The Furious Spinner

I have always required proof. Of everything. Of love. Hate. Proof of god. Goddess. The Invisibles. The Visibles. Always a scientist at heart. Or that little girl who looked around and did not find any proof that she was loved, so she went into the forest. She didn't find proof there either, but it wasn't quite so lonely there. She named the trees, climbed them, danced with them, sang with them. Hid in them when she ran away from home. Listened to the wind slap against the leaves and imagined it was a love song. I often wonder why I needed proof. Signs. And how much proof would be enough? I was clothed, fed, read to, told I was loved. It wasn’t enough. I needed more proof. I never changed my behavior to be loved more, of course. I was never a pleaser. Ever. My parents and God had to love me the way I was, damn it, or not at all.

I was a tiny golden ball of fury as a child. My first memory is of sitting on my grandmother's lap reaching for a piece of treasure I saw in the dirt as my father and grandfather built our house. My second memory is of swearing at my mother, "Shit, Momma, shit!" and pulling away from her to run down the hallway to the room I shared with three other sisters. I slammed the door shut. Then I tore the room apart. I pulled the mattresses off the beds. I smashed toys. I was a tiny five year old, but I had the strength of fury on my side. When the room was completely trashed, I sat in the middle of it and began to sob. And I floated away. I remember looking down at my own little pathetic self and watching her cry.

I have no idea what I was angry about. My guess is that my mother didn't love me according to my own little expectations. Poor sweethearts. Both of us.

But I was talking about proof, wasn't I?

Right after 9/11 I went home to Michigan because my father was quite ill. It cost us lots of money to go home, and I was ill myself and the trip was difficult on me physically. But I thought I'd go home and save my father's life. Then finally once and for all they would see me as an adult and they would love me. Seems so silly now. And even then I don't think I actually articulated those thoughts. I just thought I was being altruistic: going home to see my father like a good daughter.

The trip was shattering. My parents clearly didn't want me there. I realized once and for all that my parents did not like me. They loved me. But they did not like me. I had all the proof I needed. As usual I didn't fit in. Nobody loved me. Same all crap. I began telling my sisters, individually, how I felt. I was astonished to learn each of them felt like the odd one out. Each of them felt as though they were not really a part of the family. They felt unliked, unloved, undeserving.

(One of my sisters said she always felt like I was there for her, ready to defend her against all comers. And I did. If anyone tried to pick on her and I knew about it, I'd go right up to the bullies—with my nose reaching their belly buttons—and I told them to leave my sister alone or I'd beat the crap out of them.)

How does it happen, I wonder, that five children can each feel like desert islands in a family of seven? Our parents were (are) good decent people who tried to do the best for their children. Was it something in the water? The dirt? The air? You are unloved, unwanted, motherfuckers; just go on your way. Or is it the angst of the disconnected middle class?

Who knows.

After a family reunion during that 9/11 visit, Mario and I went for a walk in the woods. I felt sick to my stomach and thought I was going to throw up. I remember falling to my knees and sobbing. "Now do you believe?" I asked him. "Now do you agree that they do not like me?" Have I proved it to you yet? He nodded. "Yes, yes, I believe." I'm a believer! And he tried to touch me then, I think. I couldn’t feel it. I was incapable of receiving comfort especially from Mario. Mario disappears whenever I visit home. It’s not anything he does. It’s me or the place. I don't see him. He becomes nearly invisible. It's a strange phenomenon we've both noticed. In my memories of visiting home, he's often not there. Even though he was there. (I just typed “he wasn’t there.” Hmmm.) My one ally, the one person who does love me absolutely, is not accessible to me once I am on home turf.

Strange. But I was talking about proof. How did I get waylaid into this trip down memory lane? Too early in the morning for that. I haven't even eaten breakfast.

I watched this DVD the other day about sacred Native American places. The white people they interviewed about these issues were such assholes. I shuddered as I listened to them. The New Agers were as clueless and ignorant as the rednecks. One of the Native Americans was talking about wannabes. I can't remember exactly how he said it, but he described so clearly the general lack of soul and connectedness of white America—so we go running around trying to find something to comfort ourselves rather than doing something to help us serve the community and our planet, he said. It was uncomfortable to hear, or should I say I was uncomfortable listening to it. I have tried not to be a wannabe. I've explored my own heritage as well as studied various religious and spiritual beliefs. When I actually "practice" anything, I make certain it is something my ancestors may have done. I don't attend workshops which profess to teach Native American spirituality, etc., because I am not Native American. But drumming, sweats, honoring the directions are all activities which most of our ancestors participated in, no matter what our heritage or skin color.

