she's playing guitar again. my sister, that is. i remember south avenue. banging on her bedroom door. yelling at her to turn her music down. annoyed by every cord that seeped through our shared wall. her voice belting lyrics through open windows into summer streets. she is playing again, after years of silence. her hands too shaky to hold notes. too self-conscious to sing. indian-style on the couch, she plays me a song. picking out the melody. her long fingers move over taught metal. her voice arcs up and dips. melancholy but beautiful.
i try to focus on these moments. excited when i can look at her and see my little sister and not the manifestation of the disease. i am too short with her. easily annoyed. but i am trying really hard to curb my frustrations. enjoy this time for what it is. it is hard. i have to put everything else aside. i don't feel like i can have stuff when i am here. there is no room for anything else. her disease is too big. i would be too much of a burden. so i stuff it down. or write on my own. but moments of silence and peace are rare when i am with her. i am grateful she is sleeping in. worn down from defending myself. explaining that i didn't move her things. she blames me when they disappear. should i lie and agree? if it wasn't me...then it must have been the "people" who break into her house and spy on her. she has covered up the camera on her computer. and the remote sensor on the television. little bits of post it notes doting the appliances and fixtures.
how do i tell her that the sleeping arrangements are less than acceptable? without insulting her. is there a diplomatic way to explain that it isn't really a choice when the options are either sharing a bed that smells like cigarettes or taking the couch that reeks of cat piss?
i get to go home soon. to a place i love. this is her life. and it breaks my heart. but i can't help wanting to run away. so i go for a walk. cool breeze. good tunes. breathe.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
and if i could thank god that i am here, and that i am alive, everyday i wake i tell myself a little harmless lie; the whole wide world is mine.
I loosen my grip on the steering wheel. Hands stiff. Muscles tense. The road makes me nervous now. I could have died. People keep reminding me of that. You could have died. I could have killed my friends. We are lucky. No. we are blessed.
Black ink peeks out from the underside of my wrist. Caught just outside the corner of my eye. I twist my left hand to reveal its secret. The gauze and wrap around my index finger and palm distracting me for a moment. “You are loved.” How dare I doubt this fact. How dare I question the love that has been lavished on me. Friends pour out of the woodwork. Providing soup and magazines and comforting arms. I am loved. But I have difficulty receiving it. These friends use words to describe me, like sweet and wholesome. But I define myself with labels like guilty and undeserving. Self inflicted. Self proclaimed. My shackles. the weight of it all.
I could have died. I rolled my roommates car three times down an embankment. Dusted in glass shards. Head banging against the walls. The ceiling. The windshield. Hand bloody from debris. Curled in the corner of the SUV. Laying on the driver’s side in the snow covered brush and earth. Huddled. Eyes closed. Crying. Amanda attempts to pull me up and out her window. I push her off. Tears pour out. I keep picturing her face. A pause before the roll. The moment before it was too late. Slow motion. Tumbling in silence, at least in my head. A silent filmstrip playing in front of me. Surreal. Nothing like the movies. She tries to pull me from my resting place, afraid we may have hit the gas line. I push her off and shake my head. “I can’t afford this. I can’t afford to pay for any of this.”
It’s sad when that is your first response. When money wins out over safety and health. I almost refused medical assistance because I knew the ambulance would break the bank. The EMT's pleaded with me. Concerned for my safety. I finally gave in. reaching for my head. Feeling the enormous lump, stiff neck, glass everywhere. I cried all the way to the hospital. Interrupted by moments of silence. Answering questions. Starring out the back window at the snow coming down. All I could think about was the objects inside the ambulance. All the equipment. Everything that would come crashing down on my body, strapped to a gurney, what would happen if we rolled again. In real life there is no Dr. Carter. And in telluride the emergency room is one small space separated by curtains. Nurses bumping into each other through the gauzy divides. You are bound to know someone working there. Margaret paused over my body. “I didn’t recognize you at first.” She said. Dirt ringed my eyes. Smoothed away in half moons by the tears arcing their way down my cheeks and the absent minded brush of my sweater sleeve. the brief moments when I forgot my body was speckled with fragments of glass.
“No insurance. We understand. But we need to check you out. No CT. but we will have to x-ray your hand. and hold on to you until we are certain there is no concussion..” my mind glazed over. What ever they said. The damage was done. The car was wrecked and the ambulance had already been ridden in. it is what it is. No sense in fighting it now. Give in to it. Go with the flow. Worry about something you can actually control. Gotta get a hold of Lauren. I wont be there to meet her plane. She wont know where I am and my cell phone is lost in the debris and wreckage of adam’s ranch road.
