Dangerous Compassions

the graceful curve of a stem

“Sorry–I tried to care.  It didn’t work.  I’ll try harder next time,” I told Ming.  We were tying up loose ends.  He was almost going to bed.  He was moving in that direction for an hour.

Now it’s March.  Yesterday, leapday, felt important.  A magical day, bonus day of astronomy and math.  Extra day, sacred day.  I txted friends rabbit emojis, imagining rabbits leaping into possibility.

I spent yesterday at the house of a friend who is moving away soon.  The house had a dystopian hotel kind of feel, half-empty.  It sold for almost half a million dollars, which confuses me.  Is this California?  I secretly think of Las Vegas as part of California, but I thought that was fanciful.

I was caring for his dogs.  They are quiet, low-drama small dogs, but I still didn’t enjoy the dog hair on my warmness, or tending to their needs so much. 

I guess if I knew them better.  Getting to know them, it wasn’t easy.  I asked them questions like, “Why are you doing that?  Are you ok?  Are you bored out of your fucking minds?”  They didn’t answer.  I don’t really understand their life.  I understand certain aspects, but I couldn’t put it together.

Yesterday late afternoon I got in a mode of self-loathing.  Once I’m in that mode, I can hate myself for almost anything.  Auto-hate.  Yuck.  Glad I got out of the loop.

It really helps for me to do an actual thing or two–I mean a productive thing I can point to as proof I could do good.  I get a little hit off it, and feel like I can continue.  I used to every morning do my dailies–played duolingo, gratitude journaled, maybe blogged, talked to my mom.  That was a good way, and things changed, which is ok also.

I wanted to ecstatic dance today, and there’s a free concert at a church, but I have so many piled up things, fallen by the wayside things!  I love ecstatic dance, but dancing that long with others takes up my energy for the day.  I’ll dance in the prayer room for a smaller amount of time.

I didn’t get the wifi password yesterday at my friend’s house.  He couldn’t remember it.  I wrote a letter I owed a prisoner, finished another letter that had been half-written for two weeks, and wrote a postcard to a close friend I send postcards to a lot. 

There’s a prisoner who can’t be released on parole because he has nowhere to go.  He wrote to the Catholic Worker asking for help.  I’m the community’s letter writer and was happy to take that on.  The prisoner is hyperarticulate and has served 40 years.  That long, it’s a different world, when he gets out.  How is doing that to people ever a good idea?

The half-letter I finished is to a witch in France.  I barely met her and already love her.  She wrote me this beautiful, caring letter offering support about my mom’s death, as her dad died of cancer a year and a half ago.  She signed “in perfect love and perfect trust.”  I almost cried–that vulnerability shared so freely.  I felt a very precious thing was being given to me, and I really needed not to mess it up.

I have so many penpals, and sometimes the mail that touches me the most is the hardest to reply to.  So I didn’t want to do that, with her, letting the letter sit and get other stuff piled on it.

I wrote a poem yesterday also, in my journal.  I just meant to write a funny sentence and kept going.  It’s a bit uncouth.  It starts out talking about how Ming is my spouse, Noam Chomsky is my boyfriend, and Buckminster Fuller is my boytoy.  It gets worse from there.

In Santa Barbara there was a special museum I visited dedicated to Buckminster Fuller.  Yeah, I have a thing for him.  One of those special museums by appointment only.

It’s windy and the windchimes and tinkling, but not like gale force hurricane desert wind.  More your standard ok wind, I think.  Blessings to you, wherever you are.

Oh, our friend gave us his garden.  He’s leaving town for six months.

Is there anything more beautiful than the delicate green of carrot leaves?  Look how the stems curve.  I’m doubting it.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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