I honor myself
today. I give myself credit due
and praise for keeping faith
with me. I love that I did it.
It says, I can do it again. And
I will. Maybe not THIS promise
of writing. But another one.
One I'll keep strong like
writing. Flow like thinking.
In the new year, I'll remember
this last day. I will remind
myself that I'm capable
and worth any promise
I make to myself. My new
start is to take complete care
of me: body first, mind first,
soul, first. Nothing is down
the line. It's all a new start.
I will write. Yes.
I will exercise for my health. Yes.
I will eat for my life. Yes.
I will dream for my cosmos. Yes.
I will. Yes. I will. Yes, I will.
This last day, a new start
awaits. I will rest up to get
started tomorrow. Yes. I. will.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 31, 2013
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
ONCE
I fell in love once
and would do it again
as often as possible
until there is nothing
left of my heart but
the memory of pieces
scattered all over
the universe.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 30, 2013
and would do it again
as often as possible
until there is nothing
left of my heart but
the memory of pieces
scattered all over
the universe.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 30, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
DAY 363/WRITING
It's just before midnight
a mystical moment when writing is
possible and needed. It's been 363
days since I said: "every day. no matter
what. in 2013. write." And, even when
I've missed the posts, I have (except
for one day) written. Every. Day.
It is quite possible that I wrote on that day
too... a grocery list, a laundry list, a wish
list, to-do lists, not-yet-done lists, people
I want to meet and places I want to go
lists. So maybe I'm selling myself short,
given my tendencies toward lists.
This morning, I am looking just into this
ticking clock, seconds into this 363-day
promise to myself, to Jaha, and anyone
who might happen by this blog quite
by accident. I did not have the courage
of everyday posting them for the world
to see. I preferred to be an accidental
find, a happen upon read. This day,
I look back at the moments when writing
was not just the last thing I wanted to
do, but the one thing I needed most
to do and couldn't. I look back at the
fear of flying, of failing, of lying, of
truth-telling. I look back at my broken
parts--my heart, my hopes, my promises
to lovers that I couldn't keep and the
abandonment that followed.
I couldn't see the loneliness before this moment--
not clearly, not without the mist of
what I imagined. But here it is, sitting
just on the bed, close enough to
touch. Writing should have been a
better friend to me, a better companion
than it turned out to be. Instead, this
practice, this promise bruised me,
refused me some days. And words
walked in circles, repeating themselves.
But I kept writing them anyway, and
deciding that clouds of words on replay
is not such a bad thing. At least I
was writing them. And I can see them
looking back at me, thanking me
some days. You would to, if you were
a word looking for a page on which
to land.
Who would care that you had been read before
..... slow, fast doesn't matter to most words. And
that is what 364 days have been
without much of a thesaurus. Repeat
is almost a given if you shun the
regular plan of replacing with
synonyms or antonyms or homonyms,
anything beside that word that
insists on popping into your head.
But really: there's no good substitute
for "love." So, why bother?
Tomorrow, I will complete the commitment
to myself with a smug and proud satisfaction.
I will not be denied. Hell, I might even write
TWO entries for 365. Why not be bold
in the finish! Run to the line and cross it
twice, three times before I sit down
and top it off with a glass of wine. Yeah...
I like that. Three. Three... is a magic number.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 29, 2013
a mystical moment when writing is
possible and needed. It's been 363
days since I said: "every day. no matter
what. in 2013. write." And, even when
I've missed the posts, I have (except
for one day) written. Every. Day.
It is quite possible that I wrote on that day
too... a grocery list, a laundry list, a wish
list, to-do lists, not-yet-done lists, people
I want to meet and places I want to go
lists. So maybe I'm selling myself short,
given my tendencies toward lists.
This morning, I am looking just into this
ticking clock, seconds into this 363-day
promise to myself, to Jaha, and anyone
who might happen by this blog quite
by accident. I did not have the courage
of everyday posting them for the world
to see. I preferred to be an accidental
find, a happen upon read. This day,
I look back at the moments when writing
was not just the last thing I wanted to
do, but the one thing I needed most
to do and couldn't. I look back at the
fear of flying, of failing, of lying, of
truth-telling. I look back at my broken
parts--my heart, my hopes, my promises
to lovers that I couldn't keep and the
abandonment that followed.
I couldn't see the loneliness before this moment--
not clearly, not without the mist of
what I imagined. But here it is, sitting
just on the bed, close enough to
touch. Writing should have been a
better friend to me, a better companion
than it turned out to be. Instead, this
practice, this promise bruised me,
refused me some days. And words
walked in circles, repeating themselves.
But I kept writing them anyway, and
deciding that clouds of words on replay
is not such a bad thing. At least I
was writing them. And I can see them
looking back at me, thanking me
some days. You would to, if you were
a word looking for a page on which
to land.
Who would care that you had been read before
..... slow, fast doesn't matter to most words. And
that is what 364 days have been
without much of a thesaurus. Repeat
is almost a given if you shun the
regular plan of replacing with
synonyms or antonyms or homonyms,
anything beside that word that
insists on popping into your head.
But really: there's no good substitute
for "love." So, why bother?
Tomorrow, I will complete the commitment
to myself with a smug and proud satisfaction.
I will not be denied. Hell, I might even write
TWO entries for 365. Why not be bold
in the finish! Run to the line and cross it
twice, three times before I sit down
and top it off with a glass of wine. Yeah...
I like that. Three. Three... is a magic number.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 29, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
GRATEFUL
Grateful for time with family
for Tina's wedding
for Darius' and Deon's laughter
for Brook's and Maribel's love
for Imani's dance
for long-time friends
for all the gifts of
joy and grace.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 28, 2013
for Tina's wedding
for Darius' and Deon's laughter
for Brook's and Maribel's love
for Imani's dance
for long-time friends
for all the gifts of
joy and grace.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 28, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
SETTLING
Your heart deserves so much more
you are beyond the low expectations
you have set for yourself. There is a
path wider, more expansive than
this narrow way you've chosen. You
are settling. And THAT is sad.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 27, 2013
you are beyond the low expectations
you have set for yourself. There is a
path wider, more expansive than
this narrow way you've chosen. You
are settling. And THAT is sad.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 27, 2013
SPINNING
Just barely do I stand steady
on this planet. I feel the spin
some days (I know people say
you can't but I do). I get
nauseous from it, the spinning.