The text message read Audrey was in a car accident. She’s in the hospital. Certainly not the news you want to hear when you arrive for a vacation. No voice there to answer all the questions. No comforting arms to point you in the right direction. Just an LCD screen and a sweep of emotions. Paged to the main office, my efforts to get the message to Lauren, she sat crying, bewildered, feeling responsible. Just get to telluride. That was the mission now, rescued by a kind limo driver, she was privy to a custom tour of scenic Montrose. Mount Wilson. The Ralph Lauren ranch. Thousand dollar cattle. Hundreds of them. His attempt to distract her from what lay ahead. Word had reached her that I was okay. But she was already shaken. Met by one of my roommates she made an uneasy trek through town and in to mountain village. Lugging her suitcase and bags through the snowy streets. Riding the gondola for the first time. I hopped the magnificence of this town was not lost on her. The powder coated trees. The tiny overhead view of telluride. A Mr. Roger’s model in real life. Minus the trolley car and creepy mail man.
After the emergency room Amanda and I walked to the chiropractor. Her turn for treatment. The snow had stopped. The sun was out. Water poured off the rooftops. I was angry. The accident was in vain. You couldn’t even tell it had snowed. The puddles that muddied the streets were the only sign there had been weather. And my discheveled reflection in the store front windows. Shuffling down main street I would have sworn it was all a dream. A story I had read the day before. Save for the hot pink bandage adorning my left hand. and the subtle throbbing at the back of my head. “The real pain will come tomorrow,” the doctor said. “After your endorphins wear off. And the stiffness kicks in. You feel awful now, but it will be worse tomorrow. “
The doctors released me. Hesitant. I had passed all of their examinations. Head and neck were cleared immediately. Removal of my neck brace gave me some relief. I was asked to step into a gown for the remainder of the visit. Concerned about the glass I was carrying in my hair and clothes, like thousands of tiny, glistening hitchhiker burrs, the nurses offered to cut me out of my clothes. No ma’am. Definitely not. Do not touch this t-shirt. I clutched at the soft pink fabric that stretched below my thrift store sweater, covering my hips. I pulled on the gift. Rosa loves. I love kelstar. No ma’am. I’ll be careful. Amanda helped pull me from my things. Gently, delicately. I felt like a little girl undressing for her bath. The soft gown felt foreign. And the absence of all my layers sent a chill across my exposed skin. Stepping out of the glass we had left behind on the cold, linolium floor, I slid under the blanket the nurses had provided. It was warm. Like bread, fresh from the oven. I cuddled up to it and waited. Amanda sat on the bed next to me. Holding my hand. tears came in waves. Mine encouraged hers. She made me cry harder.
Pressing and prodding at my torso. My hips. Pulling and pushing on my arms and legs. Ears. Eyes. Nose. Throat. Results of my x-ray. The doctors couldn’t understand how I wasn’t injured more severely. Superficial cuts. Minor abrasions. Not even a concussion. The EMT's were baffled that we were able to climb out of the wreckage of our own accord. That jess was the one to call for the police. The tow truck driver was amazed. Said he has never seen a vehicle look like [that] and not had to pull a body from it. Not exactly a comforting thought when you were one of the bodies that had just crawled through the busted out window. But it was meant to be encouraging. We had become part of the unexplainable. The chiropractor x-rayed Amanda and adjusted and aligned her beat up body. But she found little evidence of trauma. Understanding that her history of adjustments had provided her with a good and healthy base, but still shocked at how well her body had managed to preserve and protect itself. They say that is why accidents seem to happen in slow motion. Gives the body time to react. The brain responds. It is all too amazing to wrap my own around.
Stumbling back out into the road, sunshine was in full effect and it was even more difficult to maintain that this was part of the same day. That the morning had led into this afternoon. That all the events of the early hours had, indeed, occurred. Amanda and I walked slowly towards BIT. Waiting on Nicole. She left work early to meet us. make sure we were okay. Care for us. we have become a close knit group of girls. Amanda, jess, Nicole, sarah. We are a little family. Dinner parties and karaoke. Good times on the mountain. Now, hands to hold and shoulders to cry on. The surealness of the situation only intensified by the absence of jess. She was on a mission to get to Miami. She was headed to the airport on her way to ultra music festival. Meeting friends. Invested a lot of money in the weekend. While Amanda and I were being loaded into an ambulance, jess piled into a shuttle and disappeared down the snowy road, after a quick once over by the EMT and a speedy cleanse and wrap of her hand, she was enroute to Montrose Regional.
