History of a Wobbling Axis 1

When I was born when was begun the tradition
of telling me again each year a tale
with motions
and noises in the driveway of that oomph and push and
out she comes.
I popped out mostly, because of all the yoga
and orange julius's
and root beer floats and bike rides with dad.
Of course there was no room for me,
because all the babies were
being born
on that day, and there was no time
for paper work
once my momma got to the desk
heave-ho no-way, sista', let me to a
baby-givin' table. And they did.
A cold metal one, because all the ones with flowers were taken.
Because all the babies were being born on that day.
Six
my mom recalls.
I haven't met them. Still she takes for granted that's why
they never had my underwear size as a kid.

When children learn to bow their heads in prayer, they interlock their fingers, push their chins to their chests, and squeeze their eyes tightly shut. It's an adamant, conscientious act. Praying is greatly a matter of making these movements. The tighter you squeeze, the louder God hears you.

Carrots/Art

Erotic Carrot, someone once asked me to say. I did, for the consonance, not realizing at the time that there is something indeed phallic about the vegetable. I've had a thing for carrots for a long time-not even eating them, but their aesthetics. My Aunt Nola, who likes funky art, asked my sister and me to paint her fridge when we were kids. I decided we should paint a carrot-simple, natural, beautiful. The freezer door had the green tops and just a sliver of the orange; there was a break (between freezer and fridge), and then the fridge door, which bore the body of the carrot. I was pleased. I continued liking carrots, and as a senior in high school, for an art history project, I made eight carrots, each emulating a different period/style in art: Carrot from Cairo, in the Ancient Egyptian style, Early Christian Carrot, made out of broken coffee cup pieces to emulate a Byzantine mosaic, etc. My favorite is Cubist Carrot, following Picasso's/Braque's synthetic cubist style: a collage-that is, fragments of the world assembled according to me. Synthetic cubist collage-type works often included words. My carrot is made out of an orange scrap of paper, a piece of a manila envelope, and the word birth.

Virgin Mary, Mother of God

I know lots of intellectual, strong women who are intrigued by the Holy Virgin Mary, Merciful Mother of our Blessed Lord Jesus Christ. I am with them. That Mary-so virginal, and yet so sexy and full of power: She just kind of holds the heavens in her hands; the stars dance around her head, making her halo. Cosmic and cosmopolitan. More famous than Madonna (ha). She holds that baby with the gentleness all babies of the world deserve.

And it's not just Mary, either. Other Virgins are on the way up as well.

I was home for the weekend, and talked to Carol Perkins, Women Studies Department. She had Guadalupe on her ring and on her necklace; this grey-haired Minnesota woman thought Guadalupe was pretty darn neat, don't ya know. Once she learned about my love for the mestizo Virgin, she recommended a book: Goddess of the Americas. I forgot the title until I read it last night in Kathleen Norris's book. Damn. Must be the Virgin at work, bringing mercy, love, and forgotten titles to her people.

And who shall wear the starry crown? The Virgin, don't ya know.

Words slip out and disappear
in prayer,
thinner than breath.
Prayers on a page
(whisper: prayer-on-a-page)
get stuck, caught
somewhere between hear
and heaven.

God is the word we cannot say.

When I kneel to pray, I know that I need words. But the best I can come up with is "Dear God… I am praying in this moment." The Bible tells me We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express; but I itch for words that can express. I speak out loud and hear my voice like a recording, like a sound that is sad for the lack of echo.

At church we say the prayer of the day. I read the words off one by one, Dear-Lord, Teach-us-to-listen. Help-us-to-creatively-wait-in-your-presence... and I lose my breath as I speak them; I grow dizzy as each syllable is swallowed by outside stillness…May-your-voice-find-ours-the-ears-of-listeners. Exhaling the words that we cannot own, we settle on Amen, and are relieved. Now we can breathe in and say to ourselves, "I am praying in this moment… amen amen amen."

Sometimes the pastor leaves a few moments for us to recall in our hearts the names of those for whom we pray privately. This is my favorite kind of prayer. It is as if God designates a space in which to pray; I don't have to delineate or explain. I search for names, or they find me-often for unlikely reasons that I know but do not speak. I don't think the prayers in my head as words, but I am acquainted with them in silence.