I want the world to make sense,
the news to be good, the people
not to die from stray bullets or
the intended ones. I want the
spinning to be in service to a
cake batter being brought to
perfection. Or a salad dried out
in a bowl made just for the
turning. Some days, I just
want it to stop.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 26, 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
CHRISTMAS DAY
It's almost over.
Thank God.
For what it is supposed to mean.
Maybe, now that the hype is done
We can get back to THAT.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 25, 2013
Thank God.
For what it is supposed to mean.
Maybe, now that the hype is done
We can get back to THAT.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 25, 2013
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
SELFIES
I've never taken a selfie
and given how much I
hate my own face, I never
will. If I could have a
Christmas gift, it would
be this one: the ability
to love myself, my face,
the gut that refuses to
leave, the crazy brain
that won't rest some days,
the fat, short fingers. My
big toe on my right foot
that always hurts. The
arms that are as stubby
as my fingers. I want to
love all of me. I want to
believe that I'm glorious
the way some people
claim. I want to believe
them. I want to love
me. Not more. Once.
I want to love me for once.
That is the Christmas gift
I long for. Please, God.
If you still answer prayers--
if you ever have, please
God. Answer this one
prayer. Give me the capacity
to love me. And help me do
it with abandon. Help me
love this external me, and
the innards that accompany
it. Body of body. Flesh of
flesh. Help me prize it all.
I need an internal selfie
that will make me believe.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 24, 2013
and given how much I
hate my own face, I never
will. If I could have a
Christmas gift, it would
be this one: the ability
to love myself, my face,
the gut that refuses to
leave, the crazy brain
that won't rest some days,
the fat, short fingers. My
big toe on my right foot
that always hurts. The
arms that are as stubby
as my fingers. I want to
love all of me. I want to
believe that I'm glorious
the way some people
claim. I want to believe
them. I want to love
me. Not more. Once.
I want to love me for once.
That is the Christmas gift
I long for. Please, God.
If you still answer prayers--
if you ever have, please
God. Answer this one
prayer. Give me the capacity
to love me. And help me do
it with abandon. Help me
love this external me, and
the innards that accompany
it. Body of body. Flesh of
flesh. Help me prize it all.
I need an internal selfie
that will make me believe.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 24, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
IN EIGHT (8) DAYS
In 8 days, the "commitment"
will have happened. Kept.
Write every day. A poem.
A rant. A story. A letter.
A hope. A cry for help. A cry.
A laugh. A wish. A desire.
In 8 days all the repetitious
words will be over. Then
the hard part starts. A year
of reading how many times
I repeated myself. What was
on my mind over and over.
How I couldn't stop worrying
or longing or loving. And
trying to make some sense
of those words--edit them
to their full truth. Or lie.
Or just give up on it for
a better choice of words.
Reach for a thesaurus
somewhere in my life.
But first I'm going to
celebrate that I kept the
promise to myself. And
make another one. Some
promise to keep. To me.
But first, a good hearty class
of red wine. Rich. Full-bodied.
Tasty. Release. But for now.
I have 8 days in front of me
and a promise I'm bound and
determined to keep.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 23, 2013
will have happened. Kept.
Write every day. A poem.
A rant. A story. A letter.
A hope. A cry for help. A cry.
A laugh. A wish. A desire.
In 8 days all the repetitious
words will be over. Then
the hard part starts. A year
of reading how many times
I repeated myself. What was
on my mind over and over.
How I couldn't stop worrying
or longing or loving. And
trying to make some sense
of those words--edit them
to their full truth. Or lie.
Or just give up on it for
a better choice of words.
Reach for a thesaurus
somewhere in my life.
But first I'm going to
celebrate that I kept the
promise to myself. And
make another one. Some
promise to keep. To me.
But first, a good hearty class
of red wine. Rich. Full-bodied.
Tasty. Release. But for now.
I have 8 days in front of me
and a promise I'm bound and
determined to keep.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 23, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
ONE DAY
She: do you believe me?
He: some days, more than others.
She: why not every day?
He: because some days you lie
She: what makes you know that?
He: you don't do it well
She: one day I'll learn from the best
He: and who is that?
She: I'm holding your hand, dear.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 22, 2013
Saturday, December 21, 2013
NOTHING IS FREE
How did this boy, face dirty from sleeping
in doorways with rats and questions, come
to live in the alley between Broadway and
Congress. The narrow strip marks the
boundaries of his life. He looks reed thin
and smells like the garbage dumpster
behind Applebee's. He knows how to dive
in and search for the least dirty fries
left by some lover so engrossed in conversation
that throw away is the consequence of
words whispered in the near-dark booth.
He has seen them as they gather their coats,
wrap themselves in love and a red scarf
he has learned not to covet. He wraps the
few pieces of newspaper he can find, torn
by feet rushing to work. And he grinds
his life out by learning not to want. Food
is never a desire. It's a way to survive. He
has learned it's not even a daily need
if survival is the only goal. And he does
not set goals anymore. He dreams in
monochrome when he does. He sits over
grates for the heat they give in the cold air
of the city; he removes his shoes to dry his feet
and socks. He has learned all the city's economy
and knows that nothing is free.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 21, 2013
in doorways with rats and questions, come
to live in the alley between Broadway and
Congress. The narrow strip marks the
boundaries of his life. He looks reed thin
and smells like the garbage dumpster
behind Applebee's. He knows how to dive
in and search for the least dirty fries
left by some lover so engrossed in conversation
that throw away is the consequence of
words whispered in the near-dark booth.
He has seen them as they gather their coats,
wrap themselves in love and a red scarf
he has learned not to covet. He wraps the
few pieces of newspaper he can find, torn
by feet rushing to work. And he grinds
his life out by learning not to want. Food
is never a desire. It's a way to survive. He
has learned it's not even a daily need
if survival is the only goal. And he does
not set goals anymore. He dreams in
monochrome when he does. He sits over
grates for the heat they give in the cold air
of the city; he removes his shoes to dry his feet
and socks. He has learned all the city's economy
and knows that nothing is free.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 21, 2013
GRATITUDE/20DEC
Just for life.
For the ability to breathe
in and out
to survive the blight
the craziness around
me and in me.
For life. Grateful.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 20, 2013
For the ability to breathe
in and out
to survive the blight
the craziness around
me and in me.
