Look at me.

“Come on, you can do it. Look at me.” Bill Ott sat next to me, looking into my eyes, watching me flitter my glance all around the room and catch his gaze, just to bounce off it again. It was a simple youth camp exercise: just look your partner in the eye without saying anything. But I couldn’t do it. At age 13 I was completely incapable of holding a person’s gaze.
What was wrong with me? Why was I so incapable of allowing someone to look at me? I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to curl up inside myself and peer out from a safe place. Security was everything to me. It seemed my whole childhood was about sinking into my jacket, pulling the hood over my head, wishing I could cram into small spaces and exist unnoticed. But then it often felt I was on the outside looking in.
Other people seemed to be enjoying life while I was a mere spectator. How could those people be so carefree? Didn’t they consider what other people thought of them? Didn’t they obsess over how they were being perceived by society? By their family? By their friends? By the eyes that seemed to be watching even when they were completely alone?
“Look at me,” Bill whispered with a smile. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was a tall odd 19 year old in a black leather bomber jacket and lace up boots, but I knew he didn’t judge me. He was cool, but not intimidating. His face was welcoming, even in the shadows. But…I was completely incapable. I had trained myself not to be seen, despite longing to be noticed. I had occupied myself with studying the people all around me, but lost all ability to willingly be seen by another soul.

October

My dearest October
I’m finally sober
I’ve put away my lover, and how are you?

This time a year ago
I burned all my Polos
Saw Staind and Creed without you.

I’ve heard those songs
Far too long
Nearly a thousand days since April 02.

Two years gone by
Fearing goodbye
Wondering why nothing seems true.

Dead leaves fall
The holidays call
You seem to be donning a different hue.

The waning of summer
Ends my dreamy slumber
I’m awake and ready for something new

Like at homecoming dances
I took my chances
There was some exploring I had to do.

So you’re turning a fresh chapter
And this one comes after…
What was the last one that’s now through?

Silversun Pickups
I woke up and made up
A new plan for living that swiftly grew.

But the forums are dull
I’ve posted my all
Booze or Ben & Gerry’s? to SSPU

It all started with what’s-his-name.
What? Don’t play this game.
I needed his nudging to get me through.

So what will the next be?
I want you happy.
I don’t know yet, but I want that too.

Station VI: Veronica Lily

The Stations of the Cross have always fascinated me. They are disturbing and yet comforting somehow. The Son of God, in human flesh like ours, enduring severe physical pain willingly, knowingly, for the sake of our souls. But more than that, taking on the emotional burden of the sins of the world. It is astounding to consider.
Over the past two years, I have particularly pondered Station VI: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus. I prefer to imagine that this woman was so moved with compassion for Our Lord that she ran to Him regardless of the guards and chastisers surrounding Him. I see her rushing to the fallen Jesus and pressing the cloth to His face. Perhaps she did not actually touch Him. Perhaps she did not hear His divine voice. Maybe she merely caught a glimpse of His penetrating yet sympathetic eyes just before he was prodded onward toward the remainder of His Mount Calvary trek.
Veronica was left with an imprint of the face of Christ. It was not painstakingly created as would have been a painting. Nor did it claim the clarity of a digital photo capturing an instant. But it was enough to proclaim a miracle. It was enough to be honored as one of several moments depicted for meditation regarding the Lord’s sacrifice for Man.
Did Jesus’ suffering include foregoing a single loving touch throughout His final agony leading to crucifixion? We have become a world of many words and little meaning. We communicate through blogs and forums, emails and texts. Can we see Christ in each other when we cannot see each other at all? It is a challenge, to say the least.
I experienced a flash of life within me. A miracle that lasted but a moment. A being I would never hold, a part of me who would remain undefined, and unknown. Ambiguous, vague. Yet understood somehow in that I know myself and I know she was a part of me. I chose the name Veronica because she has reminded me to be moved by my passion, to intercede despite the chastisers, to emulate the True Image of Christ. My husband chose the name Lily for purity.
Veronica Lily, intercede for us.

September

Bright shoes, clean laces
for three mile races
Thursday afternoon on the home course
when tummy flutters force
me to bolt sooner than I planned.

Sharp pencils, crisp books
Interesting looks
from the boy in the next row.
Will he ever know
more than just my face in the classroom?

Summer stories, hallway chatter
What’s the matter?
Didn’t you enjoy the school break?
No, I couldn’t shake
the lonesomeness of home after morning practice.

Blazing heat, Happy Birthday!
Wish there were a better way
to say I’m grateful you’re here,
if only for a year
or two during my life’s journey.

Conceived and Lost

I never knew you were a part of me until you were slipping away,
Drip by drip, day after day.
I knew something was wrong because nothing seemed right.
Silent, transient you,
Leaving before you could ever be
Known, named, desired.

No symptoms hinted at your presence except for a strange hot essence,
Inside, outside, through and through.
There was more of me when there was you.
Everlasting, invisible you,
Residing within, tucked inside
Womb, heart, dreams, mind.