All I wanted was a cupcake. Something to bring to Lauren to cheer her up. I was waiting on her phone call. She had amanda’s phone number. Would call us when she arrived. She cried when I talked to her. Blamed herself. I couldn’t bare that thought. We were already headed for a rough weekend. This is not the way we needed to start things off. This was supposed to be good times. A respite from all the noise and commotion of the daily grind. i had caused a new scene. BIT was completely out of frosted goodness. I settled for an apple fritter for the road, and a brownie for Lauren. With Amanda and Nicole in tow we headed to the grocery store to get food for dinner. Veggie chili and pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. Salavage myself in the kitchen. Calm my nerves with teaspoons and measuring cups. Is domesticity a drug? I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Walked through the door to find Lauren seated on the couch. She was exhausted from her early flight. Worn down from the unexpected news. And haggered from the trip cross town. But despite all of this she mustered a gorgeous smile and a huge hug. My promised greeting upon arrival. Number one on the telluride itinerary. Better late than never.
We settled in on couches. Covered up in blankets. Cozy and warm. I cooked dinner. Moving in slow motion. Everything hurt. Every motion felt exaggerated. But grateful to be moving all the same. The girls watched movies and caught up. Trading stories. Telling tales. My favorite thing about telluride: everyone has a story and is genuinely interested in hearing yours. Life’s too short for small talk. And it is refreshing to be in an environment that encourages real conversations. What happens in telluride doesn’t stay in telluride. It’s carried off to the next place. it’s carried with you. perhaps indefinitely. This place is magic. And despite its reputation as a ritzy ski town, I have met some of the most down to earth people, and engaged in the most unexpected conversations. Hour long discussions stemmed from greetings on a street corner. Late night deliberations. Religion. Politics. God. The state of the economy. Baking techniques. Music. There’s a soundtrack for it all.
A car accident is the last way I would have wanted to start this visit with Lauren. Would not have even been listed as an option had I had to create a poll. But I can honestly say it may have been the key factor to what turned a potentially rough weekend into one of the best I have ever had. My injuries were few and insignificant in comparison to the damages I wrought on my roommates SUV. But my boss felt they deserved enough attention that I was given Thursday and Friday off. I would now be able to spend those evenings with Lauren. And while Nicole and Amanda had volunteered to entertain her for me while I was held up at the hotel, we were now all free to enjoy the town together. We spent the next four days attached at the hip. Showing Lauren around and taking it easy. Rest and play. Eating good food and having long talks with everyone we met. Lauren became the mayor of telluride over night. And they welcomed her with open arms. Skiing was sort of off limits. The idea of speeding down a hill was a little intimidating to both Lauren and me. And as the winds kicked up on our last day we ruled it out and opted for a hike in the woods instead. I wanted to get her on the mountain in some capacity. To show her another side of the place I have staked as home. Deep in the aspen groves, tromping though a fresh layer of snow, Lauren post-holed. Burried up to her knees, she burst out laughing. “You love this. Don’t you? You love being here. All of this…I wasn’t kidding about what I said earlier…I can hear you smiling when we talk on the phone.” My mom has made the same claim. It’s true. I do love this place. I feel alive in a way I have not been able to grasp for the past decade. The entire weekend, I kept finding myself looking around at all the people in whatever room we happened to be in. watching the relations. People caring for my friend Lauren. She was their friend now too. and I could feel it. The immense love. Pure and sober. It was there.
“You could have died,” they said. “You guys are so lucky. Everything happens for a reason.”
I finally get it. I am loved.
But why?
Black ink peeks out from the underside of my wrist. Caught just outside the corner of my eye. I twist my left hand to reveal its secret. The gauze and wrap around my index finger and palm distracting me for a moment. “You are loved.” How dare I doubt this fact. How dare I question the love that has been lavished on me. Friends pour out of the woodwork. Providing soup and magazines and comforting arms. I am loved. But I have difficulty receiving it. These friends use words to describe me, like sweet and wholesome. But I define myself with labels like guilty and undeserving. Self inflicted. Self proclaimed. My shackles. the weight of it all.
