Becoming the Background

Sometimes the universe speaks to us, whether we listen or not.  I recently heard a song lyric that continues to stay with me.  Or more accurately, I mis-heard a lyric that still stays with me, a threat, a warning sign, an invitation...  The line was something along the lines of "I am becoming the background."  Oddly enough, I cannot name the song, the artist, the date, time or place that I heard it, but boy, do I remember that line.  Strange how it keeps repeating in my head.  Things that make you stop and go 'hmmmmm...'

Also, interestingly enough, there is a current documentary film making headlines all about back-up singers ("20 Feet from Stardom") which comes highly recommended from a friend.  The thought even came up in a game recently - 'would you rather'?  The game question reads something like this --"Would you rather live a short life and become famous in your chosen field? OR live a long life knowing you were meant for greatness but never quite achieved it?"  Ouch.  Either way - ouch!

I find myself wondering more and more about legacy and what my efforts in the theatre are achieving and whether or not it is somehow self-serving to just keep doing shows.  I do believe in the power of live theatre to heal, to change people's lives, to increase awareness and tolerance, to touch people and expand their compassion.  So, even something as simple and seemingly self-serving as "just doing another show" is meaningful.  Truly.  I just wonder about the bigger picture.

And now it is father's day.  I find myself aching, quite literally, to make my father proud.  He was always very proud of me, no doubt. And he taught me that I could "do anything I set my mind to" and he was right.  Everything I have ever achieved, I earned through hard work, determination, humiliation, passion, enthusiasm and time... And to this day, I am not one to let fear hold me back. So, why is that I now feel 'I am becoming the background'? 

As actors, we are taught to "find your light" -never be in the darkness on stage.  If an audience can't see you, they can't hear you.  So where is the spotlight I am now supposed to find? What is the foreground of my life?  Am I committed to finding it?  Or better yet, to painting it?  Creating it?  Who is the hero I am waiting for to come and nudge me on to center stage?  I am becoming the background.  Can you hear me in the dark?  Am I brave enough to truly make my voice heard?  ???

I once wrote a poem called "Discovering Me".  Perhaps a perfect pastime for summer 2013...

there is a stillness
to my listening
inside.

Tiny seeds of my soul
are bursting forth
quietly
like jonquils
dancing their yellow youth
to buoy my cheek bones
into lifesaving smiles
much to my surprise.

...

My womb is swelling

I'm giving birth
to someone I've never known
the petals pushing through
untie the brilliance of red shoe strings
my sash askew
girl toes freed
begin to tap
and chase the butterflies
head thrown back
as Roots of a Voice
vaguely familiar
uniquely my own
gnarl and twist and effort their way,
with the help of spring,
to the bright blueness
of the expansion
beyond...

©2013 DOS

 

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

New Year - New ... what?

January!  It's always so full of promise, so alive with expectation and resolution and mystery.  I often look forward to the beginning of a new year, never really knowing which way things will turn.  This year, I am lucky to ease into 2013.  With only part time employment, winter weather and a shrinking local community of friends, I am blessed to have some time on my hands.  I've soaked it up with culture.  Movies, museums, books.  Even upgraded to the new I-phone 5 so that I could properly balance that feeling of enlightenment which art imbues with the healthy dose of stupidity that new gagdets bring.  ;-)

And therein lies the conundrum... in this new year, I feel both empowered/optimistic and bewildered/lost - all at the same time.  The world feels ripe, alive with opportunity and possibility, and yet I feel like the man on the brink of "two roads diverged in a yellow wood" (Frost)... not knowing which way to go or which prospects to pursue.  The typical artist struggle between commerce and creativity throbs inside my brain. I need to earn more income and yet I long for more fulfilling projects and meaningful ways to spend my time. Perhaps this age old debate is at the heart of my dichotomy of emotion.

