient southern man.

Hell, my momma, she’s the steeliest of them Magnolias.

I come from good stock.

Good enough to make a soup.

 

And these words, make me feel strong.

maybe because I feel them strong, here!

and here, too!

I will mourn you, my friend.

And I will come back some day, and remember your goodness. and grace.

 

some day.

Magic. (Words to My Wounded Healers)

My 2013 was a hot mess.

As most of you know and can attest to, I am almost hungover with that sad feeling. I go inward and think about the things I lost. The people who abandoned me and the others who rescued me without even knowing.

My dad told me I write too much about sad stuff. And he is right, in a sense. I also know he reads this. But we also discussed how good it is to get stuff out of my head, and that the sting is less once it’s out in the open.

And let’s be honest, the great writers, poets, and singers of our time bloomed in the midst of a great sadness. It is poetic and true. Almost as much as falling in love.

My trip home for the holidays was a bit magical. Yes, the holidays are hard for a lot of people. Especially flying across the country to be with the ones you love and who have known you longest. I cherish that.

And I say magical in the sense that people lifted me up without having to say a word. I was met at the airport by my grandparents with a still warm muffaletta! Salty, fatty. All the things you want after getting off an airplane. That was my first treasure.

I then got to spend some time with old friends around a bonfire before I finally made it up to Jackson.

Christmas Eve was spent cooking gumbo and smellin’ up the house with that dark, dark roux. I got to use some gulf shrimp, which really makes gumbo hit that super sweet spot for me. Presents didn’t hurt, either. 🙂

And in the ebb and flow of my holidays, the sadness of my year would poke out its head. And I would head upstairs into my room to recharge for a second. To greet those friends that I have been tugging with for so long. I would find out that the person who wanted out of our marriage was already seeing someone else.

Everything inside of me went berserk. I shook and wept and got more angry than I’ve ever been. I said words that hurt, because they hurt me, too. Not even being fully divorced yet and now this! All the while finding out when eating spaghetti with my Gran. Things got real. I went into destroy mode, but had nothing to destroy. I absorbed it and molded it a bit. Contained it for the time being. Smiled, and threw around the ball with my nephew.

I woke up the next day to go camping with my friends who I went to high school and church with when I was younger. We keep in touch, though we are all spread out. We pick up conversations like we’ve never left them. We catch up. Laugh. Drink. Fish. Sleep. Eat. Shoot guns. And Repeat.

It was the beginning of my healing process.

Laughing so hard my stomach hurt the next day.

I tear up thinking about the people who carried me this year. Who let me take the last fried piece of food and cleaned up after me knowing good and well I should have done the dishes. Or who let me sit on their barstool for another drink, if only just to have company. I breathe in deep this goodness from others. I’ve allowed myself to take, because I’ve needed it. And I’m thankful for the people who gave of themselves to me. Who let me fish with the best rod. Who spoke good, and nurturing words into my heart.

The people who told me they loved me and hope for me and tell me time will heal. (and that I will heal.)

To the kitchen that I spend time serving others and healing and exploring. To laughing with my Chef and co-workers and cleaning the sinks really well. every. single. day.

To those who built me up when my world was crumbling: thank you, forever, thank you.

So now, as I sit in my brown chair and listen to the soft hum of the highway near, I will unpack my world again.

I will give thanks to that Great Love. To my fellow Beloved, who are also wounded healers.

thank you

thank you

thank you

leprosy, and what I’m learning about pain

{I realize that for so many people, chronic pain is a terrible battle. I know people who struggle with it, and what I want to say before I dive into this little bit, is that I am recognizing my place in this conversation as a person who has been dealing with a lot of emotional pain. What I do know, is that pain can be debilitating. Especially chronic pain. So as I write today, I am speaking to things that are a bit more temporary in my timeline, and more precisely, my struggle with pain.}

I love the resilience of human beings.

Especially in the face of depression, anger, and sadness.
It’s the thing that no one sees. The hard things that we hold inside, that we hide for the fear of looking weak.

