Striking Back

He sits across from me in a dim café and asks why.  Why, Why, WHY?  Why must life be so damned hard?  Why must we fall, pull ourselves wearily off the rough pavement, take another brave step, only to be knocked back down again?  Where is the meaning, the reason, the purpose, or even the pink neon sign declaring "You're On The Right Track - Keep Going.  Reward 50 Miles Ahead.  Totally Worth It."  Where is the comfort, the deep breath, the lit path?  How dark is this endless night, with its lonely chill and gnawing desperate ache?  And where, tell me, where - where in the fuck - is the dawn?

I answer with four of my very favorite words.

The Empire Strikes Back.

He shoots me a look - a look I love.  It is a charming combination of "are you actually going to say something interesting?" mingled with "you are so much weirder than I originally thought".  Why do I love this particular look?  Because I am about to launch into my sole authentic theory on life. Please don't misunderstand - I say this with no bravado.  I've been on this crazy planet for 33 years and 3 months now and can honestly lay claim to only one solid piece of wisdom; a single scrap of merciful insight that has been granted me after a lifetime of scraped knees and noses.  Not exactly a source of pride.  On the other hand, it's nice to pass along, when given the chance.  And seeing as how our food has not arrived yet and he is trapped on his side of the vinyl booth, I begin...

One day I noticed that when I asked people what their favorite Star Wars movie is, they almost invariably answered with A New Hope or Return of the Jedi.  This came as no surprise and is typical of many trilogies.  The beginning is full of new people, new places, plots, excitement, hustle, bustle and all sorts of hijinx.  The ending, obviously, bears resolution to six-plus hours of epic struggle, villains are vanquished, heroes are heralded, cue triumphant music, celebratory merriment and the gratuitous slapping of backs. 

OF COURSE YOU LIKE IT.

But the true genius and imperative key to the success of the entire Star Wars industry, in fact, lies very humbly hidden in the most unlikely place - the middle.  That's right.  Believe it or not, the real reason you love Luke and Leia, Han and Chewy, Obi, Yoda, Boba and even Jabba is the all-so-important yet wildly under-appreciated

Empire Strikes Back.

Why?  Why, Why WHY?

Because it is there, in the in-between-ness, that the magic happens.  In the mist and muck of Dagobah, on the disturbingly rickety catwalks of a Cloud City air shaft - these are the backdrops to the soul-stretching trials Luke will endure,  transforming him from whiney teenager to Jedi.
Freaking Jedi, people!

  All those heart-warming triumphs in Return Of The Jedi  are impossible without The Empire Strikes Back. Could Luke have resisted the temptation of the dark side without first facing his worst fears in that weird cave Yoda sent him into?  Nope.  Would he have had the courage to march into Jabba's palace and make all those balls-y threats if he hadn't fought Vader, lost, flung himself down that airshaft and lived to tell about it?  Hell no!  Would Luke possess the compassion to save his father, the baddest dude in the known universe (who blew up whole planets just to watch Leia break a sweat), if he hadn't gone through the character-building process of accepting who he truly was and contemplating the profound power of the force?  Hellllllll no!

 Watch A New Hope and try to contend that Luke simply woke up one morning and was like "I think I'll stop throwing tantrums about power converters and save the galaxy, as well as my evil father's soul, cuz I'm feeling quite a bit more noble than I was yesterday."  Impossible.  Luke had to sweat and bleed, have a hand sliced off, cling to a TV antenna for dear life and carry a muppet around on his back while stomping through swamps and levitating stuff.   He had to come to terms with the fact that he'd kissed his sister and his dad was trying to end his life.  He had to slog through all of that and a whole lot more before he got his due.  The resolution, the joyous, badass, high-fiving resolution to it all came only because he slogged first.  It is the slogging that made the finish line both possible and a true triumph.  It's the gut-wrenching awful middle that made the ending so damn good!

"Can you see it?" I say to the boy across the table. "You are in the middle.  the slogging.  the hard work.  the cave. the trials. the muppet in the backpack.  the soul-searching.  
The Empire Strikes Back, dude."