For life. Grateful.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 20, 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
TALKING TRASH
Don't write checks with your mouth that your body can't cash
I can hear my mama, now
with this a standard line in the
"i'm-going-out-for-the-night" speech
that meant I was in charge of
my sexual choices and if I didn't
mean it, I shouldn't tease it out.
"Don't write checks with your mouth
that your body can't cash."
Or this one:
"I can't be in the car with you"
which of course meant
"I'm in that car with you in your head"
and was the quintessential mood killer
I mean "let's get it on" and "me and
mrs. jones" didn't stand a chance
with Bernice as my back-up singer
in my thoughts.
Stan told me once that I was good
at talking trash. He said I turned
dudes on (really, he said 'dudes')
with my mouth and my bedroom eyes
which, for me, was a high compliment
I mean, who doesn't want "eye power"?
and I had it. So I could talk trash
without opening my mouth or
hiking my mini skirt. I understood
the power of clothes and eyelashes
I mean, if you're gonna talk trash
you need well-groomed eyelashes
tip 101: don't make promises with your kisses
that your hips don't intend to deliver
ice queen tease... that's what the boys
I hung out with called it. And I paid
attention to the way the guys talked
about the girls I wasn't--I was the
locker room queen, the sister-friend
that heard all the details. And all I wanted
was not to be the subject of the
conversation. Because I was
always in the mix, talking trash.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 19, 2013
I can hear my mama, now
with this a standard line in the
"i'm-going-out-for-the-night" speech
that meant I was in charge of
my sexual choices and if I didn't
mean it, I shouldn't tease it out.
"Don't write checks with your mouth
that your body can't cash."
Or this one:
"I can't be in the car with you"
which of course meant
"I'm in that car with you in your head"
and was the quintessential mood killer
I mean "let's get it on" and "me and
mrs. jones" didn't stand a chance
with Bernice as my back-up singer
in my thoughts.
Stan told me once that I was good
at talking trash. He said I turned
dudes on (really, he said 'dudes')
with my mouth and my bedroom eyes
which, for me, was a high compliment
I mean, who doesn't want "eye power"?
and I had it. So I could talk trash
without opening my mouth or
hiking my mini skirt. I understood
the power of clothes and eyelashes
I mean, if you're gonna talk trash
you need well-groomed eyelashes
tip 101: don't make promises with your kisses
that your hips don't intend to deliver
ice queen tease... that's what the boys
I hung out with called it. And I paid
attention to the way the guys talked
about the girls I wasn't--I was the
locker room queen, the sister-friend
that heard all the details. And all I wanted
was not to be the subject of the
conversation. Because I was
always in the mix, talking trash.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 19, 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
TODAY'S BLESSING
A blessing for today:
May God strengthen you for adversity
and companion you in joy.
May God give you the courage of your conviction
and the wisdom to know when to speak and act.
May you know peace.
May you be gifted with deep,
true friendship and love.
May every God-breathed thing you put
your hand to prosper and succeed.
May you have laughter to fortify you
against the disappointments.
May you be brave.
© Valerie Bridgeman
May God strengthen you for adversity
and companion you in joy.
May God give you the courage of your conviction
and the wisdom to know when to speak and act.
May you know peace.
May you be gifted with deep,
true friendship and love.
May every God-breathed thing you put
your hand to prosper and succeed.
May you have laughter to fortify you
against the disappointments.
May you be brave.
© Valerie Bridgeman
TIS THE SEASON/JAHA
Dear Jaha,
I wonder if your brain and heart are on overload, like mine.
I've been in several conversations today, mostly about how "public
intellectuals" talk about the wrong things. I don't know.
I think the fact that Beyonce dropped an album and talked
about feminism and BDSM and bitches is worth a conversation.
She did, after all, have a baby girl on her hip the whole time.
You and I, we know something about working and holding babies.
We hold our babies and other's on our hips all the time while we
weep over our dead ones.
I don't even know how to talk about "affluenza," and our son, Dione Payne, 16,
robbed, beaten, and sexually assaulted by 36-year-old Michael and
39-year-old Michael. They are charged with aggravated robbery
and aggravated murder. We know about aggravation--damn! And
they dropped his limp body off at an emergency room to die--
WHAT? did the burly Southern white racist men who raped him,
beat him, suddenly have a wave of compassion? Is that even
possible after you've beaten someone within a gasp of his last breath?
I mean, the emergency room ride doesn't make sense in a world
where we can't keep our children safe on our hips, safe from affluenza
or from white men who don't know the worth of black bodies. I am tired
of writing THESE kinds of posts--aren't you?
It's been a hard year in the world that is not safe for us, for our children.
And then, today, I'm having a conversation with a public intellectual
who says black women, that is, women like me and you--feminist, strong
take-no-tea-for-the-fever women--Jaha, he had the nerve to say
we hate black men. It was a sweeping, all-encompassing statement.
You know, I will admit. Some black women hate black men. It's not like
they don't have the scars, the rapes, the cigarette burns to fuel that hatred.
But to say we all hate black men? It's a wonder we don't. But we'll hurl
ourselves into all kinds of twisted contortions to keep from holding
a black man accountable. Some grown black men--we'll walk them
all the way back to their sorry excuses and write them out in cursive, in our
own blood if we have to, just so they won't have to say, "sorry." We love
them like that against our own lives.
It's been a hard day, and still I'm grateful. It's the season for gratitude.
But it's hard, when black boy's deaths make us weep so hard our eyes
swell and some black man says we don't love them, while we're
looking for another hip to swing them on, so we can protect the
whole lot of them--even if we die.
Be brave. Keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 18, 2013
I wonder if your brain and heart are on overload, like mine.
I've been in several conversations today, mostly about how "public
intellectuals" talk about the wrong things. I don't know.
I think the fact that Beyonce dropped an album and talked
about feminism and BDSM and bitches is worth a conversation.
She did, after all, have a baby girl on her hip the whole time.
You and I, we know something about working and holding babies.
We hold our babies and other's on our hips all the time while we
weep over our dead ones.
I don't even know how to talk about "affluenza," and our son, Dione Payne, 16,
robbed, beaten, and sexually assaulted by 36-year-old Michael and
39-year-old Michael. They are charged with aggravated robbery
and aggravated murder. We know about aggravation--damn! And
they dropped his limp body off at an emergency room to die--
WHAT? did the burly Southern white racist men who raped him,
beat him, suddenly have a wave of compassion? Is that even
possible after you've beaten someone within a gasp of his last breath?
