The Grinch At The End of This Story

Once upon a time, someone I know was having a very bad day. In fact, it had been a rotten week, and a rotten month, and come to think of it, when had anything ever really been a good at all?! He couldn’t remember. And so, because holidays can illuminate our prickly branches, and because the opportunity was sitting right there amongst the branches like a shiny wrapped present for the taking, my friend threw the Christmas tree, who for the record, was not being much help, down a flight of stairs.

Throwing the tree, stubborn as it was, didn’t fix anything, in fact, it broke more things, including the fragile ornaments shaped like children’s hearts, but for all of three seconds, my friend was focused on something other than his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad life. 

For the rest of the season however, he was secretly known as The Grinch. 

What can one say? 

CindyLoo Who calls it like she sees it. 

She hasn’t learned nuance, yet. 

But they are only alike to a point.

In the end, the heart of the Grinch grew.

He was a totally changed Who. 

In the case of my tree-tossing friend, he simply hasn't come to the end of himself... yet. 

whole

When I first saw the bowl-with-a-hole-already-right-in-the-very-bottom, I made an agreement with myself that I would not offer to adopt it until



 a.) I had first put my broken vessel  to use and

 b.) I had figured out how to accentuate the bowl's natural blemish.

I only kept half of the deal with myself but figured inspiration would set in by the time the bowl arrived in the mail or I would simply use the bowl in its already beautiful natural state instead of trying to turn it into an object lesson for my classroom of one.



I thought I might attempt to seal the hole- perhaps with a clear epoxy I've used in the past. I would prove its usefulness despite the natural handicap it had been created with.



As the days ticked past, I occasionally found myself humming "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea." and one day last weekend, without any particular song in mind, I queued up my Paul Wright playlist. It was only a short trip from 'My Everything' to '...inside my bowl, there is a hole, that only you can fill...'

(Actual Lyrics: ..."Inside my soul, there is a hole, that only You can fill")



Hole in my bowl,  in the sea,  in my soul.

Sea Soul Bowl



There's a log in the bottom of the sea...

There's a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea...

There's a log...

from my eye

in the hole

in the bottom

of the sea



::Time Out:: 



There was a time many years back when the song 'Ocean's Floor' by Audio Adrenaline found me. I clung to its reassurance of clean slates and new mercies sung over and over to my broken spirit.
Around that same time, I was given a ring by my sister,  a simple silver band inscribed FORGIVEN. She wanted me to remember that we can all be forgiven, and also that we can all  forgive.

One stormy night, that ring was taken from me and flung far into the rain-drenched night by a  person who wished to make it clear that I was not forgiven, not by them. Nor would I ever be.



::Time In::



The bowl arrived and I started to think about how some holes have purpose. If you clog them, the results aren't nice. Drains, for instance. Tracheas. My desire was not for the bowl to hold water, or candy or even air. I wanted it to hold a story.



And so, I knotted and knitted those various strands of thought and song together and filled the bowl with a reminder: a forgetful blue sea with a chasm of forgiveness at the bottom.

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression
for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain his anger
forever, because he delights in steadfast love. He will again have
compassion on us; he will tread our iniquities underfoot. You will cast
all our sins into the depths of the sea. Micah 7:18-19

 

I may add more sea elements as time allows-- perhaps a big ol' fish swallowing Jonah. Me and that guy have a lot in common.  

**UPDATE** Bowl of Forgiveness, now with more sea. 

 

broken

The listing read "Stitch me back together." It was a hand-turned vessel, made from grapevine, that had cracked under pressure.  It caught my attention. I am drawn to finding beauty in broken things because I am a broken thing. If we were to have a show of hands, I'm probably not the only one.

So it was that I adopted this broken vessel as a kind of self-portrait.

When it arrived, I discovered 'FRAGILE' apparently means something like 'Please shake til glass breaks' in post office speak. The test tube had shattered. While it retained its shape, it would not retain water. What's more, it was not keen on leaving its cozy wood lodgings; it was stuck. The two vessels were broken individually and together. 

Yesterday, I finally found a chance to sit alone with 'myself' and consider the broken vessel. 

Before contemplation: 

I started to use gold paint with kintsugi in mind, but rather quickly had a different inspiration.

After contemplation: 

Faults hold worlds only appreciated by drawing near.

I wanted the shattered glass to find redemption, too. I fashioned a small candle from a trimmed wick and the scrapings of soft wax from a candle. I let my little light shine. 

You'll notice that the light is most visible where the vessel is most splintered. 

When the flame was extinguished, a beautiful, relaxing smoke curled up and up for the longest time. I do love that smoky scent. I could burn incense here too, if incense smelled good. 

I am eagerly awaiting the next package from my woodworking friend, Brock. It is a bowl with a hole already in it! 

Though most of his work does not come pre-blemished, you should check out his wares.

But I call dibs on the misfits. 

dream

I woke myself with a cry. Deep gasping breaths and tears pooled in my eyes; I was awake but kept my eyes closed. My pillow was damp but not in the usual,  only-one-side-from-deep-sleep-drooling way. Instead, either side of my face was met with cool wet spots where tears had streamed and cooled under the ceiling fan's Medium breeze.