Some people long for a crystal ball and even seek one out.  I recently had a friend gift one to me.  A free session with a psychic who uses lots of numerology.  Granted, she said some amazing things, but even her inner future spotlight could not predict a path, a direction, or any usable advice for me.  As usual, the answers lie inside.  Time to turtle duck inside my shell and simply "be" with all the energy and all the possibilities.  Time will tell.  And Guidance will instruct my feet.  For now, I give in to the humility and the vulnerability of confusion.  In fact, I welcome it.  I open myself to every path and every option and I embrace the cornucopia of opportunity that 2013 brings...

As we ease into this year, let us all pause and bring awareness to the full potential of the present moment.  It sings with unpredictability and joyful creative power.

This wee little poem is called Temptation.  Perhaps written at a time like this - on the verge, on the brink or in a lull between great things.  Somehow it feels relevant at the start of something new to simply stop.  To quit.  And then, perhaps, begin again...

To quit

a striking chord
the rhythm of cessation
still
disconnected from the Blood
the pulsing river of change
that is today
Life
 

To stop

for just one Breath
clear and deep
unsolicited
a breath like Birth
to let me start
Anew

©2013 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Parents. Can't live with them or...

Let's face it -none of us would even be here if not for our parents.  No matter how good or bad they are or were, we often take them for granted.  The sheer fact of their existence is proof of ours, or at least a conduit for it.

I've had several friend lose a parent lately, and I just lost one of mine last year.  My friends' hurting hearts bring all of my grief top of mind; it resurfaces in surprising ways that humble me.

As human beings we tend to glorify the dead, and maybe rightly so.  What we take for granted in life is somehow magnified in death.  The tremendous power of loss breaks down those defense mechanisms that limit our gratitude or constrict our capacity for love, appreciation, tolerance.  I believe I love my father even more now that he is gone.  The value of his impact on my life becomes ever more apparent as I face the many struggles and joys of this life without him. It is only in the losing of him that I found him as he really is/was - a slightly more objective view perhaps.  Hindsight, as they say...

The fragile continuum between life and death feels like a thin rubber band, variable, taut and oh so easily severed.  We are all eagerly fooled by the illusion of strength and evolution - believing our human bodies can adapt to any circumstances that may arise.  I've developed a profound appreciation for how foolish I am, especially after sitting vigil as my father slowly slipped away in a Hospice ward last summer.  Death, in all its forms, is like a mirror for truth, forcing us to face reality head on, in all its raw and precious glory.  Magnifying the goodness of those who've left us behind is probably our way to count the many blessings they offered us, belatedly.

I warn you this poem is rough, but God, is it truthful.  Proceed with caution...

Hospice Blues:

It ain’t for the faint of heart.

Smells of sanitizer
and inside air
sounds of gurgled breath
the date in erasable blue
leaving no doubt
of how many days are left.
"Billie" the kind one
serves
bringing drugs and quiet chats
as memory goggles
shade my eyes;
I sense the Billie-Shellie-Deb du jour
but see only
the snowmen, stories, silly surprises
that would not make up
the scrapbook of my life
were it not for this gentle man
they tend,
who lay struggling
with the decision
tween this world and the next,
considering slowly and precisely
the perfect moment to give-in,
depart.

Time slows

to a steady rhythmic pulse
as jobs and loves
even dinner plans
fade to back
as the dashboard of my days
wipes tears or prayers
on intermittent speeds;
phone-rings, car horns,
even hunger pangs
do not disturb
the trance-like watching
waiting
in this stark and joyless room
my Daddy's pit stop
on the arduous race
to a hopefully pain free place.

I cannot bear to look
yet dare not look away
a treasure map of torture
dots his legs, fingers, face
He's molting
day by day
shedding this emaciated shell
removing All
that hinders him from Grace.

... and later ...

Thinning days

drying lips
the graying of knuckles
that weight upon my heart
to be with him

or

to let him go
an hourly quiz
that jars my soul
swinging like a metronome
tween morbid valleys of gripping fear

and roller coaster heights

of grateful wonder, honor, awe

to share the final moments

in his quiet denouement.