I mean, the emergency room ride doesn't make sense in a world
where we can't keep our children safe on our hips, safe from affluenza
or from white men who don't know the worth of black bodies. I am tired
of writing THESE kinds of posts--aren't you?
It's been a hard year in the world that is not safe for us, for our children.
And then, today, I'm having a conversation with a public intellectual
who says black women, that is, women like me and you--feminist, strong
take-no-tea-for-the-fever women--Jaha, he had the nerve to say
we hate black men. It was a sweeping, all-encompassing statement.
You know, I will admit. Some black women hate black men. It's not like
they don't have the scars, the rapes, the cigarette burns to fuel that hatred.
But to say we all hate black men? It's a wonder we don't. But we'll hurl
ourselves into all kinds of twisted contortions to keep from holding
a black man accountable. Some grown black men--we'll walk them
all the way back to their sorry excuses and write them out in cursive, in our
own blood if we have to, just so they won't have to say, "sorry." We love
them like that against our own lives.
It's been a hard day, and still I'm grateful. It's the season for gratitude.
But it's hard, when black boy's deaths make us weep so hard our eyes
swell and some black man says we don't love them, while we're
looking for another hip to swing them on, so we can protect the
whole lot of them--even if we die.
Be brave. Keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 18, 2013
REGULAR
I don't understand why it surprises me, the grief,
seeing how it comes on a regular schedule.
It snatches the edges of my mind and demands
I think of you. These thoughts come now with
tears, sometimes torrential, sometimes slow,
but always, always with the salty taste of
memories and what I've lost, what you've lost
even if you won't admit it to yourself. I wonder,
as I sob into my hands, if you ever have these
moments--or if you've mastered your ducts
as much as you've mastered your emotions--
your will to not feel a thing for me after years
of tender touch and tone. I wonder, as salt
collects on my eyelashes, as I try to remind
myself that fried green tomatoes are only
comfort food to me, that I am not an answer
to some riddle in your mind. I am just the
last bit of residue to be swept out the door
with the dirt, a regular kind of cleaning,
I suppose. I wonder if you are surprised
by a sudden onset of feelings, the phantom
press of fingers on your chest and the way
we always brushed our lips before we kissed.
Grief brings these tormenting memories
to me, like elves busy for Christmas, and
I want nothing but sleep.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 18, 2013
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
DEAR LOVE #18
Nothing comforts as much
as a hug, not too tight,
but full and strong. I am
comforted. Thank you,
Love.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 17, 2013
as a hug, not too tight,
but full and strong. I am
comforted. Thank you,
Love.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 17, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
THINK
I am grateful that I can think
even if I'm thinking about
nothing I'm working on;
even though my thoughts
are scrambled and on to
a thousand different
concepts; I can think. It's
sorting out my thoughts I'm
working on today. Breathe.
Think. Think some more.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 16, 2013
even if I'm thinking about
nothing I'm working on;
even though my thoughts
are scrambled and on to
a thousand different
concepts; I can think. It's
sorting out my thoughts I'm
working on today. Breathe.
Think. Think some more.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 16, 2013
ON JACOB
When you're used to deception, everything goes in that direction.
Biblical Jacob is the quintessential trickster. He thrived on it.
And he became one of the "father's of the faith.
I have no beef with people's past.
But when we're told that past was a part of the plan and not that he
just stepped all over a better way to do it--I have beef. Jacob was
shady. And a coward. I won't be celebrating that anytime soon.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 15, 2013
Biblical Jacob is the quintessential trickster. He thrived on it.
And he became one of the "father's of the faith.
I have no beef with people's past.
But when we're told that past was a part of the plan and not that he
just stepped all over a better way to do it--I have beef. Jacob was
shady. And a coward. I won't be celebrating that anytime soon.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 15, 2013
Saturday, December 14, 2013
THE WORK
Your mouth, my mama said, will get you in trouble one day.
She knew me well, even then, hand on hip not at all defiant.
I should tell you--she was smiling when she said it. Proud of
the daughter she was raising, teaching me to ask questions,
to fight for the weak among us--mind you, I was a runt of a child,
90 lbs soaking wet, under 5 feet. But what I've never been
is a weakling. I refuse to back down. But I have learned the
art of separating, of retreat, of licking wounds, and drinking
hot mint tea with honey and lime in it as comfort, a minor cure
for what ails me. And I know how to love, even when it hurts
to trust, to let go and to open wide my arms. I can see the
knife coming--you don't have to stab me in the back. My
heart catches the blade plenty of times. And I just keep
loving because--that's the work. To love the world and
all who are in it, even the most vile--especially when I
deem myself chief among sinners. My mama taught me:
baby, you gotta love yourself, even the worst parts of you.
And I confess, my chief sin is not loving the worst or
the best of me some days. But that, I know, is the work.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 14, 2013
She knew me well, even then, hand on hip not at all defiant.
I should tell you--she was smiling when she said it. Proud of
the daughter she was raising, teaching me to ask questions,
to fight for the weak among us--mind you, I was a runt of a child,
90 lbs soaking wet, under 5 feet. But what I've never been
is a weakling. I refuse to back down. But I have learned the
art of separating, of retreat, of licking wounds, and drinking
hot mint tea with honey and lime in it as comfort, a minor cure
for what ails me. And I know how to love, even when it hurts
to trust, to let go and to open wide my arms. I can see the
knife coming--you don't have to stab me in the back. My
heart catches the blade plenty of times. And I just keep
loving because--that's the work. To love the world and
all who are in it, even the most vile--especially when I
deem myself chief among sinners. My mama taught me:
baby, you gotta love yourself, even the worst parts of you.
And I confess, my chief sin is not loving the worst or
the best of me some days. But that, I know, is the work.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 14, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
DEAR LOVE #17
My eyes hurt from being in front of the computer for almost three days straight, stopping only to eat, sleep, and cuddle with a someone who loves me even when I'm prickly. And what I've learned is that I can be really prickly sometimes when I'm absorbed in a project. And you just make the best cup of coffee, bring it to me and kiss me on my forehead. I am comforted by the warmth of both.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 13, 2013
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 13, 2013
GRACE/SOMETIMES
Mary stops in the middle of the street
confused, maybe, by the cars and buses
whizzing by her. The drivers, distracted
by phones and worries, don't seem to
notice--the only evidence that they do
is that Mary is not hit head-on.