"You are Luke!  And you've got all this amazingness inside you just dying to come forth! You know it and I know it, but it doesn't start oozing out of your pores one day - you must go through your own Empire Strikes Back first.  You've gotta run and sweat and bleed and yell "no, No, That's Not True!  That's Impossible!" with that really unsettling trying-not-to-bawl-like-a-baby look on your face.  You must lose your freaking hand!  Maybe even lose your mind for a bit.  You must suffer."

"Your Return of The Jedi is on it's way, no doubt about it.  I can see it coming and boy, it's gonna be awwwwwwwessssssommmmme.  Blow-up-the-death-star awesome."

"You are Luke!  But nobody likes the middle as much as they like the beginning or the ending.  That's human nature.  And yet, the middle is what brings about the really good stuff so hey - don't write yourself off yet.  Fight.  Grit your teeth.  Dig deep.  Use the force, dude."

"You are a luminous being, not this crude matter.  You are Jedi."

Thus ended my little pep talk - to him, anyways. 
Now I offer it to you.

Do you ever feel like the picture above - like the entire universe has aligned against you?  Like it's all just too hard, too painful, too dark, too overwhelming - like things have simply stopped making sense?  Like you have been getting the crap kicked out of you for as long as you can remember and nothing ever seems to come of it or turn out right or even just give you a moment to catch one ragged, spent breath?  Like the feel of rough pavement against your scraped cheek is better than the insurmountable task of pulling yourself back up again?  Like it's just not worth it anymore?

The. Empire. Strikes. Back.  You are Luke.  Don't write yourself off yet.  You are Jedi.  Hang in.

Sing it loud with me...

White Knuckling, part 1

Long ago I lost someone I deeply cared about.  There's no need to go into details, except to say that for my own survival I had to cut him completely out of my world.  At first it felt as though I had severed a limb.  The loss, the excruciating absence of his presence was agonizing.  Digging to my core I forced myself to move forward. I clenched my teeth.  I gripped the wheel.  I powered through - and slowly the pain subsided to a dull ache. It was an ache that no longer over-powered me; an ache I could lock up tight and sink into the deepest, darkest part of my heart.  An ache I could walk the world with. 

(I know, drama-rama, right?  But if you've ever been there, you know.)

Recently I experienced something different altogether, yet similar; an insatiable need, of sorts, that seemed absolutely desperate at the time.  I turned to my uber-wise and super-awesome sister for strength, comfort, maybe a swift kick in the ass - and she provided (cuz she's rad like that).  She told me that in some addiction counseling groups they use the term "white-knuckling" to describe the kind of intense determination it takes to get through the rough days; the days when you think life just isn't worth living without your fix.

It was this imagery that got me through.  And not just imagery -  from time to time, when I felt the pain and panic welling up inside  me I would literally ball my fists tight, until my knuckles were pale and pulsing.  It made me feel strong and reminded me that I had the power to push past the need, the obsession, the misery.  I had the power to do anything. 

 One day, while pondering on this concept, I recalled the loss of my friend so long ago.  I let it wash over me - the memory of anguish that had eventually dulled to an ache.  And I was finally able to see it all for what it truly was: a lesson in white-knuckling.  I knew I had found my way out of the darkness back then, and I could do it again.

So I sat down and wrote my thoughts into poetry.  It actually doesn't end well, as well as my own real-life ending, anyways.  It is the truth but I didn't paint in the sunshine after the storm.  The poem deals only with the onset and desperation of the white-knuckling concept.  So sorry it's a downer. 

But I like it.

In fact, I'm sharing it with you because it is about to be published.  Furthermore, I've been asked to read it aloud at the publishing party, and I'm scared as hell.  My hope is that offering it up here first, in my own semi-safe space, might ease my nerves.  We'll see....