I name:

Angie… A girl who was my friend many years ago. She said she wanted to be doctor. I don't think she will be one-is that faithless of me? I hope that she is well.

Grandpa… I don't think of him enough, and all his words. I can think of him now.

Mama… The loveliest one I know. Her daddy died when she was young.

Cindy… The pastor's wife. She fell face-down on the floor when she was full of stress. Her tooth broke her skin and made her bleed.

Jennifer… Goes to my high school, and is poor. Poorer than me. Poorer than me, and how can I be good to her?

Soon enough, the pastor says, "We lift to you, oh Lord, those who dwell heavy in our hearts." The names are over for this week. Lifted. Now spinning toward heaven.

Commandment: You shall have no idols; except for those that you shall have.

Some people pray to Saints. They have stained glass and statues. Some have posters, candles, or relics; little things to hold, big things to look up at. I like Catholicism for the icons. Catholics can get a little card with the Virgin Mary on one side and a prayer on the other; they can put in their car, and it's safer that way.

On my holy table, there are many idols: Guadalupe, painted rocks, framed photos of angels I've seen in Mexican cemeteries (where color and clutter and death collide); I have little clay pots, my sister's smile, perfume, rings, a tiny bell. I pray to One. Yet I so love this fragmentation.

Words can be my idols. Written, breathed, and thought.

But God calls us back to silence, and he calls us by name. "Word," he cries, "Come home."

"That's such an Ida thing to do," they say. How proud that I live up to my name, that my name and I define each other. I am my idol and my self. I am the Word that is me.

Text is the Body.

In the Beginning was the Word. God was the Word.

God was and is the Word-he probably is the word word, too. That makes sense: He is what the Word is, defined only by itself-folding into itself, repeating itself, becoming itself always.

God made man.
The Word made Man.
Word-made-Man
The Word made Flesh.
Word-made-Flesh

We have words.
God spoke.
Man wrote. Man did with the word.
To be the Word and not words. Maybe words are the children of the Word?
Words are on Man's lips and spilling from his pens.

I take of the body and of the blood. Jesus is the Word made flesh. The Word is dry and starchy going down my throat; it scrapes at my voice. How can I pray when the Word keeps me from speaking? It swallows me up, and my words along with it.

I imagine my body a transparent form, letters and words-typed, written, or whispered-flow through my bloodstream speedily. The object is to catch a word and hold it still, to kneel uncomfortably and perform the ritual. Praying is uncomfortable in the way that writing is. It requires anxiety, and control. It requires my brain. It requires my fingers and my eyes, and it requires patience and practice.

Catch a word. Count its letters. Spell it out loud, and say it like you mean it.

That is the prayer of the day.

Small-Time Holy Man

Sometimes great people sneak their way into tiny towns. Erich Knapp, a highly skilled organist and vocalist, snuck his way into Menahga, Minnesota. On Sundays, he booms out hymns at First English Lutheran Church; the organ's wails are so loud that the singers are heard only on the chorus (the only part the Lutherans really know, anyhow). He's taken a few youngsters under his wing. One is a senior at Menahga High School who often plays piano during communion. He has a soft face and humble demeanor, much like his teacher. I smile at him when I take of the body and of the blood. Upon leaving the sanctuary-for coffee and cookies out in the Narthex-I spy Erich Knapp's shoeless feet on the organ's pedals. He plays a mighty tune for the churchgoers' exodus, smiling calmly at folks as they pass by. How gracious that such heavy music causes him no burden; how funny that the comfy pads of clean-socked feet can make such merciless sounds.

Moments have been sacred:

Swimming in the coldest waters of Lake Superior and Jackson Hole and the northern Pacific. I go all the way under and my muscles move fast. When I come up again, I shout involuntarily. All I want to do is swim naked in those icy waters.

Looking out the window of our stony-walled apartment. I'm leaving Mexico now, and I know that I won't return to it in the same way. It's raining, hard hard like it did when we arrived here a year ago. The rain is big and the lightning is pink. Summer, dark early morning. I'm going home impossibly. I promise not to forget.

