Water

I dreamed last night that I was on a long journey. The details were blurry but in the morning, when I was waking up, I was only left with one vivid image. I was sitting in a futuristic vehicle that resembled a bus. Inside there were tables and I was sitting at one of them with women who I only knew in the dream. The bus was very spacious inside and it was gliding on water. It was not submersed, only gliding on the surface and as it glides it is creating beautiful swirls of currents on the surface. I was just staring at the water and I felt peaceful, more peaceful then I have felt in a while.
There was a singing fish that my parents have at the house. It sang, “Take me to the river, drop me in the water.” Isaiah pressed the button over and over and cracked up. I didn’t stop him, because I was enjoying it more than he was.
I’ve been feeling like that singing fish. Inside there is a mechanism that keeps pressing a button and my brain is coming up with one thought, over and over: “Take me to the river, drop me in the water.”
The religious Jewish women go to the Mikveh after having their period. For many reasons. One seemed strange to me. When a woman has her menstrual cycle it is considered a that there was a potential for life and then there was death. Within a woman (and probably men), the cycle of life and death is playing itself out each moon. The Mikveh is a ritual cleansing. One of the requirements is that it has to have water flowing in from a natural source.
I have never been to the Mikveh, but after last week I understand what they mean. I may have carried it around inside of me for weeks, without knowing that I was conversing with death.

Take me to the river, drop me in the water and wash me down.

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To thine own blog be true

After writing my blog yesterday about my miscarriage, Papa thought it was too personal. My father said it, but many others thought it. I like it when a random guy on the street tells me I look hot. My friend once said that for every guy who says it, there are many men and women who think it but don’t say anything. It makes me feel that I look good that day.

I’ve hit this “too personal” boundary not only with my father in my life, but with few other people. For some chemical imbalance in my brain, I want to be very personal. I don’t want to talk about politics or how hot it is in the city. I don’t even care what your plans are for 4th of July weekend. I want to get personal and quickly.

Sometimes, I share too much. Sometimes, I share too much with the wrong people. Sometimes, I share too much with the wrong people, at the wrong places, at the wrong time.

When I started writing this blog, it was like taking off my clothes in front of strangers. Not that I know what that feels like. My clothes kept closed to the world. I thought that taking off those clothes were going to bring me over the boundary’s border. But the boundary kept moving away. The boundary turned out to be not a vertical line drawn on the ground, but a sine curve. I though it would end at the dip, but it extended forward. A never-ending wave only hitting extreme lows of self-expression and extreme highs. Moving me forward, closer and closer to my truths and to my people.

Oh how I love the sea.

Aside

I wish it wasn’t called miscarriage. It makes it seem like I was carrying something and then I missed. I dropped it and into the toilet of all places.  It should be called something more discreet, something a little less blamey.

Maybe I can call it DBB which can stand for Death Before Birth.

Then I can tell people, I had my third DBB and not feel the original sin that every woman has held onto since they read about it and collectively believed it, that I did something wrong.

In Judaism, to sin is to miss the mark.  Maybe I missed the mark when I got angry that day, or when I picked up the groceries, or when I stayed up too late talking with my friends. Maybe I have too much stress in my life, too much sadness, too much pain that the baby did not want to come into this world through me.

But if it was called DBB, maybe I can be left alone to feel sad.  I can just mourn and not worry whether I carried or miscarried.

4:22 AM Meditation

My two best friends came to town to stay with me after years of being away.  From the time they walked in, we were in conversation that halted when we slept and continued when we awoke. One continuous train of thought that was the years we spent apart. It was lost on the phone, like in the telephone game when you whisper one thing into someone’s ear but at the end, inevetably another thing comes out. I had to see their face, I had to read their body language, the invisible parts of the sentence that gave that sentence its meaning.

On Sunday morning, as one of my friends was leaving, my body gave up. Maybe from too much excitement. I got sick like I haven’t been for years. My body burned with fever, like a forgotten pot left on simmer for two days straight.  I sweated through clothes and sheets, but my body would not stop burning. I ached, it hurt to open my mouth.  The doctor said it was strep throat, which I never had.

In Judaism, when someone else is sick, I am supposed to say, “Poor so and so,” and try to muster up genuine compassion for their disposition. I can’t say, well, they shouldn’t have been eating all that sugar, even if I was thinking it and knew it was the cause for their stomach ache.  But. If I am sick, I have to look within myself for a reasons why you could be sick.  Not in a form of a punishment but a message for my own redemption. For me a message was unclear.  Maybe it was throat chakra which was related to speaking my truth in the world.  If I couldn’t speak my truth, then in what way?  And why now?

I layed in bed thinking, I had a lot of time to think.  I have been in movement and as painful as laying in bed was, the thinking time was precious.  So precious, that I almost thought it worth it.  I died a small death.  Being sick, I could not relate to the healthy, only to the in between.  In the in between, I can look more clearly, from a different angle, at both life and death.  It afforded me new seating in the arena of this life.

I thought about myself.  About Lucy.  About all those that are close to me.  The ones in my life who support me.  The ones who love me.  The ones who are there for me.  The ones who showed up.  Jamie, my best friend, became my nurse.  I couldn’t talk to her anymore, but she didn’t leave me.  She brought me food and tea.  Without words, I read her loving body language.  The worry for me in her eyes.  She massaged my achy feet while talking tenderly to me while I cried.  My sister appeared the following day.  Like an angel who took care of me and cheered me on all along.  She has been there  since I was born.  Looking at me with her loving eyes.  Making me laugh and watching me cry.  She skipped her wedding Anniversary celebration in NY to care for me.  To force me to drink more.  She made me delicious chicken soup that even I tasted through my numbed down senses.  And there were those who sent me texts of concern, who would have been there if I just asked.  Elizabeth Blue showed up.  She wanted to do Shamanic healing on me.  Sure.  She put me in a trance and I was gently whisked away into another dimension to the drum roll on her iPhone.

Through the pain, I felt gratitude and passion.  Gratitude for all that I have.  Passion to be back with the living again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Luz

I wanted to write in the car on the way home, but the driver did not understand me when I asked him to turn on the light in the back.

“Yo quero…” and I stumbled.  “Fuego?  Sol?”  Finally he figured it out.

“Yo quero Luz,”  the car service driver said to me.

“Si,” I answered, of course, and my mind wondered far away from the car.

Si, Yo Quiero Lucy, pero Lucy no esta aqui.  Donde estas, Lucy?  Eifo At?  

The last eight days, more than even before I thought she was with me.  It was that dream few months ago.  It said, “She is with you all along.”  But still, I am only human and crave the physical her.  

Lucy,

I wore your dress to Isaiah’s Birthday Party today.  It wasn’t one of my favorites, I don’t love the way it looks on my shoulders  but it felt good to wear it.  It was smooth and silky.  I felt like you were there in the bathroom when I was getting ready and doing our African dance moves.  I always feel you when I am doing African or Zumba.  Or, when I write on my blog.  I miss your comments.  

I could use some advice from you now, but I think sometimes, maybe that I have become your mortal puppet and you have entered me that day at your funeral.  I know you weren’t in your coffin, I checked.  You must have floated on out.  

Ezra kept saying at the shiva that I was reminding him of you.  I was so honored.  I never thought you and I could be confused for one another, but maybe.

You asked me to tell them to appreciate you in my speech.  You deserved so much appreciation, Lucy.  People can be such morons.  

Now you are writing with me instead of commenting on my questionable talents.  This is much better.  It’s nice to collaborate on something again.

I love you.

Olia