 

I think
   perhaps
        I'm lucky
I know
   that I am older
         without the wiser
         of Goodbye
the one and only gift
I could not wrap myself to give.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Branching

I sat beneath trees today.  Leaves all green and plentiful.  It's springtime and everything is aflutter with life and liveliness and growth.  Another cloudy day in May that brought depth to my favorite color and made greener my every wandering sight.  As I looked up into the trees all around me, I began to take note of the webs of branches, reflecting the map of my thoughts reaching this way and that. I love the way trees grow. Firmly rooted in one solid, still and significant place, they reach out and defy all sense of reason or gravity as they try new routes and altering angles to bring breadth and circumference to the shade they provide.

Being a curious soul who has often wandered down varying paths and in multiple directions, often at the very same time, I am delighted by the wayward nature of tree branches.  They give me hope, as they fork and splay and traverse various trajectories, always staying rooted in the glory of the trunk, the core, the life force of their being.

Oddly enough, I found an old poem, a short one, that is more about tree rings than branches but the tree imagery is somehow relevant here.  See if you agree...

I wear a stack of rings

around my finger
Each with its own story
of who I used to be
the many lives I've lived
the ages of this gnarled soul
roots twisted between greens
sprouting through seasons
dying each new death
A grand victory of survival.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Crying Tired

Have you ever been so tired that you were "crying tired"? I am guessing more women can relate to this than men. Maybe "crying tired" is a female phenomenon. I wonder...

I've been traveling so much lately for work that I find myself fatigued a lot. Between the Godforsaken wake up calls to catch ridiculously early flights, to the barrage of spring time allergies, each onslaught stronger than the next as different cities greet springtime differently and the long hours on my feet in retail stores or working special events... all these factors converge to produce one extremely tired Duvall.  Innately, I like people. So, I can always be counted upon to overcome the fatigue and smile, chat, shake hands and "represent" with the best of them. But in the strangest moments or the weirdest of times, my energy will wane and tears will flow out of sheer vulnerability.  The circumstances may not warrant tears but the energy flow (or lack thereof) simply melts down and things do not compute and emotion overtakes reason every time.

Crying tired is a curious phenomenon.  It's like some part of me inside can see it happening, and I know that my tears are foolish and I am aware that my behavior is hysterical and yet I cannot seem to stop it.  I despise that feeling of being out of control, of being lost, of being a victim of circumstance...  I am lucky that crying tired is a not a natural state of being for me.  I have sincere and deep compassion for those who suffer depression, as I suspect bio-chemical depression must feel like crying tired all the time.

I tend to feel very deeply, either highs or lows. My passion abounds, bringing me to the very depths of depression or the heights of great joy and gratitude.  I feel very lucky and blessed to have access to such a free flowing river of feeling that abides in my soul.  But I have often wondered about such extremes, questioning if perhaps I might be bi-polar.  I believe all of us are to a certain extent, and luckily for me, my case is not one of abnormal psychosis or non-functioning neurosis.  I am just like everyone else - full of ego enough to wonder about my own amplified neuroses.  ha!

Sometimes when I feel low, I get out a pen and generally the word speak for themselves...

Broken

Heavy like a burden
weighted, rusty chains anchor
drowning
into a sea of marbles
cool glass sparkling
sucking me beneath the light
rolling me down
down
low.
Eyes unclosed
effortful lids beat my lashes
against the fray
swallowing
half-chewed lies
that settle deep inside
Me.

Sack full of bones

deaf
to the rattle of strings
loose
untied,
a wheel that will not turn
a voice that cannot sing
a poem torn into
the end forever gone
needing to be renewed
invisible
to eyes of worldly man
crowned the Queen of falling tears
heap of refuse
still unseen.

Braided mats of hair

that ache too tight
melted wax that burns
snagging fingernails that scratch
bubbling bile that belches
creeping up my back
ancient hymns of shame
retro baby steps
skidding on my rump
those race track welts that will not heal
back scrubber bruises
branded intact.

I am broken, bedside
cannot crawl to peaceful dreams
or fight you from behind.