I'm disgressing again. What was my point? Proof. Looking for proof. The Native Americans on the DVD don’t need proof that Devil's Tower is sacred. They don’t need proof that the spring on Mount Shasta is sacred. I don't need that kind of proof either. When I am standing before the falls at Falling Creek, for instance, I don't need proof of its beauty or sacredness. I just feel it.



Yet yesterday as I sat on the ledge by the falls with my head in my hands, sick, tired, weak and unsure of myself again, I talked with the Invisibles. When they tried to reassure me, I wanted proof that I wasn't listening to my own rantings. "What kind of proof do you want?" "I want to see a deer on the trail." I've never seen a deer on the Falling Creek trail. I've seen pieces of deer, mind you, but never a living deer. "It doesn't really work that way," she said. "We can't just arrange a deer for you." Someone else said, "Aw, let's give her something beautiful."

I didn't believe a word of it. I'm a writer. I make shit up.

I saw many beautiful things on the trail as I walked back. Hrmph! I thought. That doesn't count. This trail is always beautiful. Look there. Beautiful leaf. What about it? Oh wait. That is really pretty. I'll take a pic.

I began to relax as I walked. I smiled at the other people I met along the way. We moved out of each other's way. When I was almost at the end of the trail, I passed a mother and a young girl. They held hands. I said hello. They both smiled and greeted me. The little girl wore a shirt with the word "love" written across her chest in flowers. I smiled. "What a sweetheart," I thought. A little dear.

I laughed. Then I passed another girl, a little older. She wore a green shirt with the word "DIRT" on it. She smiled and said hello. Her mother called to her, "Wait, Amy." Amy: beloved. A little dear.

I giggled. Now I suppose when I get home there'll be a deer in my yard.

Home again. Tired. Weepy. Something caught my eye as I turned away from the kitchen sink. I leaned down and looked out the back window. A young buck was eating kitchen scraps on our compost pile. I went outside and took pics of him. A while later I went outside and he was in the Kuan Yin Peace Garden eating cherry shoots. I weeded and watered my garden while he ate. I thought it was nice that we could both go about our business together. Me and the little dear. I've had deer in my yard before. But I've never had a buck, and the deer have never stayed when I was in the yard. This was nice. I had my proof. I couldn't really remember what I wanted proof of, but it didn't matter.


(a little blurry, but you can see he's a buck)

Then I squatted by my peas. Two rows of beautiful peas I was looking forward to munching on all summer had been “topped.”

My little dear had eaten parts of them all. Every single one had been munched on. No flowers meant no peas. (No peace?) The little shit.

Be careful what you wish for.

Aw shut up.

Well, at least I got my proof.

Or did I?


Kuan Yin and the Young Buck 5 comments

5 Comments:

Kim,

I just read your latest entry and printed it out for Jack. Can't find words for the feelings it evoked in me but it went deep. Probably especially the bit about family members all feeling isolated. But also it moved me to reach out to you to tell you I think you're a beautiful person and I'm so glad that you are in my sister Linda's life and my niece Serena's life and now my life too! Thank you. Ruth

By  Anonymous, at 6:33 PM  

What a beautiful essay/walking meditation, Kim. And doesn't it just figure you have a Kwan Yin garden! If it had turned out to be stone, I might have fainted. :)

What a funny and wonderful deer moment. Here, Kim, here's your GENTLENESS, okay!? EATING YOUR PEAS.

Family stuff is so painful and freighted sometimes - thank you for writing about it so beautifully today.

By  Theriomorph, at 7:30 PM  

My Aunt's Friend gave me a book titled
You'll See it When You Believe It.

Sounds like that's what happened with you:)

By  James, at 7:59 PM  

Thanks, Ruth. That means a lot to hear that from you. Your family is going through such a rough patch now, and I am sorry for that. Take care of yourself!

Theriomorph, thanks for your kind words. EATING YOUR PEAS. Yes, yes. Sometimes I'm not even sure what I'm writing until it's over. Ever have that experience?

James, you may be right. Funny, eh? Thanks, James.

By  Kim Antieau, at 4:59 PM  

Family. Ah yes. I have a sister who is 7 years older than me and thankfully we've become closer as adults. I'm sure as a kid it's hard to relate to a brother who is 7 years younger. Now the difference means nothing. But our parents weren't demonstrative when it came to love. They fought a lot. I don't remember hugs although I can barely remember crawling into my father's lap when I was really young. I was always looking for love and affection, not just correction. By the time I reached college (halfway across the country, but in the same town my sister moved to when she got married) I half jokingly said I was waiting for my parents to say those magical three little words: "You were adopted." Both my parents are gone now and I wonder if we could have opened up to each other as we all got older. I think I needed more understanding that didn't come until it was too late.

By  kevin, at 6:11 PM  

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