White Knuckling

by Lauren Horsley

I write

a start

I light

your heart

I fight

this thing

White Knuckling

I drink

you in

I blink

begin

I link

our skin

White Knuckling in

I take

a leap

I fake

you keep

I break

a vow

White Knuckling now

I grip

you run

I slip

undone

I hit

the ground

White Knuckling down

I plead

you're deaf

I bleed

what's left

I need

this fill

White Knuckling still

I wake

not there

I ache

despair

I wait

on you

White Knuckling through

I've tossed

amends

I've crossed

your bends

I've lost

a friend

White Knuckling ends

Pruning

Little known fact about me: I get an inordinate amount of joy from hacking away at my garden.  I'd like to say that I feel remorseful or at least reluctant to plant my knees in the cool, soft dirt and cut, cut, cut...but I don't.  My pruning shears are my favorite gardening tool.  (Actually, I don't own pruning shears because it's always seemed like a job that can be done just as well with scissors.  Which it is, and I do.  So stated correctly, scissors are my favorite gardening tool - and I wield them with vicious delight.)

 However, I'm not completely void of compassion for my victims.   If you were to spy on me as I kneel amongst my front garden flora, you would notice my lips very subtly moving as I work.  And if you leaned in, strained your ears a bit, you might even catch a few softly spoken words here and there...

"...I'm not going to lie, this is gonna hurt.....you'll probably lose bits that you thought were important.....parts you liked....parts you aren't ready to let go of....but please trust me, I know what I'm doing... soon you'll be flowering in all the right places....yes, you're going to have beautiful blossoms and you'll be grateful that I cut as I did, I promise.... for now you'll just have to take my word for it but soon you will see for yourself... just be patient..."

As I comfort my plants during this painful pruning process, I'm often seized by the impulse to metaphorically turn the scissors on myself.  There is much of my internal self that I'd like to cut away and how nice it would be to do it just as simply.  A little flash of steel - snip snap here, snip snap there, and voila!  A perfectly groomed me ready to burst into bloom.  Oh, if only it were that easy.

To my plants my pruning method may seem wild and wicked, but there is a loving judiciousness behind it; a grand design.  Over the years I've developed the ability to swiftly identify the dying and expedite it away from the healthy.  I don't even hesitate when cutting decay and I pleasure in tossing the offending fronds in the bin.  Why then is it so difficult to get rid of the elements in my own life that I know are hurting me?  Why can't I prune myself with the same confidence given to my garden?

There's more delicate work to be done as well.  The shaping, the grooming. Possession of clear vision is all that allows a gardener to slice into the living in the name of preservation. It is a graceful artistry, requiring both deep forethought and honed ruthlessness as one skillfully dictates which foliage to exile (despite their apparent beauty) and which remains.   Because it's not the brown, lifeless leaves that make you pause before you cut.  Oh no.  That's the easy part.  It is getting rid of the seemingly healthy for the good of the whole that's truly courageous.   Throwing the treasure overboard to prevent the ship from sinking.  Hacking off a viable limb to keep the disease from spreading.  That's the kind of internal pruning that takes sick amounts of bravery.  Sick amounts.
 

 

Am I up to the task?  My garden is crowded, over-grown, in desperate need of pruning.  There are things, habits, even people that need to be hacked and tossed, either to get rid of the rot or simply make room for the right things.   It's time to cut away all that is holding me down, holding me back, keeping the blooms from coming forth.  

I can already tell it's gonna hurt like hell.

But I have the very best Gardener.  He knows me through, loves me fully and is the only one that can see ahead and determine what I need and what I don't.  He waits patiently for me to listen to his soft, subtle whispering..."you can trust me, I know what I'm doing... soon you'll be flowering in the most unlikely places..."

Black Hole, Sun

 

For the past five minutes I've been staring at our galaxy's black hole.  Did you know we had one?  It's true - right smack in the middle of the constellation Sagittarius, where several stars are orbiting around what appears to be...nothing.  But of course, we know better, right?  It's actually this massive, dense, soul-taking vacuum, masquerading cleverly as a tiny black spot. I often feel a kinship with this black hole (named Sagittarius A*, but I prefer to call him Alfred) and it's tell-tale cohorts. It sometimes seems I'm caught in an endless whirlpool of banality; circling, circling a hungry nucleus, slowly sucking all the light.   Yet I wonder - do we have a say in the things or people we choose to orbit?  Are we born on our trajectories?  If we want it badly enough, can we break away?  Or do the brutal laws of the Universe apply to us as unforgivingly as they do for Alfred and his hapless victims?