Grace sometimes joins her, holding
her hand, hoping she will keep
moving, praying she will. Grace
looks at the light as it turns/blinks
green/yellow/red... she knows
it's only a matter of time before
tragedy meets them both. But
Mary is a believer. Life, to her,
is non-negotiable. And she plans
to live. Forever.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 12, 2013
Grace sometimes joins her, holding
her hand, hoping she will keep
moving, praying she will. Grace
looks at the light as it turns/blinks
green/yellow/red... she knows
it's only a matter of time before
tragedy meets them both. But
Mary is a believer. Life, to her,
is non-negotiable. And she plans
to live. Forever.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 12, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
GET IT IN
Take your time, friend.
Get it in.
You are the only one
that matters when
your life is on the line.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 11, 2013
Get it in.
You are the only one
that matters when
your life is on the line.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 11, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
NO WOMEN PRESENT
The brothers gathered and decided
that they were the leaders for this
season. They were the shift. OK.
In a preemptive response a letter
went out saying that women were
invited but couldn't come. OK.
I'm. not. buying. it.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 10, 2013
Monday, December 9, 2013
MONDAYS
I don't do well on Mondays
or after what some say was
a successful event, time, moment
I can't hold on to it. I can know
it's the depression that hunts me
down, just on my heels. But I stil
can't hold on to it. I can't believe
my eyes or ears, or the nice words
people say. I especially have a
word time with the word "blessed"
on Mondays. If I'm looking at
the money after a "successful"
time, I especially don't do well
on Mondays. Because it's never
enough. And if "favor" comes in
the color green, then I feel cursed,
especially on Mondays.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 9, 2013
or after what some say was
a successful event, time, moment
I can't hold on to it. I can know
it's the depression that hunts me
down, just on my heels. But I stil
can't hold on to it. I can't believe
my eyes or ears, or the nice words
people say. I especially have a
word time with the word "blessed"
on Mondays. If I'm looking at
the money after a "successful"
time, I especially don't do well
on Mondays. Because it's never
enough. And if "favor" comes in
the color green, then I feel cursed,
especially on Mondays.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 9, 2013
LAY IT DOWN
"It's been a hard day's night"
and I haven't been able to rest
my mind won't stop
neither will my heart
I just want to lay it down.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 9, 2013
and I haven't been able to rest
my mind won't stop
neither will my heart
I just want to lay it down.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 9, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
UNWANTED
What I would pay in order
to be wanted, professionally
and otherwise. Not even
an interested email. It must
be true. I'm not anybody.
OK. I give up.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 8, 2013
to be wanted, professionally
and otherwise. Not even
an interested email. It must
be true. I'm not anybody.
OK. I give up.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 8, 2013
THE FUNK
I should be happy, right?
It was a success
everybody said so
but I am tired of counting
the pennies and wondering
who I can hit up to help
make up the difference
and I can't do it myself
so I can't even fake
the funk.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 7, 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
MADIBA 2
Here's what they will say Baba:
they will say you were a peace-maker
that you did not despise your jailers
that at your inauguration as the first
black president of South Africa, your
jailers sit on the front row. That your
captors smiled at you as you were
sworn in to lead a country they
ravished (remember how Botha
gave money from the national treasure
to white Afrikaaners just before you
were elected and left the country
bankrupt?). They will say you were
a lion, yes, but tame and toothless
that in your old age--71 when you
emerged from Robben Island--
you had mellowed, that you were
no longer "a terrorist." They will
say that you were no threat to anyone
after being broken 27 years in a
cell; that your tear ducts were a
necessary sacrifice for the lives
lost because of a revolution you
insisted must happen--why should
you be able to cry, Baba, given all
the tears you caused? They will
say it is best to find the most
benign sayings you ever said, that
you--like Martin and Malcolm--
saw the light in the end and knew
the joy of "good white people," that
you did not wish ill on the most
evil among them. They will say
you called evil good.
We will have to piece together a picture
of you from all your lives--not just the one
the tamed ones want to portray. We know,
Baba, that you are a warrior, a freedom
fighter, that you chose not to hate in order
to be the ruler of your own soul--it was
a strategy for survival and for revolution.
Love always is. I don't know how, Great
Lion. But we will not let them paint
you toothless. We know you fierce. We
know you proud. We know you leader.
We know you strong. We will not let
them leave you, weak and mild in the
corner of history when you stood strong
for the world, for us. Somehow, Baba,
we will help keep the story straight.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 6, 2013
they will say you were a peace-maker
that you did not despise your jailers
that at your inauguration as the first
black president of South Africa, your
jailers sit on the front row. That your
captors smiled at you as you were
sworn in to lead a country they
ravished (remember how Botha
gave money from the national treasure
to white Afrikaaners just before you
were elected and left the country
bankrupt?). They will say you were
a lion, yes, but tame and toothless
that in your old age--71 when you
emerged from Robben Island--
you had mellowed, that you were
no longer "a terrorist." They will
say that you were no threat to anyone
after being broken 27 years in a
cell; that your tear ducts were a
necessary sacrifice for the lives
lost because of a revolution you
insisted must happen--why should
you be able to cry, Baba, given all
the tears you caused? They will
say it is best to find the most
benign sayings you ever said, that
you--like Martin and Malcolm--
saw the light in the end and knew
the joy of "good white people," that
you did not wish ill on the most
evil among them. They will say
you called evil good.
We will have to piece together a picture
of you from all your lives--not just the one
the tamed ones want to portray. We know,
Baba, that you are a warrior, a freedom
fighter, that you chose not to hate in order
to be the ruler of your own soul--it was
a strategy for survival and for revolution.
Love always is. I don't know how, Great
Lion. But we will not let them paint
you toothless. We know you fierce. We
know you proud. We know you leader.
We know you strong. We will not let
them leave you, weak and mild in the
corner of history when you stood strong
for the world, for us. Somehow, Baba,
we will help keep the story straight.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 6, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
MADIBA
Dear Rolihlahla Dalibhunga ("Nelson") Mandela (Madiba):
You left us today. You left this earth plane
and ascended to the realm of the Ancestors
into the arms of Almighty God. I have not
cried. I don't know that I will. Not because I
do not feel the loss, but because this leaving
seems so much like something of us is
gone--human soul, human decency. It's not
that we were more decent with you here,
just that we could be reminded, chastened
even by your gigantic humanness. My tears
have not come because I am struggling
to find my human parts, the parts you
awakened. I'm too petty to be compared to you.