I was unprepared to question my plans until you halted the temporal sands
Subtly – instantly – letting me dwell on possibility.
You weren’t wrong, you weren’t right for me.
Mysterious, untouchable you.
You entered my life and left me
Startled, delighted, confused, aching, wondering…
How it all happened, what it was even about.
You were inexplicable, a miracle, a what if, a hypothetical.
You were what would never be, yet what would always be a part of me.

April

April granted me my First Communion.
And a broken heart from my highschool boyfriend.
It required my efforts for the one mile relay.
And nine celebrations of my young cousin’s birthday.
It demanded a finished senior thesis:
“On Victor Frankle and Hope in Crisis.”
April presented to us Divine Mercy Sunday
And the joyful news of a January baby.
It tolled church bells for the pope from Poland,
The saintly Father of a generation broken.
April marked a rediscovery of me
With confused intense creativity.
The winter’s final doom.
The flower’s budding bloom.
Summer’s freedom soon.
April.

It Won't Happen Again

You said that I needed to be strong. I said I’d try. “No, I don’t want to hear about how hard you tried,” you replied. “You will be strong. Do it for me.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “I will be strong.”
These past two years have been all about me, growing in strength. This morning I took the coward’s way, acting out in frustration, throwing one of my hissy fits again because I felt helpless. Too many demands from others. Too many distractions. Unable to move forward at all. And I snapped. I flipped, as you’d say.
I hadn’t done that in quite awhile. It didn’t feel good. It brought only shame and more frustration. But this time it brought hurt too. Not to me, but to my daughter. At seven years old, she still thinks I’m great. The tears in her eyes spoke her disappointment in seeing me mad at her baby brother. I couldn’t look her in the eye, so I sent her to her room.
I collected myself and picked up the baby and apologized, nursing him, soothing him to sleep. I had put him in the crib because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept fussing while I tried to teach. His preschool sister was no help at all and I just felt incapable of handling the tasks at hand. I hate feeling that way.
My daughter came down when she realized I was calm again. I asked her to pray for me, though I’m not sure if a parent is right to ask that of a child. I apologized to her for acting out in anger. And for just a moment, I thought of trying to explain it all, the frustration of parenting and how it’s hard but I try. Then I thought of your words when I said, “I do the best I can.” You asked, “How would you feel if your father said that?”
So I skipped the explanation and the attempt to have her see me as a woman who often feels as if she’s falling to pieces. “It won’t happen again,” I said. “I promise.”

Birth

I’m proud of the births I’ve had. I don’t know why others want to take that joy away from me.
Me, my husband, my children. That’s all it’s ever been about. The other world is shut out. My best decision for me. You don’t have to agree. But can’t you allow me my choice? My joy? My experience?

These are the happiest moments of my life. And yet I’m on the defense so often. So often, I just shut up. I hide it. I keep quiet. I won’t share with you because you’ll feel bad somehow. Bad because I’m happy? Bad because I’m brave? Bad because I’m empowered in a way that you never knew was possible. In a way you never were interested in.

You chose big white shiny building with sparkling floors and sterile needles. That’s fine. It’s fine for you. It’s fine for so many. But it’s not fine for me.

It’s not about bedside manner. It’s not about getting back to nature. It’s about my husband at my side, reaching down, being the first hand to touch the fruit of the gift he gave me. It’s about welcoming home my precious babe. No bright lights. No room transfers. No release forms.

Just mom and dad, brothers, sisters, and love.

Cherubic cheeks

Her cherubic cheeks were smeared with chocolate. I huffed at the sight of her, wondering if there was ever a moment when that girl’s face was not a mess. But then I recalled how she got that way – by delighting in the chocolate chocolate-chip muffins I’d baked this morning. The ones I had made to make up for being a grumpy mommy the past few days.
I sprinkled water on a washcloth from the kitchen faucet and wrung it out. Kneeling down, I began to wipe her face. Stray strands of hair covered over her sparkling blue eyes, gazing patiently at me. In those eyes, I remembered the baby I rejoiced over, the toddler I delighted in, the preschooler who this very morning had asked when I would make her favorite muffins again.
She smiled at me sweetly as my fingers pressed the cloth across her cheeks and I knew that this was how I wanted to remember my daughter. Not because her cheeks were spotless and rosy. But because her eyes gazed upon me lovingly while enduring my swabs.
So often lately, she had been one more person who needed to be clothed, and reminded that shoes need to go on the fireplace, and told to buckle up as soon as you sit in your car seat so we can go. Go, go, always going. Always distracted even when I’m home. The days go by and this girl’s hair needs brushing every hour, her shoes are never together in a pair, she talks too much, she sings too loud, she does everything but keep quiet and stay out of the way.
I love her. I forget sometimes to take a moment from scrubbing the dishes just to study her face, absorb the admiration she has for me. It’s a struggle to forget my own embarrassment over how poorly I’ve behaved. I want to hide my face, but instead I catch my breath and turn toward my daughter, humbled by the lovely violets she picked for me.