I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

This is a strange season of life. I'm trying to think of it as an exciting time - a pivotal moment, an ushering into adulthood. But, each day I feel the empty pang of stagnation. I tell myself not to get too antsy. "This is good. This is a lesson in learning how to be still. Of learning to be in one place," I say to my restlessness. But, to no avail. I steal a wistful glance at the Louisville airport as I drive to work, imagining all the places I could go (were money not an issue). How liberating it would be to hop on a plane, to find myself once again in a place new and foreign with only my wits and horrible sense of direction to guide me. Mostly, though, I think of Thailand.

As I drove home tonight, I found myself thinking of a conversation I had with P'Dam a couple of years ago. I had just finished an English lesson and art project with a group of Burmese Shan kids with the theme, "What's your biggest dream?" Nong Pet wanted to go to the moon. Muay wanted to be a nurse, so that she could help sick people. Some wanted to be teachers. Touched by their answers, I decided to ask P'Dam the same question as we sat across from each other under the fluorescent light of her outdoor kitchen. "To have lots of money!" she replied, laughing. "Money, money, money!" she repeated the familiar English word over and over. Later that evening, I asked her the same question, but in Thai. My curiosity had gotten the best of me, and I genuinely wanted to know. "It can be anything," I said. She thought for a moment before answering, "I don't have any more dreams." She went on to explain that she is grown now, and has made what she could out of her life. At first, this made me sad. No one is too old to have dreams! I realize now that there was wisdom behind her answer. What I viewed as sad resignation in her tone was perhaps something more like a matter-of-fact contentedness. Maybe P'Dam didn't have anymore dreams because she was too busy living the life set out in front of her.

In the past, I would have had an answer for the question I asked P'Dam. But, now I feel like I too am standing in front of a sprawling green fig tree, starving. I have no set plan for what comes next. There are endless options - so many figs! The world lies at my feet. This should be liberating. And perhaps it would be, if I knew what I wanted. Instead of feeling free, I feel immensely restricted. I have no money. Job searching is tedious and each refusal is like a punch in the gut. Loans hang over my head like an ominous cloud. Other demons chase my thoughts and surface in my dreams. I look at my friends. Many of them are married and have started their careers. They buy things like silverware and cutting boards, and have daily routines. What is it like, to be settled?

These days, I'm trying to take life one step at a time. I'm starved for wisdom. Part of me longs for some omen to fall down from the sky -- a fig to fall upon my head -- to tell me what move I should make next. Where should I go? What should I do? Where should I grow my roots? I think of all the wonderful mentors I've had throughout the years, and I wonder what they would say to me now. The thinking part of me knows that no place is better than another, and that no time is better than now. All we have is right here, in this moment. We can choose to live the life that we are in, or we can spend our days dreaming of other figs. Our path appears before us bit by bit with each step. The beauty of life is in its uncertainty, I'm sure. There is no sense in worrying over the future. So, dear interviewer, I cannot tell you where I see myself in five years. That part of my path has yet to materialize. All I can tell you is that I am here now, trying to be content with stillness, patient with my ever-questioning, ever-restless soul.

I look up at the fig tree and, though I am hungry and uncertain, I close my eyes, turn around, and walk away. I have a life to live.  

If a tree falls in a forest ...

I picture the earth cradled in a woman’s hands.

Only the hands of a woman are strong enough to

Hold all of existence without bruising it.

I see the universe mirrored in her pupils,

All the colors of creation intricately woven into her irises,

Do you see how they illuminate when the light touches them?

Still there are those who never once looked into her eyes

To see that they held everything -- you and I and the entire universe.

There were those who did not see

When her light dimmed, flickered, burned out,

Leaving nothing but prehistoric darkness.

Eyes squeezed shut, stoic silence as rough hands slid between her legs,

The quickening of her heartbeat.

Damp skin, hot suffocating breath down her neck.

Did the earth quiver?

Did the hands of the clock pause?

Did you look up from your book?

Somehow,

The waves kept churning, one after the other.

