Vulnerability

On my back, face to the sky I breathe heavily under the weight of my vulnerability. For a moment, my world has completely fallen apart. I am not invincible any longer. I am a mass of flesh crumpled on the pavement. I do not know if I am safe. Some part of me feels broken, but my mechanical frame still remains intact. I see the tires of the car that hit me from a completely novel position. For a moment a piercing silence surrounds me. Suddenly, voices.

The way I have ordered my existence, my only ritual since I was a small girl, has been writing. When routine has been destroyed by violence or displacement, I have turned to my personal rain dance--words on the page. Until the last six months or so, I have kept most of my writing to myself. The willful exposure of my wounds reinstates my control over them. By choosing to share what scares me, I can stop it from over-powering me. I am vulnerable. The ghastly bruises covering my pitiful, aching body can testify to the great betrayal I feel. I trusted this city and its drivers, for better or worse. Three days after a collision with a car, I am alright. I know I will get back on my bike and that I will be more cautious, helmeted, and a little more embittered. With time, the reality of this moment will fade. I will enforce normalcy in my life to aid in its slipping away. I will change the way I tell the story from the present tense to the past as I exercise the power of ritual over it. And through this retelling, I will heal. If not today, soon.

I left my apartment to head to the Divinity School. I felt particularly good about this day. I had gotten up to run, packed a lunch, and eaten some yogurt. I was running a little late as I pedaled up to my first intersection. I saw another cyclist ride by with a helmet on. Suddenly I realized I'd forgotten mine. I'm not an avid helmet wearer, but it came into my consciousness at this moment. Next time, I told myself. As I approached the hill that marks the first half of my ride, I noticed a mini-van sticking out, clearly having failed an attempt to parallel park. I made my way around them, making sure not to swerve in front of any cars. I heard a car come up next to me. It was the same van. They went around me and cut in front of me. I inferred that they were going to attempt to park again. I moved over to the left, so not to hit them. As I passed their taillights, time slowed. She was going to turn left. I had too much momentum behind me as I descended the hill. I grabbed onto my brakes. I leaned back. I called out, "What the hell are you doing?" Too late.

On my back, face to the sky I breathed slowly. For a moment, my world had completely fallen apart. I was suddenly aware of my vulnerability. I pushed my mass of flesh up off the pavement. I realized I had landed in the other lane, five or ten feet away from Nigel. I stood up and moved toward my bike.
"Why didn't you use your blinker? What were you doing?" I asked, covering my intense sense of nakedness with bravado.
"Are you ok?" a small sixteen year old girl asked as she stepped out of the mini-van. A chorus of voices rushed at me repeating the question.
Who were these people wanting to know if my fallible frame still worked?
"I'm fine. I'm fine," I said over and over, picking up Nigel's twisted frame. He looked suddenly small and light against the backdrop of the giant van.
"Hold on. You're probably a little shook up. Let me take this," a man said and took my bike, Nigel. I reached for Nigel, wanting to hold to something to make me feel bigger. The man put his arm around me and led me to the sidewalk. "Just take a second."
I breathed deep. My lungs work. My knees hurt. Otherwise I was fine. Nigel was okay.
"She almost hit us, too. She pulled out right in front of us without looking." The man gestured towards his truck. I realized he had been following the mini-van. "Do you want to take down her license plate?"
"No. I'm okay." This time I said it firmly. I did not want to stand there any more. I did not want to be seen so vulnerable and alone, some twenty-something on her bike without a helmet. I wanted Nigel back. I wanted to be big and safe.
The driver's friends asked again, "Are you ok? Are you sure?"
"Thank you. I'm fine," I answered.
People returned to their cars and their days. I started to walk Nigel down the sidewalk. I felt myself start to shake. I felt my mind start to lose control over the situation. I could have...she could have...what if I'd... I called my uncle. I knew he would hear me. I knew he would listen. I cried. I calmed down. "Were you wearing your helmet?" I cried again.
I made my way back to school, biking part of the way. I cried once I was back in the seat. I got to school. I went to see my work supervisor, our director of religious and spiritual life. I told my story. I cried. She took me to the medical center. I told me story again. I cried. With some ice packs and a warning about soreness and stiffness, I came home on the bus.

My sweet friend Ace greeted me at the door and I thanked the earth for continuing to spin. I thanked my tights for saving my tender legs. I thanked my flesh for holding itself together. I thanked Nigel for being such a sturdy bike. I wept from gratitude and mourned the loss of my innocent beliefs of invincibility. Through my sole ritual, I gathered my strength about me and embraced my vulnerability.