I could have died. I rolled my roommates car three times down an embankment. Dusted in glass shards. Head banging against the walls. The ceiling. The windshield. Hand bloody from debris. Curled in the corner of the SUV. Laying on the driver’s side in the snow covered brush and earth. Huddled. Eyes closed. Crying. Amanda attempts to pull me up and out her window. I push her off. Tears pour out. I keep picturing her face. A pause before the roll. The moment before it was too late. Slow motion. Tumbling in silence, at least in my head. A silent filmstrip playing in front of me. Surreal. Nothing like the movies. She tries to pull me from my resting place, afraid we may have hit the gas line. I push her off and shake my head. “I can’t afford this. I can’t afford to pay for any of this.”
It’s sad when that is your first response. When money wins out over safety and health. I almost refused medical assistance because I knew the ambulance would break the bank. The EMT's pleaded with me. Concerned for my safety. I finally gave in. reaching for my head. Feeling the enormous lump, stiff neck, glass everywhere. I cried all the way to the hospital. Interrupted by moments of silence. Answering questions. Starring out the back window at the snow coming down. All I could think about was the objects inside the ambulance. All the equipment. Everything that would come crashing down on my body, strapped to a gurney, what would happen if we rolled again. In real life there is no Dr. Carter. And in telluride the emergency room is one small space separated by curtains. Nurses bumping into each other through the gauzy divides. You are bound to know someone working there. Margaret paused over my body. “I didn’t recognize you at first.” She said. Dirt ringed my eyes. Smoothed away in half moons by the tears arcing their way down my cheeks and the absent minded brush of my sweater sleeve. the brief moments when I forgot my body was speckled with fragments of glass.
“No insurance. We understand. But we need to check you out. No CT. but we will have to x-ray your hand. and hold on to you until we are certain there is no concussion..” my mind glazed over. What ever they said. The damage was done. The car was wrecked and the ambulance had already been ridden in. it is what it is. No sense in fighting it now. Give in to it. Go with the flow. Worry about something you can actually control. Gotta get a hold of Lauren. I wont be there to meet her plane. She wont know where I am and my cell phone is lost in the debris and wreckage of adam’s ranch road.
The text message read Audrey was in a car accident. She’s in the hospital. Certainly not the news you want to hear when you arrive for a vacation. No voice there to answer all the questions. No comforting arms to point you in the right direction. Just an LCD screen and a sweep of emotions. Paged to the main office, my efforts to get the message to Lauren, she sat crying, bewildered, feeling responsible. Just get to telluride. That was the mission now, rescued by a kind limo driver, she was privy to a custom tour of scenic Montrose. Mount Wilson. The Ralph Lauren ranch. Thousand dollar cattle. Hundreds of them. His attempt to distract her from what lay ahead. Word had reached her that I was okay. But she was already shaken. Met by one of my roommates she made an uneasy trek through town and in to mountain village. Lugging her suitcase and bags through the snowy streets. Riding the gondola for the first time. I hopped the magnificence of this town was not lost on her. The powder coated trees. The tiny overhead view of telluride. A Mr. Roger’s model in real life. Minus the trolley car and creepy mail man.
After the emergency room Amanda and I walked to the chiropractor. Her turn for treatment. The snow had stopped. The sun was out. Water poured off the rooftops. I was angry. The accident was in vain. You couldn’t even tell it had snowed. The puddles that muddied the streets were the only sign there had been weather. And my discheveled reflection in the store front windows. Shuffling down main street I would have sworn it was all a dream. A story I had read the day before. Save for the hot pink bandage adorning my left hand. and the subtle throbbing at the back of my head. “The real pain will come tomorrow,” the doctor said. “After your endorphins wear off. And the stiffness kicks in. You feel awful now, but it will be worse tomorrow. “
The doctors released me. Hesitant. I had passed all of their examinations. Head and neck were cleared immediately. Removal of my neck brace gave me some relief. I was asked to step into a gown for the remainder of the visit. Concerned about the glass I was carrying in my hair and clothes, like thousands of tiny, glistening hitchhiker burrs, the nurses offered to cut me out of my clothes. No ma’am. Definitely not. Do not touch this t-shirt. I clutched at the soft pink fabric that stretched below my thrift store sweater, covering my hips. I pulled on the gift. Rosa loves. I love kelstar. No ma’am. I’ll be careful. Amanda helped pull me from my things. Gently, delicately. I felt like a little girl undressing for her bath. The soft gown felt foreign. And the absence of all my layers sent a chill across my exposed skin. Stepping out of the glass we had left behind on the cold, linolium floor, I slid under the blanket the nurses had provided. It was warm. Like bread, fresh from the oven. I cuddled up to it and waited. Amanda sat on the bed next to me. Holding my hand. tears came in waves. Mine encouraged hers. She made me cry harder.