I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it note to consider calling my counselor friend gets tacked to the mental mirror over the sink... the dripping, crying, pull-yourself-together sink. 

Vestiges of the dream hover over the fog. They roll in and out throughout the day.

 I'd had ‘Charleston’ in an embrace and it was a rather violent dance we were engaged in. Thrashing might be a better word. My distinct impression is that it was a do-or-die necessity, that I had charged him so as to take the lead of his barreling anger. I feel as if I was running interference, but also shoving an answer key in his face. I do not like the answers I finally realized I knew. They are too simple for anyone to die over, even to cry over.

Some of the memories lift throughout the day; the guiding narrative has sifted out leaving only clumps of vivid images in the bottom of my sieve. Arrange all those chunky bits, what does it spell?  Yes, she was there. And fading to the background is certainly not realistic, not for her. But I can't hold on to a thing that is determined to fly off. I must assess that which I am left holding. And in the dream, I was holding on to him, tightly, as to restrain him, violently dancing him about to show I knew his playbook. Successfully? That remains to be seen.

I know this much, it was "that" kind of dream. The day is almost over and it has lingered with me all day, convincing me it is made of different stuff than all those ordinary dreams that can't even last through the first cup of joe.  The kind I have sometimes that are significant in real life a little later on. I believe omen is too strong a word, for as I have mentioned, only a vague sense of 'Uh-oh' remains. But, oh that uh-oh! Who knows how ugly it will be. I feel it will be unlike any of the other storms we've weathered in the past two decades. I am unnerved and writing this to hypothesize that I believe there may be violence. I do not hope for it, indeed I fear it. But I am curious over past dreams that seemed to hold warning. Dreams that were un-shootable messengers.

 Making a note now is, perhaps, equivalent to a parlor magician's trick of jotting down all the possible answers to his inquiry and tucking them in various pockets, then offering the  coordinates of the correct answer with the illusion that it is the only scrap of paper tucked about his body. I could be wrong and nothing of note will occur. This-I hate the word premonition- will have been the dream's fault and can easily be unpublished. Only a small interaction may occur, but I could then point and say "I knew it." Or something really bad will occur and.... and that's just the thing... what use is it to me really? I'm not being ungrateful. I am thankful for the opportunity to steel my nerves and knees against the incoming storm surge. But, as with all times past, a hazy dream of confirmation does little in the way of instruction. Expect attack, perhaps.

If I were a general at war, these dreams would be a carrier pigeon with opposing messages on each leg:
Left Leg: "The Enemy Approaches"
Right Leg: "The Enemy Retreats"
Nice to know pigeon, but what should I do?

One conclusion I have definitely reached- perhaps twice today- is that you cannot proactively shoot someone because of a dream you had. People won't understand.

Another is to be ready. Such an open-ended ready has required a lengthy and eclectic list: moving away for the month of August, faking my death, learning to punch. I have a fair supply of matches, though I always feel better whenever I buy another box more. I think of the Appalachian Trail and that grandma lady who hiked it in a shower curtain... I've got family in the hills, I could survive. They'd let me bring the kids and stay awhile. I've walked this forsaken island before, toting one of 'em on my hip and the other two on either hand. I've got a fourth child now, and a cat, but the other three have grown enough to help. Everything is gonna be just fine.
I busy myself with the easy scenarios, not yet ready to consider the toughest one of all: staying put and standing my ground, letting them talk to me.  Just the thought of attending that pageant once more takes my breath away.

Here's to hoping that's the only thing that does.

~~~

I am not afraid to die.
It is the heat that radiates from their hatred threatening to undo me.
It is so hot, those sweltering lines melt my face, blur my vision
and make me unable to hide my smile. 

lobby

my hands fall clumsily onto the keyboard
i am amazed there are no misspellings

waiting for my coffee to cool a sip more
and the floating pat of butter to melt
i am waiting on 

a paradox
a pair of dice

i type and sit
sip and type
i am waiting on words to come out

paradeux

monkeys with typewriters
we've done this experiment before

the pilot in the breakfast nook asks for boiled eggs
the man in the burger shirt would like to check out late. 

he's been places
we all can see
from his shirt
with the Burgers that are 

first In
then Out

we don't have those down here

and we don't have hard-boiled eggs
either
not this morning.

they were ordered from the warehouse
but never came
she tells him

she is sixty five perhaps
and only another half hour from bed
she greets we stragglers
who have slept soundly under her night desk watch.

i wonder who it is
that isn't there
to greet her at the door,

the same nobody

she works night shifts 

in this airport hotel for

maybe he left a long time ago
perhaps he recently died
there's always a chance
he never existed
and she has always been
a night owl

waiting up for him to arrive,

the egg-less pilot stands to leave
and i hope his hands do not fall clumsily 
in front of him this morning 

due to a lack of yolk 

yoke 

less

eggyolks

I quietly wish him no misspellings. 
as he walks out next to Linda the Lobby Lady

she is now greeted
brightly
too brightly
by the morning staff 

those freshly washed faces 

trickling in
with the sun

At the door, they go their separate ways

he to greater heights 
and she to depths of slumber
godspeed you both, my friends

eggs from warehouses
words from coffee

to go home and 

a bit more sleep

we all want something
we 

simply
cannot
have