Every muscle aches. All at once, Monday became the day I grew up. I am not so young anymore. My body is aging and my humanity feels entirely real. I have read so much about how ritual helps people order their worlds or regain power when they feel so weak. Only now do I begin to realize what that means. I have been through rituals. I have been through deeper and greater pain than being hit by a car. And I've been hit by a car before. Somehow, though, my awareness of how my mind is processing and my rituals are saving me changes how I see others. This body is tough and hearty, but it will not last forever. I write, I love, and I think all in order to come to peace with my embodied existence, to make these moments somehow less futile. For me, there is so much hope in that fact. There is so much hope in my ability to create relationships and rituals. I have always been one who loves chaos. Today, though, I am one who understands order.

Laundry for One

I don’t know if there is anything that makes me feel single quite like doing laundry. For one. While listening to Ingrid Michaelson question the effects and purpose of love. While reading about a guy who is falling in love. It’s just depressing.

Generally, I love being single. I don’t have to watch movies I don’t like. I don’t have to feign an interest in academic subjects that sound completely soul-less. And, I don’t have to spend money on impressing someone. I get to spend tons of time reading, listening to music and hanging out with my dog.

I find it disturbing to have one of my favorite rituals besmirched by romance…or a lack thereof. My apartment bears the aromatic wafts of fragrant Tide (I never let my laundry dry completely and have to hang it all around my room because I’m impatient), but I am left feeling lonely. Usually this fragrance (alongside my unmentionables draped around my furniture) leaves me refreshed at my singularity. But, today it makes me wish I had someone to share laundry with, someone to be frustrated that my underwear are in plain sight, someone to make me wait until my clothes are actually dry before removing them from the dryer. 

Perhaps most aggravating of all is that I spent the majority of my time at the laundromat (while reading about liminality and communitas--how we are at points on the fringe of society, and at others we are soaked in it) thinking about a recent conversation with a friend about the difference between loving and being in love.

I'm not sure this is either a revelation, or a very important distinction, but it helps me order my inner and outer world (which, I think Mary Douglas might appreciate). So, what's the difference?

To love is a choice. It is directional. A person (or people) act.

I love you. You may also love me. But we are in love.

To be in love is to be located there, to be submerged in love. Love is the very environment in which we live.

Maybe a person needs both. Maybe not.

Then again, as someone who has never been in love (oh, I have loved...and fervently), perhaps I am not privy to some secret understanding of love. I do not endeavor to dichotomize these two types. I hope only to posit my definitions as a possible reading of two of the many ways that we experience love. For me, it helps as I reflect on past relationships, on the love of my parents for their partners, and on the love I see in some people's faces. I don't know that one form of love can sustain us a lifetime. Such a dynamic experience and emotion must have a wide array of expressions. Maybe there's a point at which the choice to love can grow into an environment of love. I have heard descriptions of this relayed from arranged marriages. Then again, what starts as a total immersion in love has to at some point be a choice to continue that love.

As I pick up another t-shirt I cannot help but laugh at how funny it is that such a mundane task as folding my laundry has caused me to meditate on love and its many functions/actions. I guess this is what happens when you spend all your time thinking.

I'm revisiting this post now, after a day filled with celebration. Two of my friends celebrated their engagement today (congrats Tim and Jake!) and another friend and I carved pumpkins. I'm continually struck by how when I feel the most lonely, I am reminded of how truly loved I am. Carving pumpkins with two couples, it never once crossed my mind that I was single. The whole time I kept thinking, This is great! I love wasting time with friends. As I reflect now, the last thing I was doing was wasting time. The time I spend with the people I love is an investment. And, I am blessed to be so rich in this currency.

With musings on love and pumpkin guts behind me, I think I can safely say that today was a great day.

Am I still single? Yes. Am I alone? Not in the slightest.

Cuddling up with my pup and cup of tea,

Sierra

My sweet pumpkin

A full (and strange) week

It has been a strange week. I had a paper due in one of my classes, so I spent the majority of my week between writer's state (as I like to call it) and reality. Unused to writing on a semester plan, with the great advantage of time, I spent days writing this paper. I would write until I ran out of gas and then step away from my computer. I would come back later that day or the next day and edit. Then I would write on a new topic. Finally, I sat down to edit all these smatterings together into one cohesive paper.