I’ve been thinking on pain, lately. Because certainly those things inside turn to pain, and can turn hard like a callous resisting another pressure. A broken bone can heal, though it will never be as it once was, and the same goes for our nature. Those of us who have been through pain, know what time can do. It heals. It helps us to move on. But in the words of Ben Folds, “Time takes time, ya know?”

While I was in India, I read a lot of Philip Yancey books. He was a very influential dude to me during that time, especially the book he wrote with Dr. Paul Brand about leprosy called “The Gift of Pain”.

This basically took everything I knew about pain and turned it into something entirely different. How leprosy didn’t cause the horrendous wounds we see with a person who has such an affliction, but the lack of nerves. A person with leprosy will walk their foot to the bone and not know because they cannot feel.

So all of a sudden, this burden of pain became a gift.

The fact that I could feel, and even if that sensation was pain, it was something.

It could maybe be diagnosed, but I could certainly look at it. I could pinpoint what it was that hurt. Once I could see it, I was able to start healing. Much like noticing a cut on your hand, I started the process of what it would look like to fix myself.

I’ve come to very loose terms with fixing. I realize, more and more things will never be the same. Each day, you take from the one before, but it shifts.

I guess, what I want to say, is that recognizing pain is hard to do sometimes. The feeling of impending doom sometimes makes our spines shiver, but it is then that we can start that process. Start digging out dead flesh to reach the nerve.

And that’s when I recognize the problem of pain,

is actually a gift.

show them your heart.

I have no reason to feel ashamed.

I feel it bursting from my chest,
like maybe I’ve seen in a movie once.

that great light, as some form of redemption.

yes! I exclaim. All the time now.
because I want people to know they are right.
or at least affirm them in their great revelation.

or small victory.

all of which, deserve recognition.

sometimes, that’s all I need from someone.
is for them to listen, and say, yes!

my pain has run deep, like some vessel running through an old mountain
I search deeply, exposing it, mining it, exploring discoveries, both new and old.

there are things deep inside of you that you never knew existed
a great light and a great capacity to love another;
even when you resist it, you are a good person.

you are a healer, of sorts.

though you don’t see it now.
and sometimes you can’t, if you stay within the confines of safety.

if you wrap up your heart for no one to see,
no one will know.

so I tell you, show them your heart!
it is a renewable source of energy, that beating thing.

you can give, and give some more.
let it rest, and the next day, it is new again.

fresh and ready to beat for someone who needs it.
most importantly, you.

do not hide your love.
if I could say one thing, it would be that.

let it have no boundaries but the confinement of your chest,
but only physically, you see?

your heart is as big and you want it to be.

and be fierce. cover it, if you need to.
but not for long. it’s a beauty of a thing.

to be honest, we need more of it.

we need more of you,
dear ones.

we need you.

Wrestling with the Current

I want to give you another piece about food, because I feel like that’s what you’re here for.

But if I’m honest with myself, which is a fierce part of me these days, I’m thinking about a lot more.

The holiday season is upon us. Well, for us living here in the U.S.

Which means, well, a whole lotta work. Everywhere I look, I see this glimmer of what adults used to know and love. Because that honesty I feel deep down tells me these holidays will never feel like they used to. I think that can be a little sad for a lot of people. Especially those who are away from loved ones and crave those perfect moments filled with cinnamon rolls and bacon and maybe, a warm fire.

I am sad, because I was getting to a place where the holidays were becoming meaningful again. More than just presents, which to be honest, are a lot of fun. Let’s just say “giving gifts”. But as we all know, the gifts take a backseat, the older we get. At least to me they do. What I want is connection. To feel close. To feel caught up and loved and peaceful. That is something I never get tired of — something I crave, especially now.

I’m processing this now because I know what divorce and separation look like during the holidays. The absent body and the weight that body used to carry. There is a lot of sadness in a lost presence. Whether that is by loss of family members or friends, or a relationship that has run its course.