The best I can do toward my enemies--most
days--is ignore them. When I am vulnerable
I pray for them, but I'm not convinced that
my praying is not selfish--an act to protect
myself as much as change the world.
You were subjected to horrors I cannot
wrap my mind around. I walked into the
cell on Robben Island where you lived for 27 years
--where you were allowed one visitor per year
for 30 minutes for 27 years. How you came
out glorious instead of a luminous madman
is a wonder, the ultimate proof of miracle.
That you came out not raging--a mystery.
Venerable Elder of the Human Tribe
your legacy is deep, wide, long, and full.
I bow in honor of the life you lived in resistance
to the death-dealing Apartheid that cut at
black South African souls. You shone for
us. You SHINE now. I bow. I bow.
We are more human because of you.
Rest, Great Lion. Rise as a great Ancestor
not just to your bloodline, but for us all, egan.
We need you. Now, more than ever.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 5, 2013
Rolihlahla Dalibhunga ("Nelson") Mandela (Madiba): Born July 18, 1918. Died December 5, 2013.
You left us today. You left this earth plane
and ascended to the realm of the Ancestors
into the arms of Almighty God. I have not
cried. I don't know that I will. Not because I
do not feel the loss, but because this leaving
seems so much like something of us is
gone--human soul, human decency. It's not
that we were more decent with you here,
just that we could be reminded, chastened
even by your gigantic humanness. My tears
have not come because I am struggling
to find my human parts, the parts you
awakened. I'm too petty to be compared to you.
The best I can do toward my enemies--most
days--is ignore them. When I am vulnerable
I pray for them, but I'm not convinced that
my praying is not selfish--an act to protect
myself as much as change the world.
You were subjected to horrors I cannot
wrap my mind around. I walked into the
cell on Robben Island where you lived for 27 years
--where you were allowed one visitor per year
for 30 minutes for 27 years. How you came
out glorious instead of a luminous madman
is a wonder, the ultimate proof of miracle.
That you came out not raging--a mystery.
Venerable Elder of the Human Tribe
your legacy is deep, wide, long, and full.
I bow in honor of the life you lived in resistance
to the death-dealing Apartheid that cut at
black South African souls. You shone for
us. You SHINE now. I bow. I bow.
We are more human because of you.
Rest, Great Lion. Rise as a great Ancestor
not just to your bloodline, but for us all, egan.
We need you. Now, more than ever.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 5, 2013
Rolihlahla Dalibhunga ("Nelson") Mandela (Madiba): Born July 18, 1918. Died December 5, 2013.
DEAR JAHA/STILL WRITING
Dear Jaha,
I had one of those days yesterday where I wish I could start over.
I got up after what I thought was a restful sleep, ready
to take on the day. I needed to finish a couple of projects.
But I procrastinated all damn day long. All day. Nothing
motivated me. Not the fact that I needed to wash my
underwear. Not the packing for the trip. Not "but I'm leaving
for the airport at 4:15 am for a 6 am flight." Nothing. Not one
thing motivated me from watching Law & Order (with a
brief interruption of Jeopardy!) and trolling Facebook, "liking"
first one status and then another. I knew I needed to pack. I
knew i needed to write. I knew this report needed to be in.
I also knew I needed to go to the bank. And wash my hair.
But it was 8 pm before I did anything that even LOOKED
productive... I put a load in the washer and hopped in the
shower to wash my hair. Mission. Part 1 and 2 accomplished.
These kinds of days wear me out. They make me feel
worthless, shiftless, lazy, no-good (see how I talk about myself
when I'm procrastinating?). It's just maddening and makes
me wonder if things will ever change. Oh, I do pray--all the
time. I meditate. I "think positive thoughts." But I still am
overtaken by these negative, neverending thoughts that
make me out to be the villain in my own life. In these days,
there is no shine on my life. And then I remembered
that I was leaving at 4:30 and traveling all day and would
have to get a poem or something in before the day was
over and just couldn't imagine how that was going to happen.
So just after midnight, I'm writing you. I'll actually see you
in a few hours as we descend onto Washington, DC
for our WomanPreach! event that will shake lives, including
our own. We'll meet new people and reconnect with old ones.
That's the good part of the work we do together.
I'm having conversations with you in my head,
hoping that you know what I mean, even if I'm not saying
what I'm thinking. But you've heard it before, felt it even.
That's why I'm still writing. Because I know for sure you know.
Thank you. For knowing. And for getting to know me.
It makes me feel less alone in the world.
Keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 5, 2013
I had one of those days yesterday where I wish I could start over.
I got up after what I thought was a restful sleep, ready
to take on the day. I needed to finish a couple of projects.
But I procrastinated all damn day long. All day. Nothing
motivated me. Not the fact that I needed to wash my
underwear. Not the packing for the trip. Not "but I'm leaving
for the airport at 4:15 am for a 6 am flight." Nothing. Not one
thing motivated me from watching Law & Order (with a
brief interruption of Jeopardy!) and trolling Facebook, "liking"
first one status and then another. I knew I needed to pack. I
knew i needed to write. I knew this report needed to be in.
I also knew I needed to go to the bank. And wash my hair.
But it was 8 pm before I did anything that even LOOKED
productive... I put a load in the washer and hopped in the
shower to wash my hair. Mission. Part 1 and 2 accomplished.
These kinds of days wear me out. They make me feel
worthless, shiftless, lazy, no-good (see how I talk about myself
when I'm procrastinating?). It's just maddening and makes
me wonder if things will ever change. Oh, I do pray--all the
time. I meditate. I "think positive thoughts." But I still am
overtaken by these negative, neverending thoughts that
make me out to be the villain in my own life. In these days,
there is no shine on my life. And then I remembered
that I was leaving at 4:30 and traveling all day and would
have to get a poem or something in before the day was
over and just couldn't imagine how that was going to happen.
So just after midnight, I'm writing you. I'll actually see you
in a few hours as we descend onto Washington, DC
for our WomanPreach! event that will shake lives, including
our own. We'll meet new people and reconnect with old ones.
That's the good part of the work we do together.
I'm having conversations with you in my head,
hoping that you know what I mean, even if I'm not saying
what I'm thinking. But you've heard it before, felt it even.