The noise of the streets continued buzzing, uninterrupted.

Children didn’t stop laughing.

But somewhere,

Where no one was watching,

A tree fell.

And does a fallen tree make a sound

When there are no ears present to hear it?

Like Feathers

Where do you go?
When you sit very still,
So still you feel the earth moving,
Your eyes closed,
Specks of light dancing
On the backdrop of your eyelids.
When you can feel your body creak
And groan like an old tree,
Pained and achy in certain spots
Light and tingling in others.
Where do you go,
When the external noises fade
And become your breath,
Methodical, primeval, comforting.




I go to the edge of a cliff, nothing but mist before me.
It's the same cliff, perhaps, that I dreamed of once.
I was a child, being chased through the jungle by some wild animal,
Running, fumbling, past green trees and flowering plants,
Colors rushing at me like darts.
Until suddenly, the jungle stopped.
The trees stood in a line behind me,
A wall of solemn soldiers.
In front of me, a precipice.
The rugged edge of a slate gray cliff.
No longer was anything chasing me.
Lungs swollen with hot breath,
Limbs alive and pulsing,
There was no thought of choice -- I simply knew.
I had to jump.
Someone was there with me.
I'm not sure who, but I know it was a girl, like me.
She reached out her hand, told me not to be afraid.
We jumped together, falling through the fog.
When we reached the ground
We landed softly,
Like feathers,
Our bare feet on the wet grass.

Where do you go,
When everything is silent,
When the world is too much with you?

Strength is a tall tree

Strength is quiet.
It doesn't call attention to itself.
It doesn't need to ask questions.
It greets sorrow with a smile.
It does not indulge in sadness.
It stands still.
It watches the motion, the noise, the chaos,
Watches everything
Without being shaken.

About two weeks ago, a group of us spent a couple of days volunteering at a Thai traditional medicine hospice for cancer patients. The hospice is located at a beautiful temple in the northeastern province of Sakon Nakhon, and allows patients to live there for free. Most patients are in the end stages of cancer, and seek out the temple as a peaceful place to spend their last days. There they receive herbal medicine treatments each day, participate in group meditation, prayer, and other activities, and live as one big family. 

On our ride home from the temple, my friend Ning and I were discussing that ever so difficult question -- Why do bad things happen to good people? "Christianity doesn't really have an answer to this question," I told her. I suppose there are answers we create and speak into existence to comfort one another, but these answers still leave a bad taste in one's mouth. "Oh, but we have an answer," she replied. "We suffer because of the sins of our past lives." I thought for a moment. "But we can't remember those sins, or our past lives. If we can't remember them, did we really do anything wrong?" This is one of my faults. I always asks questions, and am never satisfied with the answers. "Mmm," she nodded. I could tell she, too, was dissatisfied with this answer, but didn't feel the need to say anything more. Strength is living with the questions. Strength is being dissatisfied, but not discouraged.

Nong Achi with Luang Dta, the monk who founded the temple healing center. 

The tumor on his shoulder is covered in a herbal cooling paste.

Though Achi's symptoms are worsening and the tumor on his shoulder is growing by the day, 

he still manages to smile for the camera. 

I thought about Achi. The light in his eyes. The tumor on his shoulder growing bigger and bigger with each passing day, sucking the blood, the life, right out of his body. We watched helplessly as he cried in pain, as the doctor said he could offer him no more morphine. In between spurts of pain, Achi still managed to smile. "He would grow up to be handsome," one said. He already is handsome. He is beauty and light -- the kind that is too bright for this world. "I will fight my hardest," he says. "I will endure." There are moments when I feel a red hot anger rise within me. Why must this wonderful child experience pain and suffering? There are plenty of horrible people in this world who live lives of comfort and pleasure. Why not one of them rather than Achi? But I watch those who take care of the boy and the other patients at the temple, and I see that none of them are angry. None of them are crying. They are warm, smiling faces. They are big, tall trees. They walk into a room like water gliding over stones. They sing songs, hold hands, and speak words of comfort. I know that they, too, are human. That they must also feel, at times, angry, sad, and uncertain. But when they walk into a patient's room, they do not bring these feelings with them. They bring a soft strength instead, for this is what the patients need to endure. What they need is someone who can calm the troubled seas of their souls, so that they may go in peace. As I stood in Achi's room I realized how weak I am. I like to pride myself on my sensitivity, my ability to feel intense emotion for others. I've never contemplated that these qualities can be, at times, self-indulgent. Achi did not need to look at me and see tears. He needed to see peace, warmth, strength. He needed me, needed all of us, to smile. 