Pressing and prodding at my torso. My hips. Pulling and pushing on my arms and legs. Ears. Eyes. Nose. Throat. Results of my x-ray. The doctors couldn’t understand how I wasn’t injured more severely. Superficial cuts. Minor abrasions. Not even a concussion. The EMT's were baffled that we were able to climb out of the wreckage of our own accord. That jess was the one to call for the police. The tow truck driver was amazed. Said he has never seen a vehicle look like [that] and not had to pull a body from it. Not exactly a comforting thought when you were one of the bodies that had just crawled through the busted out window. But it was meant to be encouraging. We had become part of the unexplainable. The chiropractor x-rayed Amanda and adjusted and aligned her beat up body. But she found little evidence of trauma. Understanding that her history of adjustments had provided her with a good and healthy base, but still shocked at how well her body had managed to preserve and protect itself. They say that is why accidents seem to happen in slow motion. Gives the body time to react. The brain responds. It is all too amazing to wrap my own around.
Stumbling back out into the road, sunshine was in full effect and it was even more difficult to maintain that this was part of the same day. That the morning had led into this afternoon. That all the events of the early hours had, indeed, occurred. Amanda and I walked slowly towards BIT. Waiting on Nicole. She left work early to meet us. make sure we were okay. Care for us. we have become a close knit group of girls. Amanda, jess, Nicole, sarah. We are a little family. Dinner parties and karaoke. Good times on the mountain. Now, hands to hold and shoulders to cry on. The surealness of the situation only intensified by the absence of jess. She was on a mission to get to Miami. She was headed to the airport on her way to ultra music festival. Meeting friends. Invested a lot of money in the weekend. While Amanda and I were being loaded into an ambulance, jess piled into a shuttle and disappeared down the snowy road, after a quick once over by the EMT and a speedy cleanse and wrap of her hand, she was enroute to Montrose Regional.
All I wanted was a cupcake. Something to bring to Lauren to cheer her up. I was waiting on her phone call. She had amanda’s phone number. Would call us when she arrived. She cried when I talked to her. Blamed herself. I couldn’t bare that thought. We were already headed for a rough weekend. This is not the way we needed to start things off. This was supposed to be good times. A respite from all the noise and commotion of the daily grind. i had caused a new scene. BIT was completely out of frosted goodness. I settled for an apple fritter for the road, and a brownie for Lauren. With Amanda and Nicole in tow we headed to the grocery store to get food for dinner. Veggie chili and pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. Salavage myself in the kitchen. Calm my nerves with teaspoons and measuring cups. Is domesticity a drug? I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Walked through the door to find Lauren seated on the couch. She was exhausted from her early flight. Worn down from the unexpected news. And haggered from the trip cross town. But despite all of this she mustered a gorgeous smile and a huge hug. My promised greeting upon arrival. Number one on the telluride itinerary. Better late than never.
We settled in on couches. Covered up in blankets. Cozy and warm. I cooked dinner. Moving in slow motion. Everything hurt. Every motion felt exaggerated. But grateful to be moving all the same. The girls watched movies and caught up. Trading stories. Telling tales. My favorite thing about telluride: everyone has a story and is genuinely interested in hearing yours. Life’s too short for small talk. And it is refreshing to be in an environment that encourages real conversations. What happens in telluride doesn’t stay in telluride. It’s carried off to the next place. it’s carried with you. perhaps indefinitely. This place is magic. And despite its reputation as a ritzy ski town, I have met some of the most down to earth people, and engaged in the most unexpected conversations. Hour long discussions stemmed from greetings on a street corner. Late night deliberations. Religion. Politics. God. The state of the economy. Baking techniques. Music. There’s a soundtrack for it all.