There was a time, not long ago, where I found myself drawn elliptically to a Sun, of sorts, burst unexpectedly onto my horizon.  At first, it was empyrean.  I hadn't realized how cold I'd been for so long until I found its heat.  The warmth and illumination kissing my cheeks felt exquisite - renewing, reviving, enlivening.  I basked, turning fully to its radiance and pronounced it my favorite place in all the Universe.  I allowed the magnetic power of its gravity to pull me in, hold me close. 

Still, the vastness of space pressed at my back, barren and desolate.  I feared the emptiness fiercely and began to crave my Sun's brilliance with a dire need.  The larger it loomed, the more convinced I became that I could not be without it.  Compared to it's seductive umbra, the cosmos seemed to fade away.  Yearning for full eclipse, I tightened my orbit.  It loomed... and then consumed.
  

The tale of my eventual escape is not a pretty one.   I was blinded by the blaze; seared and scorched.  I was teared at, torn, and had to leave pieces of myself behind.  But I did escape; finally free once again to carve my own path.  And in the pain of breaking away, I've come to understand more fully the price of freedom. 

Sagittarius A*, aka Alfred.  Can't see him?  Look closer.

I wish you could see the sky tonight.  The moon is swollen, luminous and the heavens beckon me to join them in a midnight dance.  Alfred the Black Hole says it's really a shame that you're not here to stand in the snowy solitude and stare at him, as I am.  (Alfred's a bit of an egomaniac, but he means well).  I tell him that you are busily orbiting your own celestial bodies - homes, children, shoe closets, parents, ailments, lovers, treadmills, narcotics.  Hungry suns, barren moons or, if you're lucky, a handful of lush green planets.  I try to explain but Alfred happens to be good friends with The Universe, who cares not for the intricacies and delicacies of human interaction.  Furthermore, Black Holes are used to getting their way.  So I argue with him for a bit, but eventually give in and agree that yes, that really is a shame.  At my admittance he puffs up with pride, swallowing several planets in the process.  Greedy bastard.

Wonderland

She began chasing the rabbit long before she stumbled upon the tea party. It was a call she was born to answer, pulling her out of the tall grass in pursuit of purity and purpose. Before long she was shrunk and stretched, confused and contorted, all for the prize of running by his side. But she was never quite quick enough. And eventually, finding herself exhausted from the chase, she stopped to rest.

It was no accident she found her respite in the most unlikely of places - a table set for many, yet permissable to few. No wonder she found comfort in his ramblings; a friend amongst the chipped and mismatched dishes. And no coincidence that she collapsed into the chair next to him. Because it was a seat at his side that she was meant for all along. Not a temporary fancy, but a home amid the madness they secretly shared.  A home. 

I've known for so long that I didn't belong, didn't fit in, didn't add up the way most of the good people that populate my world do.  So I fought it and faked it, as best I could.  Recited the poems, curtsied politely.  A world built by someone else's rules kept me always teetering and ill-balanced, held together by others' good intentions.  Inevitably, a house made of cards can't withstand the wind.   The words stop making sense and the pretense wears you down to the nub.
Eventually, the Queen of Hearts always finds you.

So I'm reconstructing on a new premise.  Assuming the uncommon, accepting my unique, embracing Wonderland.

The lyrics to Avril Lavigne's song "Alice" and their delivery (see the video above) are today's anthem, as I pursue my purpose in the most unlikely places. You're welcome to join me.  There are seats enough for all at this tea party.