The more time I spend here, the more I become acquainted with the sort of person I want to be. I am neither as strong or as wise as I would hope. I don't know what story I have to tell. I still wish I would handle life more gracefully. I wish I could have held Achi's hand, and be a source of strength for him. I wish I could look the tough questions of life in the face and smile, not needing to know the answers. Maybe one day, I'll manage. 

I want to curl up in the roots of some great tree
I want to plant my feet in the rich, dark earth
I want to reach my arms up high, leave them there until
They twist and gnarl and grow towards the sky
Until my fingertips feel the warmth of the sun
I want to send my roots both deep and wide
I want to teach them only to take what they need --
And no more
I want the wind to move up and around me
Prickling my skin
I want arms children can climb in
Cloaked in emerald light
I want to be many things for many people
Or perhaps nothing at all.

The Slippery Part

Mary Oliver says the creative process, from which beautiful words and art are born, is a kind of courtship. The courtship is one between the rational, tangible part of ourselves and the more slippery, bashful part of the soul from which beauty emerges. In order to create, we must set aside time to meet with that elusive, cautious part of ourselves from which poetry springs.

There are times when I am more in touch with this slippery, cautious part of me -- when I am more sensitive and perceptive to the world, and more able to speak my innermost thoughts into existence. But, most of the time, I am too busied with the practical matters of life. I don't set aside time to meet with the slippery part (the truest part) of me. Instead, I wait for it to emerge. But, trust isn't built this way.

On my way home from work one late night, I saw a figure in the middle of the road illuminated by my headlights. It looked to be a coyote, or perhaps a fox, and it turned its head to stare at me before running into the darkness. The stare seemed to have lasted moments. The chance encounter felt significant in some way, though I spoke of it to no one. While running last month, I had a similar encounter with a deer -- a flash of brown and white in my peripheral vision. When I stopped to stare, I noticed the graceful figure had stopped too, and we shared a look before it bounded back into the tall grass. Such encounters are wild and elemental. Dreamlike moments such as these have become increasingly rare in our world.

Meetings with the slippery parts of ourselves have similarly become rare. We are constantly hurried, busied with responsibilities. When we aren't, we're preoccupied with screens that keep us from observing the world around us and connecting with one another in a way that is genuine. Self-reflection and silence are rare. We've become calloused to the beauty of everything that surrounds us, unmoved and imperceptive.

After a hurried, confusing year of adjustment I feel as if I have an opportunity to come back to myself. My slippery, cautious, wild self that I have yet to understand and likely never will. The beauty of every person is this elusive self hiding in the shadows ... when it reveals its face the entire world stops to align itself. These are the moments when we feel most in sync, most right -- hyper aware of our existence in this world and the beauty of that existence.

This past year I've been confronted by a host of challenges. I've been hurt and hardened, and I've failed at a lot of things. There were times when I grew hostile to my surroundings, constantly longing for peace, quiet, solitude and escape. I've ran from people and I've ran from obstacles. I've watched passively as friendships have faded. Simultaneously, I've built new friendships, learned a lot, and did the best I could to succeed in this place where I am now planted. Have I fallen? Absolutely. But, I've made it. Still imperfect, still with no roots, still with a whole lot of growing to do.

Private Property

Where are the quiet places?

