Amputations (for Monica and Joyce)

Photo Credit: Deborah Drain

An amputation does not remove the brain’s neurological urge to communicate with the missing limb. The brain says “move.” Nothing happens. Phantom pain is a chronic reminder of what isn’t there anymore. This is how grief works.

I once believed reality consisted of connections from one tangibility to another, but now I realize it’s constructed of sweet, impossible longings, memories, and the scent of rain. It is the intangibilities that answer when we cry in the night.

You may think you can rely on the Gods of your choosing, but they prefer time away from the maddening crowds. Thus, they amputate. But like starfish and newts, our extremities sometimes grow back for a season.

“That they do,” the Chief of Amputations laughs. “Which means our work is never done.”

The regenerative properties of patience and detachment are no match for evolution, opposable thumbs, or autogenesis. When you fold, you become less linear. Your grasp weakens. Where you begin and end is no longer clear. And chemical reactions occur in this process, creating alloys of enormous strength. For instance, combining iron with carbon creates the steely spines we so admire.

Scientists argue about the potential power of bending, doubling, and scrunching. And though most origins-of-life paradigms rest on linear pattern recognition, there’s a kind of salamander in Mexico that can regrow its own heart.

As your life moves along, you’ll notice that any given moment does not want to yield. But it cannot come along. Notching the tree to find the way back is foolish. There’s no way back, and trees don’t live forever. Regardless of your timeline or preferences, you will gradually morph into certain versions of your mother.

Besides Chief of Amputations, it may be comforting to know that a few of the Creators’ favorite names are The Moving Target, Now of the Now, Connective Tissue, and finally, Dog Rolling in Grass.

So roll in the Now. Gaze at the haunted horizons while you try on the scarves and hand-me-downs left behind. Some will fit. Some won’t. Load the car with donations or convert everything into rags. You’ll be none the richer either way.

View the future filtered through the translucence of honey, admire the noble ways of spiders, and if it is within your power, fill the open mouths of children. In the heat of the day or the dead of night, the banalities of life release their hold, but the radiance remains.


Missive from the Beautiful, Horrible Moment

Every morning I sit in the warm, chunky soup of God, my attention split between robins in the garden, clouds on the move, and my fingers poised above the keyboard. God appreciates the opportunity to clown around, but sometimes they take it too far, and I feel left out.

I want God to notice me. I eat dandelions. I pull clumps of quack grass, pretending there’s a chance to eradicate this long-rooted invader. Quack grass is also known as twitch, quick grass, quitch grass, scutch, dog grass and witchgrass. My own pet name for it is Satan. On more generous mornings, I allow for the possibility that it has redemptive features. Not today.

“How about we all float on our backs?” God suggests, flailing happily in the womblike liquid of themselves, ignoring boundaries such as time and space.

I shake my head. The steady pressure of God is eroding my body. The Ever-Presence is a weighted blanket, a hazmat suit, an open invitation to find peace in what is true. I am not a maker of stars, but I am my own tornado. While I’m still able, I will continue spinning through the garden, yanking quack grass to kingdom come.

All the faces of God smile. “Look!” they say. The arms of God bend, fingers pointing every possible direction. I have no idea where to look.

“You’re too inclusive. Too amped. Could we bring it down a notch?” I ask petulantly.

The many fists of God punch the air, and their faces melt like candles into a singular pool where I see my singular reflection and consider my singular fate. The robins appear to be flirting, ready to mate. The aroma of God is intoxicating, but even so, my stiff hands won’t curl around the quack grass anymore.

My friends and family are floating on nearby rivers, hiking their own circuitous trails, and I wish them well. I wish myself well. I wish God well—the Unitary, the Complex, the Galactic–all of them.

“Thank you,” they say harmonically.

“You’re welcome,” I say automatically.

“That’s unlikely,” they laugh. “Our welcome is usually, um, shall we say overstated?”

I nod. “Well, you’re more welcome than quack grass.”

They grin, poking each other in the side. “Score! We’re more welcome than quack grass.”

I realize God is making fun of me, so I issue a slight retraction. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. Depends on the day.”