A car accident is the last way I would have wanted to start this visit with Lauren. Would not have even been listed as an option had I had to create a poll. But I can honestly say it may have been the key factor to what turned a potentially rough weekend into one of the best I have ever had. My injuries were few and insignificant in comparison to the damages I wrought on my roommates SUV. But my boss felt they deserved enough attention that I was given Thursday and Friday off. I would now be able to spend those evenings with Lauren. And while Nicole and Amanda had volunteered to entertain her for me while I was held up at the hotel, we were now all free to enjoy the town together. We spent the next four days attached at the hip. Showing Lauren around and taking it easy. Rest and play. Eating good food and having long talks with everyone we met. Lauren became the mayor of telluride over night. And they welcomed her with open arms. Skiing was sort of off limits. The idea of speeding down a hill was a little intimidating to both Lauren and me. And as the winds kicked up on our last day we ruled it out and opted for a hike in the woods instead. I wanted to get her on the mountain in some capacity. To show her another side of the place I have staked as home. Deep in the aspen groves, tromping though a fresh layer of snow, Lauren post-holed. Burried up to her knees, she burst out laughing. “You love this. Don’t you? You love being here. All of this…I wasn’t kidding about what I said earlier…I can hear you smiling when we talk on the phone.” My mom has made the same claim. It’s true. I do love this place. I feel alive in a way I have not been able to grasp for the past decade. The entire weekend, I kept finding myself looking around at all the people in whatever room we happened to be in. watching the relations. People caring for my friend Lauren. She was their friend now too. and I could feel it. The immense love. Pure and sober. It was there.
“You could have died,” they said. “You guys are so lucky. Everything happens for a reason.”
I finally get it. I am loved.
But why?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
it's all success if it's what you need, do what you like and do it honestly.
there isn't much on television that can hold my attention these days. i feel guilty for holding still. not being in the outdoors. hiking. skiing. soaking up the sunshine and fresh air. but i have my guilty pleasures. er and friday night lights on hulu. what i want when i want it. but dr. carter has officially retired from prime time. so my attention rests on saracen and riggins. probably my favorite show on tv. by far the best production value. amazing cinematography. and the opening credits break my heart. i could listen to that music all day long. simple and sweet.
i recommend a long hike with good friends, but if you're gonna curl up on the couch, at least turn on something quality.
"two years ago i was afraid of wanting anything. i figured wanting would lead to trying and trying would lead to failure. but now i find i can't stop wanting. i want to fly somewhere in first class. i want to travel to europe on a business trip. i want to get invited to the white house. i want to learn about the world. i want to surprise myself. i want to be important. i want to be the best person i can be. i want to define myself instead of having others define me. i want to win and have people be happy for me. i want to lose and get over it. i want to not be afraid of the unknown. i want to grow up and be generous and big hearted the way that people have been with me. i want an interesting and surprising life."
-tyra
i recommend a long hike with good friends, but if you're gonna curl up on the couch, at least turn on something quality.
"two years ago i was afraid of wanting anything. i figured wanting would lead to trying and trying would lead to failure. but now i find i can't stop wanting. i want to fly somewhere in first class. i want to travel to europe on a business trip. i want to get invited to the white house. i want to learn about the world. i want to surprise myself. i want to be important. i want to be the best person i can be. i want to define myself instead of having others define me. i want to win and have people be happy for me. i want to lose and get over it. i want to not be afraid of the unknown. i want to grow up and be generous and big hearted the way that people have been with me. i want an interesting and surprising life." -tyra
Monday, April 6, 2009
i've been waiting for this moment, all my life, oh lord.
in honor of the commercial spin on the easter holiday i would like to give a shout out to cadbury.
here's to a few of my favorite things:
-chocolate.
-phil collins.
-drum playing gorillas.
ENJOY. [thanks jess, for sharing this with me. viva australia!]
here's to a few of my favorite things:
-chocolate.
-phil collins.
-drum playing gorillas.
ENJOY. [thanks jess, for sharing this with me. viva australia!]
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known.
i did not write this.
nor do i know [personally] the man who did.
but i admire his voice.
and i relate to its message. to the heart of the young girl. to her story. and it encourages me to continue to share mine.
[to write love on her arms]
by: jamie tworkowski
"You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters."
Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.
nor do i know [personally] the man who did.
but i admire his voice.
and i relate to its message. to the heart of the young girl. to her story. and it encourages me to continue to share mine.
[to write love on her arms]
by: jamie tworkowski
"You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters."
Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.
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