Trusting your Instincts

Sometimes you just know.  Who knows how or why you know - you just do.  Yet all of our polite, well intentioned social upbringing seems to teach us the very antithesis of the old adage "trust your instincts".  I was walking around downtown Indianapolis today and a woman walking nearby caught my eye, primarily becuase she was not really walking, more like staggering about.  It was a warm, beautiful blue-sky spring day, and she was wearing a black backless halter dress with an odd pair of souped up track sneakers.  She stopped every so often to check herself out in the glass reflections of the street level windows in the large downtown skyscrapers. During one of her Narcissus chats with her beloved reflection, I sauntered by her, keeping my steady amicable pace on a rare and gorgeous day that did not call for rushing anywhere.  At the next corner, waiting for the street light and the infamous green hand signal, she made eye contact with her head slightly bowed and politely inquired if I could help her and her kids get something to eat.  Somehow, I did not believe she had any kids, nor that she really needed something to eat.  So I declined, equally as polie, referring to a lack of cash in the wallet at the present time.  I flat out lied - told her I was on credit for the time being.  She thanked me and ambled along not far behind me as we crossed and made our way around the circle surrounding a large public monument.  The welcoming spring weather brought everyone outside, so it was merely seconds before she found her next victim, and I could barely make out the sound of her voice in the background as I heard her ask a business suit for some lunch money.  I did not linger to discover her success or failure, but made my way as planned to Starbucks for my "fix" du jour.

Standing inside at the SB counter and waiting for highly customized beverage, I began to feel guilty.  Here I was traveling on business about to enjoy my favorite beverage on someone else's dime, and I could not even spare her the couresty of checking the spare change in my wallet?  I thought about turning back, quickly, to find her and give her at least a dollar.  But my addiction prevailed and I waited for my cup of happiness.  Inwardly, I chastised myself a little and agreed that the next needy person who asked for my help, I would be more open to. I am blessed, after all, and have a responsibility to share my blessings with my less fortunate brothers and sisters on this lonely planet.

I sat outside on the steps of the public monument, sipping away and making phone calls till I ensured the beverage was good to the last drop.  As I made my way around the sqauare, heading back toward the hotel and seeking a nice spot for a late lunch, I caught side of her glamorous sneakers and turned with the idea of making amends.  As I approaded her nodded head, I realized she was working on something.  On closer inspection, her efforts revealed themselves in the clear blue light of day. She was scratching off LOTTO tickets with a long fingernail. Obviously, someone else had bought into her story about children and her fragile plea for lunch money.  I laughted at my own foolishness and couldn't help but think "Trust your instincts".

How often do I go through life ignoring that little voice inside and accusing it of being stingy or closed or lacking in altruism?  The inner judge is often harsh, but luckily she's a bit slower than my initial impulses.  How I envy people who trust their instincts?  I wonder how often I have kicked myself for not doing this or that, when all along it was for the BEST that this or that not be done.  I suppose hindsight is 20/20, but it's the forward sight that appeals to me.  Sometimes you just know.  And when you know, you know.  So why balk or doubt yourself or refuse to trust?

This little episode got me thinking about trust, in all its weighty implications.  I am proud to say that I have trusted a time or two.  And will trust again.  Now, if only I could find the weight within me to extend that same precious gift to myself...

trust

a high dive spring board of Olympic proportion

free falls to the deep end;
the pool of sound that is my voice.
ripples resonate upward toward your ears
echoes of your Grace
pierce the aqua filter to my core
synchronized hiding in slow motion fades
reverse tucked pike
I break the surface of Awareness
a glowing ring of honesty you perspire
you smile into the eyes of my five year old
in that instant, I am alive.

the giant of your Soul swallows my bean stalk whole

leaving me tiny, grounded, ill-prepared
you make friends with the little girl inside
sliding down my esophagus with every gentle glance
lapping up the love within my ribs
breathing in unison, We stare
there's room for both of us inside your rejection of before
a wonderland of Joy that you call now,
without knowing why or how or when I jumped
the trampoline of your broad shoulders grinned
and caught Me.
I blink and think
and do not dare to close my eyes
I trust You
standing naked in your sight.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Rant