This paper has lingered with my for days now, infecting my thoughts and actions. It has become the underlying discourse of all my conversations. My two best friends here, Hunter and Tex, are in the same class, which somehow raised the tensions. When we weren't writing our papers, we were talking about writing our papers. Unfortunately, we didn't talk about how to help one another, but held our cards closer to our chests. I hope that in the future we'll be more collaborative. That is not to say that in this instance it was a negative thing. This was our first paper in graduate school, which is already a very vulnerable situation. Inviting a "competing" peer to read your paper risks undermining your confidence and theirs. We probably made a good choice in not sharing, even if the motivation was at best questionable. I know for me it was fear based. I can be very insecure about my intelligence and at times, I horde my writing to myself, fearful that it will either confuse or disgust those around me. But, that's what your Teaching Fellow is for (oh god, if any of them are reading this, please pick up on my sarcasm).

Besides all this, it has just been surreal. Lack of sleep, days without coffee (I decided to take a hiatus when I quit the coffee shop), and Foucault on the brain has made life a sort of walking dream. There are moments when I feel like I'm not really here. Almost like I'm watching a movie. As all the characters walk by, their names come on screen and a relational line connects them to someone else, scribbling off in infinite directions.

This is not to mention the matter of the increase in coverage of queer youth suicides lately, which have kept me on the verge of tears (or made me outright weep) for days. I am so saddened by the loss of these young boys and troubled by the questions left in their wake. What do we do about bullying? How has systemic homophobia denied the agency of all the characters in this playing out of power roles? How has the media constructed harassment as a rite of passage?

Yesterday, we had a service on campus for a student organization called Queer Rites. It was an amazing service that brought to light the great diversity of the experiences of queer persons. I am in awe of the words my peers offered and the way their passion or criticism moved me. I was able to offer a blessing and feel blessed to have done so.


I do believe that things will get better. But not because we wait for them to. They will get better because we make this world a better place. This life will get better because we take action to care for each other and ourselves. It is not us against them, or against the world.

It is us together in the world.

Letting Go

I quit my job yesterday.

I don't think I've ever said that in my entire life. I don't think I've ever quit anything. I've always toughed it out until the "natural" transition point occurred. Now that I write that, I cannot even conceive of what that means. Perhaps a self-indulgent attempt to make sticking it out somewhat easier. A reason to persevere. Or other nonsense.

I was overwhelmed. As someone who generally knows myself and my limits (or lack thereof) pretty well, I feel terribly ashamed by that fact. And that shame makes me embarrassed because I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. And so my self reflection circles round itself trying to find a place to lie down as if it were a puppy, too determined to find the right place to just rest.

On Monday, after three days with no more than four hours of sleep at a time, a wonderful celebration of Tiffany and Rob's love, three flights, six cabs, two trains, four buses, and three hours of work on campus, I collapsed into my chair in my classroom for my Counseling class. My professor walked in after I'd sat down and started rearranging furniture. Then it hit me: I had volunteered to go first in counseling a complete stranger in front of my peers as part of class. I told myself to calm down. I'm good at counseling. I understand people pretty well. I could do this. Then I reached down to grab my book and almost vomited. There was no way out. My peers were counting on me and I'm not the type to back down or disappoint.

The session was fine. Good, in fact. I messed up a couple of times (but, hey, who doesn't?). It was a great learning opportunity and I was able to reflect on my mistakes. I felt pretty good and was looking forward to the class break. But, it wasn't over. There was still time for a feedback session. Every thing I had noticed that had gone wrong, everyone (I mean everyone, including the client) reflected back to me. I generally can take criticism in stride, but I was at the end of my rope (a macabre, yet apt metaphor). I felt horrible. After what seemed like a year of being told just how I screwed up, we finally took a break. I went to the bathroom to breathe, compose myself, and, as it turned out, cry. If only that were the end of the story.

I walked back to class, knowing that everyone could tell I had been crying, but I figured that given social norms, no one would say anything. That's just not how my professor rolls. I sit down. She stops talking. She turns to me and asks, "Are you upset?" Well, thanks, Pat. Yes. Yes I am, I think to myself. Out loud, "Yes." The tears start rolling down my face and utterly aware of my own ridiculousness I say, "It's just hard to hear the criticisms others have of me when I already have those criticisms of myself. And, honestly, I think I'm only crying because I am so so exhausted." Everyone rallied back with support, "Oh no, Sierra, you rock." "I wish I could do that like you." "Just be yourself. Stop trying to imitate the textbook." Of course, being told that what you're feeling is ridiculous always helps. Someone finally changed the subject (thank the merciful god/s). I felt horrible the rest of class. I wished I hadn't said anything. I wished I'd slept. I wished I were somewhere else. After class, one of my colleagues looked at me and said, "It's impossible to keep going when you're so spent," and offered me a hug.

