While walking through the neighborhood of Wichita yesterday, I saw bright, beautiful, pink, fake flowers. Pictured at the left are not those flowers. Lilies sprouting up unassumingly out of someone's garden.
Someone in my family likes to talk about how the United States is in trouble because of all the shady things that the government does... and the companies.
I'm not so sure. We are still a government by the people. At first glance this sounds absurd – nearly atrocious, perhaps not lacking a firm grounding in reality. This idea is like those fake flowers – beautiful but ultimately pointless. Trouble is, the fake flowers looked real enough to be real. And if I had gone about assuming that every single flower I encountered from then on out was fake, then I would have missed a lot of beauty. This is a trouble with people – it's not so much that we forget to stop and smell the flowers; it's that we assume we already know what every flower smells like.
But life changes everything. No flower can smell the exact same, and you miss out on opportunities by assuming. I've missed out on opportunities by assuming. We miss out on the opportunity to interact with each other when we assume that beauty is fake. Not all of it is. These flowers are living proof of this. Beauty grows out of the dirt; it doesn't live a comfortable life because beauty can't be beauty unless it intimately knows ugly, and fake flowers will never know ugly like fake people will never admit ugly, and it's a tragedy. And I know I'm saying two different things now, but the ugly truth is that we have to fake some beauty until the world can see what we're trying to show it, and we have to be real with our own ugliness or else someone someday may confuse it with beauty. And there's nothing worse than realizing, upon close inspection, that what you thought was real turned out to be nothing but fake.
So here's to being real despite the "ugliness" we think it brings. Everything is a matter of perception, and realizing this is, in itself, an act of great beauty.
Where does poetry come from?
Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.
Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.
Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.
I am a poet.
I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.
I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.
This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson.
Today, I went hiking.
Now, I don't know if you know this, but hiking is at least 48% more beautiful if the person or people you're hiking with are comfortable letting their minds wander like the clouds.
Hiking is at least 65% grander
if you have the opportunity to hold someone's hand.
Regardless of which way the fingers intertwine, your hands suddenly have as many stories to tell as your legs do. A palm reader should be so jealous.
When you're hiking and holding hands with someone who has an open mind, this person will comment on the scenery that wanders through her mind, will let you know the kind of beauty she conjures up in words, and her hands will tell stories of sweat and personal triumph to each one of your fingertips. Your hands will be happy they have something so gorgeous to travel and connect with. You, in turn, will also be happy because holding hands is the nonverbal way of saying, "You're worth it" or "You've got a story worth telling" or "We've really got a shot to make this whole trip memorable."
Maybe this is why I like dancing – I have three minutes to share with someone the feeling of "You're worth it." I get the feeling "I am worth it."
This weekend I learned that being a poet allows me to hold hands with the audience.
This weekend, I learned that stages extend their palms face up and ask anyone who steps upon them, "Would you like to dance?"
Some stages phrase it as a statement. Something like "Show me your moves!" with all the bravado of a falcon.
This weekend I learned that I
am allowed to ask stages to dance.
This weekend I learned that poetry is my basic.
This weekend I learned that I really missed
holding hands like I do when hiking today and that
no stage was substitute for that, but
this weekend,
I learned that I deserve
to be on stage, to ask to hold
my audience's hand, and this
weekend, I learned that
every person has a story to tell, sometimes
they just need someone
to hold their hand and say,
"I love the way you wander."
I learned recently that magic happens. The heart moves faster than eyes can see, so when two hearts which had been moving along parallel lines change their direction to intertwine, something magical happens.
We went to Three Margaritas. I ordered a Macho Burrito. Perhaps for its name sake I wanted to embody a stronger image. She ordered off the appetizer menu – Chicken Floutas, I believe. They brought chips and salsa. Our conversation unfolded coolly to counteract the spice of the salsa. We talked unapologetically while laughing. I could've sworn we unraveled at least one mystery of the universe that night – perhaps that was because she was the epitome of my universe. I think we unraveled into each other over topics like music, like past, like God. I don't think I ever told her how beautiful she is, and to say that I'm not good at compliments simply doesn't seem excuse enough to justify such a glaring omission. When you've got the universe sitting next to you, a few things are going to be outshown by its stars.
I learned recently that magic happens. Hands move faster than eyes can see, so when two hands' lines come together to intertwine, something magical happens.
We arrived at Stargazer's Theatre. The building is a repurposed observatory. I couldn't imagine needing to look up at the sky that night. We took seats in the upper level of the observatory. The stage unfolded before us. Lined with four guitars, three basses, two drum sets, and three keyboards, the stage picked up kinetic energy. It was a rock ready to roll.
The first band came out. Smooth jazz headed by a man who played the flute in just such a style. He called himself Flute Daddy, and this was the name taken by the other members of the band. After their solos, the main member of the ensemble introduced them by their real name. After every solo, he said this name. I still don't remember their names. How could I when I had the universe securely in my arms? If the sun is a beautiful thing to behold, then a universe full of stars is indescribable. I don't remember a smile ever leaving my lips that night.
I learned recently that magic happens. Feet move faster than eyes can see, so when two feet line up their patterns to intertwine with beat, something magical happens.
The second band came up. Dotsero. They played with the intensity of a super-nova. The music was beautiful. Improvised, it wrapped around us like fingers wrap around each other. Unmistakable, the energy filled space, echoed off the roof and wrapped us up together. This music made me feel more connected with the universe than I had ever been previously.
Dotsero asked its audience to dance. The message orbited. Like a satellite, I kept in contact with this request. "Let It Be" as a melody unfolded from a saxophone. The gravity became too much, so I transmitted its message to the stars, said "This is dance-able" and hoped for assent. When a nod responded, I lifted and walked towards an improvised dance floor. I felt the universe following in my footsteps. We arrived and commenced stepping to the rhythm set before us.
The music came to fade.
Every universe needs its constellation, so I dipped her.
Held her close.
Looked into her eyes.
Observed the beauty of the universe unfolding.
I learned recently
that magic happens.