Scars

There are three small but noticeable rosey scars on the inside of my upper arm. The largest is only about a centimeter across, the others even tinier. Every time my husband notices them he gets a pained look on his face. I can see in his eyes the recollection of their infliction: the thin tube threaded into the scalpeled gash, quietly making its way under the skin along my bicep, jack-knifing in at the shoulder to nestle it's tip just above my heart. All summer long it stayed in place, a little plastic part of me, delivering toxins that would fry my veins and destroy my stomach lining - but ultimately be my savior. The PIC line itself left only one round mark but the stitches that held it in position those long six weeks tugged and stung and even harbored their own infection from time to time. And produced the larger marks. He asks if these pretty pink scars still hurt and tells me he's sorry that I must bear them on my soft pale skin. He stands above, looking with a tender eye. I tell him that I'm not. Not sorry at all. The marks remind me of where I've come from, where I want to go and the things I never want to take for granted again. I like my scars, I say. He smiles, for all my curious nerve and passion.

A dear friend of mine has wrestled with a dangerous addiction.  Three years ago she began to vanish.  Those who love her refused to let her disappear.  Her hand was forced and health returned - but she can't reconcile it all. We went walking with the moon last night and she wept and lamented the physical scars now weighing her down. I told her she was too young to put all her hopes in just one envelope. She wept again, lamenting the emotional scars now weighing her down. I told her that we've all got them. The surprising thing about scars is that they're secretly on our side. Our best allies.

Peaches and cream. Those are the words my dad always used to describe my snowy complexion. Everyone else just described me as "pale", except my mom who always added "deathly". But not my dad. Even as a young girl (maybe five) I remember him telling me I had perfectly beautiful peaches and cream skin. Skin men would swoon over, the skin of angels. He did not tell me this would come with a price, but I should have known. Even at five I should have known. Definitely by twelve. But the discovery was made instead at age twenty-four while lying in the bathtub, my swollen belly no longer able to submerge. I didn't mind. I liked watching the form of little Jude cause my taught abdomen to bulge in odd places as he made himself comfortable inside me. The left side, my doctor had told me, was higher and more pronounced because his tiny baby bum had nestled just under my rib cage. I greatly enjoyed the thought of this - knowing just how his sweet little body was snuggled up. Plus, it was a good sign, with only four weeks to go - my little one would come into the world head first.

So I lay in the warm water with my rounded form exposed and admired the shape of a girl about to become a mother. I stared with particular love at the left side and patted the baby bum bulge softly. It was then that I noticed a single plum-colored streak angrily stretching in a vertical line up that beloved left side. A poorly taxed left side, apparently. A left side that could bear no more. My pale, perfect skin had given way; split in it's effort to provide a perfect home for my child. After a few moments of speechlessness, I called for my husband. With the unknown soon inevitable, he'd been on high alert for weeks and was tub-side in seconds. Wild eyed, he found me with just one tear on my cheek and no sense of urgency in explaining it's presence. Was it the baby? Was I in pain? Was something wrong? No, no, no, I said. It's this, and I pointed to my left side. He brought his head in close, examining my scar thoughtfully for several seconds, then leaned over and kissed it. "It's your first love mark," he said. "A permenant reminder of the loving sacrifice you've made for our family." It was the right thing to say. I found out later he'd read it somewhere and liked it. Knew I would like it. Knew it was true. Say what you want about the flaws quickly accumulating on my body and in my life - I've done not just one but three near perfect things, and I'm happy. My body bears the scars to prove it, in case I forget.

My friend laughed when I told her the surprising thing about scars, a disbelieving chuckle that she's kept close since the early days of her disillusionment. I told her I'd never been more serious. I told her I was not only grateful for my scars, I desperately need them. Here my voice rose with the intensity of both my gratitude and my need. I'm thirty-two, I said (adding a particularly salient curse word in my head) and I am so tired of making the same mistakes over and over. I'm weary - exhausted, actually - from kicking myself for playing the same fool in the same naive ways; beating myself up for the same screw-ups rooted in the same stupidities. I'm tired and I'm sore. It's time I gain a little ground from all this falling down. Let the wounds teach me as they heal, let the scars serve as reminders of where I've been, what I've been through. But more importantly, what I've learned. What I've learned about finding truth and beauty, love and, most importantly, myself...in the most unlikely places.

Addendum: This was written while listening to "If She Wants Me" by Belle and Sebastian, so a few stray bits of lyric have been interwoven into the essay. Major cred to their brilliance.