That's why I'm still writing. Because I know for sure you know.
Thank you. For knowing. And for getting to know me.
It makes me feel less alone in the world.
Keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 5, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
DEAR JAHA/WRITING WITH YOU
Dear Jaha,
It's December 4 and we've been at this writing thing
all year. I'm not always happy with what I post--and I've
only missed one day (completely), but to date I have
386 pieces logged for this year. And since the goal
was 365 (one-a-day-for-a-year), I'm technically done,
right? Except the deal isn't in the numbers, but the
dailiness of it all. Can you get up and make yourself
write something--anything--everyday? I mean, I'm a
writer for godsake. I should be able to think of something
worth putting on the screen, in my journal.
Oh, snap! I think I've told you before, but none of these
pieces are in a journal anywhere--which is very weird to me
since I used to worry about people finding my journals
with my guts sprayed all over them, and how my
legacy would be ruined when they discovered my
dark and brooding life. But this year, much of that
life has been on display in these words and on this blog
and in the commitment to write every day.
I know you'll understand when I say: there have been days
when I've cursed the day I made the decision to write
and when I told you that I would. Because of course,
the day I told you that I would write, it became real.
I had to. I have to. Even when my mind is blank
or tired or just depressed because it's hard. But
I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.
I could/maybe even should just post Love Notes
to my lover or gratitude/thank you notes for myself.
But some days, I don't feel any of that. I just
feel broken. Or bruised. Or needy. And God, I
hate to feel needy! But you know that, too.
From here, we have 27 days to go. We have
WomanPreach and Christmas, you have Red Stories
and plans to negotiate--the how and the what of daily
living. And we have each other and
the knowledge that we're both writing.
Because we said we would.
And we're keeping the
promise to each other.
I think I wrote all these words in gratitude,
to say 'thank you.' So, thank you.
And keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 4, 2013
It's December 4 and we've been at this writing thing
all year. I'm not always happy with what I post--and I've
only missed one day (completely), but to date I have
386 pieces logged for this year. And since the goal
was 365 (one-a-day-for-a-year), I'm technically done,
right? Except the deal isn't in the numbers, but the
dailiness of it all. Can you get up and make yourself
write something--anything--everyday? I mean, I'm a
writer for godsake. I should be able to think of something
worth putting on the screen, in my journal.
Oh, snap! I think I've told you before, but none of these
pieces are in a journal anywhere--which is very weird to me
since I used to worry about people finding my journals
with my guts sprayed all over them, and how my
legacy would be ruined when they discovered my
dark and brooding life. But this year, much of that
life has been on display in these words and on this blog
and in the commitment to write every day.
I know you'll understand when I say: there have been days
when I've cursed the day I made the decision to write
and when I told you that I would. Because of course,
the day I told you that I would write, it became real.
I had to. I have to. Even when my mind is blank
or tired or just depressed because it's hard. But
I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.
I could/maybe even should just post Love Notes
to my lover or gratitude/thank you notes for myself.
But some days, I don't feel any of that. I just
feel broken. Or bruised. Or needy. And God, I
hate to feel needy! But you know that, too.
From here, we have 27 days to go. We have
WomanPreach and Christmas, you have Red Stories
and plans to negotiate--the how and the what of daily
living. And we have each other and
the knowledge that we're both writing.
Because we said we would.
And we're keeping the
promise to each other.
I think I wrote all these words in gratitude,
to say 'thank you.' So, thank you.
And keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 4, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
BEING
Today, I'm being
busy being on point
being real
being right here
for myself
being just me
in a way
I sometimes
am not
being still
being real real
being real still
being real on point
being me.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 3, 2013
busy being on point
being real
being right here
for myself
being just me
in a way
I sometimes
am not
being still
being real real
being real still
being real on point
being me.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 3, 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
ACCOUNTING
Accounting for the anguish
that grips a mind, when logic
is the last thing to stand, when
people think depression is
just something you can
"snap out of," or that you're
"just being overly dramatic"
or "trying to get attention,"
it's no wonder the silence
kills us as much as the
what our minds betray
us. We can't help the thoughts
that stalk us, convince us
that we're no good, that the
world would be better off
without us, that it would be
charity to end it all, to take
one's own life. People who've
never suffered these insufferable
thoughts look as if we've
grown a third head, the second
one being the head that
holds the brain we don't
recognize... that brain
that testifies to just how
unworthy we are in spite
of all the accolades or
how many lovers or friends
tell us we're wonderful.
On our sane days, we
tell ourselves we are
glorious, and believe it.
But then there's this first
head where the brain is
broken and the thinking
is distorted and full
of holes and horror
and it's all we can do
to hold back the raging
that threatens to take
us down, even while
we're smiling at the world.
It's why someone can
kill themselves
and the testimony will be:
she seemed so stable,
so "logical," so full of life.
"I'd never have pegged
her as suicidal." Or,
the worst: "How SELFISH
of him to not think about
how his death would
affect those around him,
how THEY would be
left holding the bag and
feeling guilty." And I just
want to point out--though
I can't be sure, but I'd
take this bet everyday--
that the person who tries
and fails or tries and
succeeds at killing
herself couldn't think
beyond the overwhelming
thought that death would
be kinder than the
tormenting thoughts,
the anguish, the
hellish accusations
of nothingness that
dogged her, that would
not let her out of
their grip. I'd take
that bet everyday
that the person wrapped
in mental and emotional
pain struggles just
to get out of bed,
that standing is a
gigantic accomplishment
when the most she really
wants is to lay down and
die--not kill herself: die.
without the struggle.
without having to explain
to one more person
who no matter how many
times they say she's beautiful
or accomplished or smart
or any other thing meant
to make her snap out of it,
it doesn't work because--
it doesn't work.
And perpetually happy-go-lucky
people will never understand
these diseases and will only make
the mentally ill, the emotionally
struggling, the suicidally proned
feel even more inadequate.
Look, I don't have any answers about
what to do about what I'm telling you.
But take my word for it: there's no
easy accounting for why some
people's brains and emotions
are perfectly fine while the rest of us
are broken, and we struggle
to believe (to HOPE) that it's
not beyond repair.