Nearly every day I drive past a new bridge being built. It's beautiful, and situated on a spacious piece of land. One afternoon, desperate to walk somewhere without houses or cars, somewhere without people to stare, I spontaneously turned at an entrance near the bridge. I parked my car at the little fabric store and stared down the gravel road ahead of me. I could see the bridge in the distance, and was eager to get a closer look. But before I could take a step, a woman came barreling out the door of the fabric shop. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a tone that suggested she would prefer to do nothing of the sort. "I was just wanting to see the new bridge," I replied, innocently enough. I suddenly felt like a child again, caught getting into something I wasn't supposed to. She retorted immediately. "You can't. This is private property." She looked at me accusingly, as if I had intentions to graffiti the pristine creation, or perhaps set fire to it. I stopped in my tracks and looked at her for a moment. I had forgotten where I was, I suppose -- had forgotten about things like private property and trespassing in this town where there are no quiet places. No quiet places that are mine.

On an early afternoon run yesterday, I turned off my music, slowed to a walk, and listened to the soft thud of my feet hitting the pavement. The sound of my breath methodically leaving and entering my body. I could hear the birds chirping. I must not have heard them for some time, because the sound caught me off guard. Spring is nearly here, I thought. I closed my eyes for a moment as I walked and pictured my old running route in the mountains of Thailand. First past a street of homes, dogs sun-bathing in the streets, motorcycles parked outside of gates, the sound of chickens cawing and sometimes the smell of garlic and chili frying in pans of oil. I listened to the thud of my feet -- the same here as it was there. I imagined the mountains hugging me close to the left, and looming in the distance to the right. The lonely pink pagoda. The tall, slender eucalyptus trees, their smooth white bark, slender mint-green leaves. The trail wandering into the mountains on my left, past a litter of banana trees, a cluster of bamboo shooting up into the sky ahead of me. I would climb up the steep hill to sit at the top and watch the sun descend over the mountains in the distance. It was quiet. No one told me I wasn't allowed to be there. No one told me I was trespassing. I sat until the sweat on my back dried, until I felt I had enough quiet to fill me up. Some days, I could have sat for ages.

 

My first year in Thailand, I found a dirt path behind my school that ran alongside a lake. I was ecstatic. I felt like I myself had discovered it. This would be my quiet place. It became the spot where I often retreated to watch the sun dip below the flat rice paddies of Kalasin. One late afternoon, I wandered out onto the piece of rocky earth jutting into the lake to sit and watch. I can remember feeling the last warmth of the sun on my skin, the last orange-yellow light before the blue of evening set in. I heard the water stir to my far right, and was startled to find an elderly woman bathing in the sun-warmed water. Her wet skirt clinging to her legs, she smiled and said something I can't remember. Then, all fell quiet again. We shared the silence, the last moments of light, the feel of the water running through our fingers. When I glanced over again, she was gone.

I don't know where it is I'm made for.
But here I find myself longing to feel close to the earth again, to find a quiet place of my own outside of walls and away from the sound of engines starting and garbage trucks beeping. I don't want it just for a weekend. I don't want it in the form of a park, or a hiking trail littered with families. I don't want it just a little bit. I long for it. I'm certain that it is nature that keeps me sane, keeps me from feeling stagnant, tired of my own skin. I am easily bored, often antsy, often thinking of where life will take me next. But nature I never grow tired of. No matter how many times I ran past those mountains, they never grew less beautiful. No matter how many times I had seen them, I never didn't stop to look just one more time.

Bizarre Advice

You shouldn't get too close to people,
She told me.
That's bizarre advice,
I thought.
Don't marry someone you love too much,
She said,
Voice mingling with the insect static of a warm night.
Motherly advice,
Shared over cups of steaming tea.

My eyebrows knit together first in frustration,
Then sadness.
This.
This was a person who once loved too much.
This was a woman who had been wounded.
My bones felt heavy.
The absurd truth of her words
Settled like rocks in the pit of my stomach.

Better to have loved
Than to have never loved at all,
We say.
Until the hurt comes,
A thousand piercing arrows
A twisting in the gut.

I don't know which is better.
We all hurt one another
Inevitably.
Irrevocably.
Incessantly.

We hurt one another with our love.
We break each other with our silence.