I wake up and I'm 7 years old on a Sunday morning. The sun is so soft that I forget about time. I feel my body present, which is surprising and comfortable. I have a tape player and a blank tape that records my voice. I sing a made-up song about sheep on sheets. "I've got sheep-sheep-sheep on my sheet-sheet-sheets." That rhymes. My sister is asleep.

I didn't really think I could love a boy, but then one took me on a car ride. We lay on a blanket in a weedy ditch. I wanted to touch him, but I giggled instead. Later I tell him he can kiss me, but I warn him I don't know how. He tastes clean. He hugs me tighter than I thought he could-because he's skinny.

I ski alone in the woods that have made me. I try to get lost-in the trees, in the cold. I know in this moment that I will later remember it as sacred. Does that make it less sacred now? That I know this? As we get older, must we recognize the mysteries as they unfold? I want to be the little girl, lost in the woods.

And the difference-between sacred and: moving, feeling deeply, revelation? They are sacred moments because I believe they are sacred. Because I want to believe it? Maybe. Yes, I want to.

Sista'

My sister is Alena. She is sixteen and I am nineteen.

When Alena and I sing, the world stops.

Alena is the alto. When she was little, her voice was very low and she spoke in few words. "Yep," "Good," etc. Few-words have proven somewhat problematic for Alena over the years; she is the one person in our family unbound to a deeply-rooted dogma of conversation and storytelling. Since her early childhood, Alena has been a singer, not a talker. With those low tones and a real knack for the swingy sounds of jazz, we thought she'd be a blues star someday. She never much liked the idea-at least not publicly. She's not one to dip or sway or shake her head mm-mm as the blues stars do. I don't think she sees herself as outwardly soulful. But my mom and dad and I catch her sometimes walking through the house, shoulders slightly stooped, her slender body moving at a heavy pace… My mama done told me… she croons, each note easing into the next, the syllables of the words sliding together, oozing and exhaling, like mud and molasses. "Alena and her blues," my dad will say. "Sing it sista'" my mom urges. Alena gets upset-that we were listening to her private concert, that we talkers in the family interrupt her out of our impulse to speak. She goes to her room and slams the door.

Alena doesn't need to write her own songs or prayers. She knows how to make the words that are already written resonate for her.

In many of the songs we sing together, the alto part is the melody. This is somewhat unusual, but fitting for us. Alena is the alto and a soloist. I'm the soprano and I love to sing harmony, to let my voice dance and configure itself around the foundation of a tune. Our most famous song is The Far Side Banks of Jordan, one of the old God songs sung in the yesteryears of the South and in churches on the prairie-or so I imagine. We always wear cowgirl hats when we sing it. Cowgirls are appropriate to the constant and uplifting nature of the music, but also to the fatalistic message in the words. The song bounces and sways; people think its "cheery." The words are about death, and maybe suicide. Lures of this old world have ceased to make me want to stay; my one regret is leaving you behind. That, and a few yee-haws, and the song is full of pleasant ironies. People we know love to hear us sing, but it's the sisterly cowgirls who reap the true joy. We know the secret satisfaction behind the tunes: matching our pitches by intuition, feeling harmonies bend and give until they click into perfection, seamless performances without rehearsals, confidence that makes the oldest cowboy in the audience feel sheepish. We're a twangy, tangy duo. And we know it. Quietly.

Magic

When I was little, and good things happened, I said, "Thank you, Magic." These weren't good things like getting a present or a snow day, but the good things that made me feel, even in my little girl self, that there was a grand sense about things. Once I lost a little blue card. I had a feeling it was in a certain box in my closet-and there I found it. Thank you, Magic. Or I got a microscope and looked at slices of nature under it. Whoa. Thank you, Magic. Or the crispy fall wind that felt like home and mystery all at once. Thank you, Magic.