Ask me how I know.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 2, 2013
that grips a mind, when logic
is the last thing to stand, when
people think depression is
just something you can
"snap out of," or that you're
"just being overly dramatic"
or "trying to get attention,"
it's no wonder the silence
kills us as much as the
what our minds betray
us. We can't help the thoughts
that stalk us, convince us
that we're no good, that the
world would be better off
without us, that it would be
charity to end it all, to take
one's own life. People who've
never suffered these insufferable
thoughts look as if we've
grown a third head, the second
one being the head that
holds the brain we don't
recognize... that brain
that testifies to just how
unworthy we are in spite
of all the accolades or
how many lovers or friends
tell us we're wonderful.
On our sane days, we
tell ourselves we are
glorious, and believe it.
But then there's this first
head where the brain is
broken and the thinking
is distorted and full
of holes and horror
and it's all we can do
to hold back the raging
that threatens to take
us down, even while
we're smiling at the world.
It's why someone can
kill themselves
and the testimony will be:
she seemed so stable,
so "logical," so full of life.
"I'd never have pegged
her as suicidal." Or,
the worst: "How SELFISH
of him to not think about
how his death would
affect those around him,
how THEY would be
left holding the bag and
feeling guilty." And I just
want to point out--though
I can't be sure, but I'd
take this bet everyday--
that the person who tries
and fails or tries and
succeeds at killing
herself couldn't think
beyond the overwhelming
thought that death would
be kinder than the
tormenting thoughts,
the anguish, the
hellish accusations
of nothingness that
dogged her, that would
not let her out of
their grip. I'd take
that bet everyday
that the person wrapped
in mental and emotional
pain struggles just
to get out of bed,
that standing is a
gigantic accomplishment
when the most she really
wants is to lay down and
die--not kill herself: die.
without the struggle.
without having to explain
to one more person
who no matter how many
times they say she's beautiful
or accomplished or smart
or any other thing meant
to make her snap out of it,
it doesn't work because--
it doesn't work.
And perpetually happy-go-lucky
people will never understand
these diseases and will only make
the mentally ill, the emotionally
struggling, the suicidally proned
feel even more inadequate.
Look, I don't have any answers about
what to do about what I'm telling you.
But take my word for it: there's no
easy accounting for why some
people's brains and emotions
are perfectly fine while the rest of us
are broken, and we struggle
to believe (to HOPE) that it's
not beyond repair.
Ask me how I know.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 2, 2013
Sunday, December 1, 2013
WEDDING JOYS
There are no smiles as sweet
as those at weddings. What
joy it generates. What promise.
What hope.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 30, 2013
as those at weddings. What
joy it generates. What promise.
What hope.
© Valerie Bridgeman
November 30, 2013
CRYING/WORLD AIDS DAY CIRCA 1990
3 am and he is sobbing
and will not be comforted
wrapped in hospital white and stiff
sheets, laying in the dark.
the nurses call me--I am the chaplain
on duty. They say, "he's in pain.
but it is not physical. Come."
and I enter a room with "universal
precautions;" I refuse to put on
the mask or the gown. I break
the rules and sit on his bed.
I hold him as he continues to
sob and wail and sob some more.
Eventually, I cry too. I am wailing.
Our tears meet on the bed; they
mix and in this moment we
are one--he, the rejected and
abandoned; me, the preacher
with nothing worth saying in this
moment. He's the son of a Baptist
preacher who has told him he
was dead to him because he loved
his brother-lover, who himself has
abandoned him. "I can't watch
another friend die from AIDS," his
lover said as he walked out the door.
And now, the man in my arms tells
me that I am the first skin-to-skin
contact he has had in 4 years--of
compassion, of care. And we cry
some more. Between the grief and
silence, he weaves a story I
don't want to hold, but must,
just like I hold him. Two hours
later, he tells me he wants
his mama and his siblings, but
they are afraid of his Baptist
preacher daddy who has forbidden
them at threat of also being
abandoned and rejected. And
we sit in tears and silence
for another hour. I hold him
closer, his head just below
my breasts, our breaths in
sync now. I do not shush him
because I know how long
these sobs have been
in the making, how much he
has held in, how often he
has blamed himself. This
early morning, I pray he vomits
it all out, that the infection of
hate, of rejection, of condemnation
will leave his body, his mind, his soul.
I pray and hold him and sit shiva
for all he's lost and will lose. But
mostly I bear witness to the tears--
the much needed tears that
continue. And we cry today.
I want a different world for us
both, as I squeeze him closer.
So does he. In this moment,
this carved out time, we are
together. Family. Friend.
Lovers. Holding on. Grieving.
Believing. We are humans.
Crying. Needfully crying.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 1, 2013
and will not be comforted
wrapped in hospital white and stiff
sheets, laying in the dark.
the nurses call me--I am the chaplain
on duty. They say, "he's in pain.
but it is not physical. Come."
and I enter a room with "universal
precautions;" I refuse to put on
the mask or the gown. I break
the rules and sit on his bed.
I hold him as he continues to
sob and wail and sob some more.
Eventually, I cry too. I am wailing.
Our tears meet on the bed; they
mix and in this moment we
are one--he, the rejected and
abandoned; me, the preacher
with nothing worth saying in this
moment. He's the son of a Baptist
preacher who has told him he
was dead to him because he loved
his brother-lover, who himself has
abandoned him. "I can't watch
another friend die from AIDS," his
lover said as he walked out the door.
And now, the man in my arms tells
me that I am the first skin-to-skin
contact he has had in 4 years--of
compassion, of care. And we cry
some more. Between the grief and
silence, he weaves a story I
don't want to hold, but must,
just like I hold him. Two hours
later, he tells me he wants
his mama and his siblings, but
they are afraid of his Baptist
preacher daddy who has forbidden
them at threat of also being
abandoned and rejected. And
we sit in tears and silence
for another hour. I hold him
closer, his head just below
my breasts, our breaths in
sync now. I do not shush him
because I know how long
these sobs have been
in the making, how much he
has held in, how often he
has blamed himself. This
early morning, I pray he vomits
it all out, that the infection of
hate, of rejection, of condemnation
will leave his body, his mind, his soul.
I pray and hold him and sit shiva
for all he's lost and will lose. But
mostly I bear witness to the tears--
the much needed tears that
continue. And we cry today.
I want a different world for us
both, as I squeeze him closer.
So does he. In this moment,
this carved out time, we are
together. Family. Friend.
Lovers. Holding on. Grieving.
Believing. We are humans.
Crying. Needfully crying.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 1, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)