As you know from reading my blog (which I know you all do religiously...if only I would maintain some kind of regularity), I was sick two days later. In my bed, miserable, I thought to myself, I just can't keep doing this. I can't do it all. I later realized that was the moment when I decided to quit working at the coffee shop.

Friday morning, when I peeled myself out of bed, still sick, still tired at 5:30 am after having spent two days with guests in my home, I made the decision to quit. Working twenty-four hours a week suddenly seemed to me unreasonable. I was losing my grip and couldn't afford the devastation that was sure to come (as if being physically ill and crying in class weren't devastation enough...).

At 3:15 p.m. yesterday, I sat down with my boss and expressed my concerns. She was amazing. She spoke to all the hard parts of leaving that place for me in such a generous, thoughtful way that I am still awe struck. There is still the matter of my last shift to be figured out, but other than that, my time at the coffee shop has come to an end.

Ace and I went on a little stroll today. We walked further and longer than we usually have time for and while we were out, I realized how wonderful it is to feel like I have time. Twelve to fifteen hours is a lot of time to not have in a week. Hard as it is to quit something that I feel hadn't reached its "natural" point of conclusion, I know that I've made the right decision.

And as for all my self criticism and reflection, this will be a process I go through for the rest of my life. I will always reflect on my thoughts, actions, and ways of being. Sometimes it is exhausting. Sometimes it is exhilarating. But, for the most part, it's just me.

Life Rhythms and Shared Experience

I love the times in life when someone shows up that you haven't seen in so long. Someone you need to see. Someone who instantly makes your life better. Yesterday (somewhat planned and long expected) Krystle and her husband, Ryan showed up. This was the day that lack of sleep and too much celebration in Las Vegas caught up with me. This was the day that I could not get out of bed.

I slept until 2:30 pm (having gone to bed at 11 pm the day before), waking in just enough time to take a shower and eat a little something before Krystle and Ryan actually arrived. They pulled into our cul de sac with their big truck complete with camper shell, and despite feeling ill, I suddenly felt relieved. I missed work and class, but I was not going to miss the one time my Coloradan friends drove across the country to see me. We spent some time together, made dinner, and caught up on new (and old) times. Krystle and Ryan are the kind of couple that just makes you happy to be around. When you're with them, it's easy to see how much they love each other.

Which brings me to Vegas (and all the celebration). My sister Tiffany married the love of her life, Rob. They decided to elope, which provided a pretty good reason to get out of town for the weekend (especially for my first time to visit Las Vegas!!). The ceremony was beautiful and it was so fun getting to know Rob (not to mention both Tiffany and Rob's friends). Tiffany, fortunately for us as usual, led us all around the city, taking us to amazing hidden treasures (and not at Treasure Island). I can't imagine a more fun celebration and definitely think the whole weekend was a wonderful celebration of Tiff and Rob. What stands out most in my mind, though, were those moments that Tiffany and Rob stole to themselves, moments when they thought no one was watching and they would steal a kiss or just look at one another. These were the precious times when I knew I was in the presence of the kind of love one feels blessed just to gaze upon.

The amazing "falling" leaves in the Venetian lobby.

One of many self portraits that Melissa and I are infamous for...

some things never change.

Where I won all my moneys playin' Blackjack!

Did I mention that I'm awesome and won money?!

But, the aftermath was devastating. I was so sick yesterday and so exhausted on Monday and Tuesday. Today, Hunter commented on the fact that this week has been a rough one for all three of us (of course, Tex is always the implied third when I speak of Hunter and myself, and vice versa). And, for some reason to know that my comrades, my amigos, my new life mates were in rough shape made me feel that my own life was under control. Now, it could be inferred that I, like many, am just an example of misery loving company. I will argue, though, that it was the sense that we were all in sync that gave me a sense of camaraderie--the sense that I am not alone. To know that I share an experience with people I love and that we are somehow participating in the same life is a great comfort.

Well, back to today. Krystle and Ryan are in the living room watching movies and hanging out with their wonderful chocolate lab, Leroy. They are the most easy going visitors to have in town. I took them to Harvard's campus today and they thought everything I had to show them was amazing and they made me feel really great about myself and my pursuits here. Then, I went to class and sent them on their merry way. We met back here after school ended and Krystle cut my hair (which I sooooo needed). We grabbed a lovely dinner and now...here I am. Blogging instead of studying, content to feel less sick and just plain ol' happy.

Between the rhythms I have created with the new family I have here and the blessed and lucky interruptions into those rhythms from those longtime friends and family that make up each of the threads of my safety net, I am a pretty lucky gal.

It's good to be part of something bigger. It's good to be loved.

And, it's good to feel better.

-Sierra