I hate people who are entitled. People who think others should accommodate THEM!  Who are they?  And why should I be socially acceptable and “nice” to accommodate them when they were irresponsible to begin with?  For example… I hate people who come to the movies LATE and then expect other people to shift or move or reposition stuff to make room for them.  Why should we?  Today, I went to the movies.  I always arrive early, so that I have time to make my selection and choose the best seat for me and my preferences.  As other people sat around me, I ended up with one free seat on either side of me.  The theatre started to fill up and naturally, long after previews had started and literally moments before the actual film began, a couple showed up and wanted me to politely move and reposition my hand bag, jacket, phone, self, etc so that they could sit together.  Of course, one is socially obligated to get up and move but it just annoys me!  Why are they entitled to sit together if they arrive late?  Why do I have to move myself and my stuff simply because I am solo?  I couldn’t resist. I grumbled at them that if they wanted their selection of seats, they should arrive BEFORE the movie starts!!

Not particularly graceful, I know.  And honestly, I am ashamed of myself for being so perturbed by it.  But it is very annoying to me.  And then… naturally, they both got up, at different times, to go to the bathroom (or whatever) in the middle of the film, disturbing everyone as they walk across the theatre in front of the screen.  Not the kind of people I feel like being nice to!

And then, I get subjected to a Hollywood version of romance, where the boy and girl do everything BUT come together, until the last possible minute. Their friends are all married with small booming families and finally they come together too.  Because, naturally, life always works out that way.  Two beautiful people end up having a beautiful life together. Oh how very sweet!  Such B.S.!!  And believe it or not, I cried.  I cried for her when he rejected her.  I cried for him when he finally figured out she was “the one”. I cried for all the millions of people who never figure that out. I cried for the many more millions who cannot seem to find a him or a her.  (Did I mention that the annoying entitled young latecomers to my immediate right were a couple??  A romantic, kissy-face, hand-holding, happy couple???  Grrrrr)

How is it that happy things begin to make us sad when they happen for other people?  I’ve never been the jealous type, but lately, I find myself thinking things like “why not me”, instead of “good for her” or “oh, I am so happy for you”.  Luckily, I am not the only one.  A very dear friend confessed to having similar sentiments over tea the other day.  Both she and I are generally very generous, kind, positive souls. When did we become bitter or empty enough to see our own lack in someone else’s fulfillment?  I hate it whenever I think or feel that way.  Thankfully, it isn’t often.  But how shameful it is!  I am stuck on a recurring refrain of  “glass half empty”.  In truth, my glass is not only FULL but overflowing. I live a charmed life.  True, I cannot seem to attract a single, available, age-appropriate man in the same time zone, but so what?  I love my life. Why do I let Hollywood or society or other people make me feel inadequate?  Just because I don’t have a life partner?  Because I go to the movies alone? Because I am comfortable in my own skin and not needy or reliant on someone else?

It all just makes me mad today.  Why I even bother going to romantic movies is a mystery.  Of course, the theatre will be filled with couples!  Of course, it’s a great “date” experience! Of course, it will highlight my solo-ness.  Naturally, it will elevate any sense of loneliness I feel.  Why am I surprised?  To be so close to romance, with couples on either side of me and four couples on the oversized screen in front of me, just made me feel how very far away I am from any real proximity of love. Or union. Or togetherness.  It’s all about longing.  Desire.  Some vague feeling of emptiness… Not a sickness, just a symptom.  Why can I not believe that I am “enough” – just me, just exactly as I am?

 Proximity

The space between my sighs

is yours
to fill
to munch
to claw
gather, grind,
then gingerly release.

The curve of my waist

is arching
tilting
leaning
lurching forward
towards a dance
with the comforting crook
of your left arm.

The silence of my toes
is beckoning
searching for your rhythm
hunting for your laughter
a whisper for the music you make
which taps me to an alternate time
where All
is
at once
complete.

The hollow spot

in my biggest bed
is empty
nothing
near the back of my knees
the small of my spine
the Y of my legs
so restless
‘neath the ample sheets.

(the poem continues but you get the idea… it ends with...)

How much more

could my world become
if you chose
to be
nearer than near
to me?

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.