And of course, I used to flip/flick/click my fingers: pinky-ring-middle-pointer-thumb, pinky-ring-middle-pointer-thumb. If I did a certain pattern on one hand: pinky-middle-thumb-ring-pointer, I'd have to do the same on the other, so the balance, the fairness wouldn't be broken. I'd try out new patterns, testing my memory, testing my place in the universe. It was my secret, methodical art. Thank you, Magic.

It later occurred to me that perhaps "Thank you, Magic" was really more like, "Thank you, God" or, "I believe," or more cynically, "What a coincidence." Perhaps. But I find myself in the process of reclaiming the name that fits so well-a name that to my childhood mind was begotten, not made.

Mild Obsession

Ridiculous things. That's part of why I'm not conscientious about them, I just do them. Little threats and propositions to myself that keep me on track. It started out like this (many years ago): Before I am allowed to sleep, I must lay on my back and cling to the sheets with my fingers and my toes and all my limbs, if possible, because if someone tries to come and take me away, I will have practice at holding on tight. Next came the morning memory bank, visualized in my mind symbolically as a sun, a brain, and a dollar bill-icons. Before I went to sleep, I would store "things" in it, be sure I took them out again in the morning. As I'm older, it's more like this: count to ten three times (that's thirty seconds), that's how long I have to open up the little yellow tin, take out a paper clip, and return the tin to the drawer. Go to the bathroom, pee within the count of twelve. Step only on the tiles with vertical veins, so my foot lines up. There are no ultimatums or incentives, only commands. And sly smiles when I "succeed."

It takes a lot of energy to process things like this, I think, as I sit in the shower, where I let my muscles go flop and the water makes my hair stick to my face.

Hydrants

Simon deVente, engineer with the city of Alcoa, Tennessee, sent us this photo of a Ludlow List 75 hydrant being consumed by a tree. The hydrant was recently taken out of service --- officially.

At the website firehydrant.org (under my "Favorites"), there is always a photo of interest for those hydrant lovers like me. The photo described above is something like this: a yellow fire hydrant about ten feet from the sidewalk, the bottom half of which is engulfed by large tree roots. I take the above comment about the hydrant being recently taken out of service quite seriously. A working hydrant every five hundred feet is standard. I wonder how long that half-of-a-hydrant was being counted as functional for the city of Alcoa? For surely it wasn't of any use, all hugged by nature as it was.

Indeed, hydrants mixed with nature is an intriguing situation. When I was a painter of fire hydrants, I often mourned the death of small insects when they fell into the sticky abyss of my thick red and white oil paint. "Oh, don't go there," I'd tell them softly, "you'll die." They mostly didn't listen. I'd sometimes try to shoo them away with my brush, but that usually entailed my murdering them in the process. I felt compassion for them, but it was tinged with indifference, in the higher civic duty of painting hydrants. And there was something appealing in their deaths, something sacred about my seizing their destinies. The bugs became a fossilized sacrifice beneath the paint brush, embedded forever in the heavy red-and-white, eternal relics of my work.

My favorite hydrant painting took place on the margins-those places where my small town met the highway, which led to other countless small towns in the distance. I'd go to the edge, where the houses began to stop, and the fields began to begin. There, I felt breezes reminiscent of the sweet prairie winds, slicing through summer air that is thick and sticky as my paint, to cool my sweaty and dirt-speckled face. Those were some of the moments in which I felt most certain that in my next life, I will be a 19^th century homesteader.

One day, while painting in the margins, my red city pickup parked with ease and authority against a tiny slope and a blue sky, a curious bit of nature entered my immediate realm. As I practiced my craft-big brush for the red, little for the white, reaching into small grooves between nuts, bolts and appendages, giving big, lavish strokes to the hydrant's trunk, squatting sometimes, kneeling, or tilting my head to get the right angle-a butterfly came into view. Minnesota has lots of butterflies in the summertime: a blessing to the North. However, this wasn't one of the infamous monarchs that make their great migration from central Mexico; it was instead a more decorative type. The butterfly was mainly yellow, with a black outline, and bits of other colors I don't remember now. One joy of outdoor work-especially of work in the margins-is having conversations with these small miracles. "Hello, butterfly. How are you today, fluttering?" It did an air-dance in response. These conversations are always brief, and I soon returned to the duty of painting: Open one container, close another, put something back in the truck, don't let red and white mix! watch out for sticky gloves that smudge and spoil a surface. And when I looked up next, I saw the unspeakable. That beautiful butterfly had landed on my freshly painted hydrant, its six feet stuck and struggling to be free. "Oh, little butterfly!" I said to it. "What will you do?" I might have tried to let it free, to gently release it from its sticky turmoil, but before I could, I found myself stricken by the image. My perfect, fresh hydrant, all metal and red and white, was ornamented with another kind of perfection. The butterfly had stopped moving. I imagined the poison of the paint had swum up through her legs and stopped her living. She would have seemed a statue, except for the breeze of the margins that made her wings quiver.