We are stimulated by the music and food and gifts. Rightfully so. They are lovely. But I know I will start to feel that weight in my belly. It will come on strong, like some undercurrent pulling me away from the safety of a shore.

And I will have to let it take me.

For just a bit. I will wrestle with it and tug and release. I will ask it hard questions and not get anything back.

We are all fighting these battles on the inside. To know what is good and what is needed. And how that shifts in our own seasons. It’s okay to pull them out to examine.

“This is what my pain looks like!” I will exclaim.

And it will soften.

I remember, as a kid, those first holidays when your parents separate. There are hard questions you ask yourself. Questions I still ask myself and fumble around with. Where do I belong? And for how long? Exactly how much love do I deserve?

People will tell you the great love they have for you, but it’s really up to the person to accept those things in themselves. It’s an odd thing, our ability to be open for others relies on our own ability to love ourselves. Truly, I think. And I think sometimes that looks selfish to other people, but there is a great peace in loving one’s self, and to feel strong.

So this year, I want to work for that peace.

As Christmas’y as that might sound, it is important for me to start again.

Learning what it is I need, what tools I need to be light in the heaviness, and to once again feel connected to the world.

Because in a season where we are all finding and fighting for each other,

there is nothing more important than fighting to find yourself again.

Sh*tty Time Machine (Thoughts on Feeling Strong)

It is important that I choose this blog as a platform for my voice.

One of which, doesn’t say much on any given day.

The thank you and hellos of going to the store. The banter of the cashier talking about their art show. The usual. I like it.
And then there’s work banter. Which goes downhill pretty quickly. Two or more cooks in the kitchen, and the conversation gets dirty, fast. I’m not sure why. Maybe it helps ease the tension and makes doing dishes a little more tolerable. But I know now I will never make sausage in front of them.

These days when I talk to people more than 10 minutes, I feel like I’m talking their ear off. Usually I apologize, for the sake of saying the things that are at the forefront of my mind. Sometimes I feel weird, because not everyone wants to hear about my idea of madeira jelly with chicken liver pate or that I really do, love dinosaurs.

Especially now, as my intimate community has shrunk (and at the same time, expanded) to a house of full of people, who are deep down, sweethearts – but don’t have too much history to work with. And that’s okay.

Louis C.K. has a joke about divorce being a sh*tty time machine.

That in a marriage, you become somewhat cut off from the world of single people. Time goes by, but at its regular pace, until you decide, or are forced to step out of that relationship, and land in another world. Like Brooks Hatlen in Shawshank Redemption saying, “The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry...”

By now you know I’m being a little dramatic.

With that being said, I am glad I feel safe enough to speak about things on my mind.

I’m glad I can do that here, and to another human being, face to face. Because I do have a lot to say. We all do. Some of us just say it with fewer words.

Lately, I’ve thought about having a core group of maybe four people who will call me out if it looks like I’m starting to go a little crazy. If I start collecting things that have no business being collected, or decide I want to build my own rocket ship, they will grab me by the shoulders and give me a shake as if to say, “Get with it, man!”

But right now, I think I’m okay.

I surround myself with the comforts of old and new. My lovely cookbooks and warm lights. Good speakers and a painting from my Great Grandma of two mockingbirds perched on a Magnolia branch. (Both the state tree, flower, and bird of my Beloved home.)

I guess today feels strong. I feel like I have a lot to say, and tomorrow could be different.

I do, however, feel it all on my chest. And each day I decide how heavy I want it to be. If it needs to be built stronger, or if it needs to crumble. I’m learning to be okay, and to listen to both.

The truth about sadness, is that eventually, it is met by something good and powerful. To say happiness, is kind of farce at times, because I don’t really know if that’s a real thing. I suppose that’s why our country embraces the pursuit, but tends to live somewhere in between. Seems a little more realistic.

But alas, I will save you from the other side of my jumbled conscience. It will not show its head at this hour, at least.

I will leave you with a quote given to me by a dear friend this past week, from Khalil Gibran’s, The Prophet,

“And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?”