The image was ironic: nature's epitome of beauty bound to man's clunky creation. But beyond that, the butterfly-on-hydrant was a kind of icon for me: divine nature entwined with human construction. Painting hydrants was my art-my mundane and quietly satisfying art. I was unsure as to whether the butterfly exalted it, or put it to shame.

I could only exhale.

I drove my pickup home for lunch, and thought I'd bring a camera back up with me to capture the image in the margins. But I forgot the camera, with few regrets, and when I returned to where the butterfly was supposed to be on my hydrant, it was gone.

Picking and Praying

In about the second grade, I learned how to write what I now call a SPRING poem. I loved to write these poems, and I still find them a useful writing tool. SPRING poems work like this: the letters of a given word are lined up vertically, andspringingfrom each of these letters is an adjective, noun, or other part of speech describing the vertical word.

S unny
P ure
R ain
I ris
N ew
G round

I wanted to write a Jesus-SPRING poem. It's much more complicated. I can't decide which tone to take, can't decide if I can mix tones, can't decide if it's okay that I need many words for each letter-maybe even sentences or stories. There is an infinity of spring poems for Jesus. I can sum him up a million times if I want to, and never get it right.

J eopordized, ericho, ester
E vanescent, verlasting, ffect, loquence, quator
S urreal, tone, ever, ubtle, orcerer, oiled
U biquitous, niversal, ntidy
S appy

When I cannot decide, on tone or words or other things, I pick. I pick at the skin on my fingers and at the skin on my heels. My fingers chap and bleed, making the pulse inside me pound. I pull strips of dry skin off my heels, like meat-like jerky, and I throw them in the garbage. I pull enough strips away, exposing raw skin, exposing some blood-and then it hurts to walk. I am not one to sit still in moments of indecision; I do not welcome the emptiness. I do not welcome stillness, and therefore I do not know how to pray in silences. I pray, instead, in words. Words that never quite match up.

P eace?
R acing, eading, elax
A ct-out, ssert, sphyxiate
Y earn, ell, ep
E rr
R eally, though…

And so, I pick. Between the words and lack thereof, in the spaces that could have been empty, I pick away at poetry. Poetry that could have been preserved in the silences. I pick as proof that I'm a prose-o-path(etic).

P imp, us, latitudes
I ck, why do I do this?
C hoosy
K : a soft letter found in many Finnish words, often in succession

My Finnish friend Liisa Punkka is beautiful. Some people think we could be sisters, but she doesn't pick like I do. I envy that about her. She sips tea when it's hot; I have to wait until it's cool, and then I swallow it in gulps. Liisa speaks softly, but holds the steering wheel like a man. How does she strike her balance?

I really like the old God songs that talk about hard work and heaven. Our travail on this Earth makes us weary, but God will call us home. There is a song called "Softly and Tenderly" in which Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me; calling, oh sinner, come home. Jesus calls us sinner,

S ew it up again
I nside
N evermore
N ow
E ternal
R eturning
And he calls us by name.
I 'm
D own
A gain

And he calls us by the Word that is His living self. We are all the body of the Word, collectively and each of us; and he calls: "Word, come home."

W aiting and atching
O h, Lord
R eady and aring
D ear Lord
That is the prayer of the day.

(1) Title of poem taken from Science and Steepleflowerby Forrest Gander, p 48