Traffic

I have a strange superpower 

to be completely calm 

in the midst of the most insane 

metropolitan rush-hour traffic  

The crazier the bumper to bumper 

the more zen I become 

I think it frightens my passengers
because it’s like my body just surrenders 

to the complete lack of control 

I have over the situation  

My butt gets heavier 

my jaw relaxed

my senses acute  

I am concentration

I accelerate  

I break   

I weave through lanes

like young Michael Jordan 

in a playoff game 

I become a master of observation 

I can be in the middle of a city

under 3 layers of expressway ramps 

surrounded by semi’s 

in 6 lanes of traffic 

and pause

to marvel at the enormity of the machine 

the choreography of movement  

I easily release all expectations

combine minute quick reaction time 

with big picture strategy 

calculating moves 

faster than Bobby Fischer

I effortlessly maintain control of my emotions 

rarely lose my patience 

seldom ever panic 

go with the flow  

at home in myself

Fully present with buddhist mojo

If only I could do that with the rest of my life 

If only I could respond to everyone 

changing speeds 

changing lanes 

stopping hard

swerving sharp 

as gracefully 

as I do in traffic 

Maybe I have been in enough accidents to know

that you can hardly ever see the crash before it comes 

I wish I could maneuver through 

These 24 hour sun revolutions

the way I glide through traffic

Loosen this white knuckle grip 

on my egomaniacal sense of immortality

Fix this cracked windshield 

So I can see the opportunity 

to just play the game 

Stop the incessant anxiety driven 

useless insistence on prediction

and use my imagination 

Lighten the fuck up 

and just have some fun 

for a change 

Drive like my life depends upon it

because it’s quite possible 

that I only get one 

New Work from Anderson Ranch Workshop, Colorado.

Hillbilly Hoedown

My family is not much for holidays.  I mean, we do our best to gather, geographically, around them, like most people.  We reach out, ask for plans, inquire if congregating in the same place, at the same time is possible.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, etc.  However, we are all musicians, of sorts, so holidays take on a different spin.  They are events that one entertains for.  Paid or not.  We have traveled and played, together as a family, at home and at gigs; bonfires, reunions, parties, weddings, anniversaries, graduations, festivals, holidays, etc.  

This holiday wasn’t an exception, we gathered at my sister’s house, as my parents had booked a fourth of July party at a bar in a very tiny, remote town in the west end of the U.P.  The “U.P” is the upper peninsula of the state of Michigan.  It is a beautiful, fairly undisturbed, stretch of hundreds of miles of wooded landscape, with a few scattered pockets of people.  The west end is one of the most remote areas and if it is occupied, it is by a few remaining, tiny, mining towns established in the late 1800s, early 1900s, during the copper and iron ore mining boom that tunneled through the land at the time.  There are minimal highways to choose from and endless dirt roads to get lost on.  You could literally get lost, with no cell phone reception, no people, and no modern conveniences.  It is still possible to die in a snowstorm if you didn’t know where you were and strayed too far out.  It is not for the faint of heart.  The people that remain or choose to inhabit, value the peace and privacy the location offers.  There is no one around to tell them how to live or what to do.  They are hearty, down to earth and fun loving.  Most people are of Scandinavian or Italian decent and there is a small Native American population that has persisted, comprising the only consistent minority group.   

So, through discussion of gig attire, I learned the bar we were headed to had the particular theme of Hillbilly Hoedown.  I thought nothing of it at the time.  Sounded like my whole childhood.  However, in hindsight, it may have been a good idea to give that a second thought.  You see, at the time, I had recently started gender bending my clothing.  I had been out as a Lesbian for almost 20 years, but at this time in my life I was learning to embrace the particular amount of gender fluidity that existed within me and a stronger sense of self comfort.  I wasn’t asking anyone for permission or approval.  Those thoughts hadn’t even crossed my mind.  I usually felt pretty secure, and rarely ever afraid in public, but I was spoiled by the shelter of living in the city for years.  Fear and insecurity are common states of mind that LGBTQ people juggle every day.  I have learned that self-acceptance is usually what other people need to accept you, accompanied by a silent, smiling lack of giving a fuck.  I wasn’t trying to make a statement or change pronouns.  I just wanted to relax into my own skin, even more.  So, I wore the clothing I had brought.  Overalls.  PERFECT!  Along with a white button down and a soft, pink, silk bowtie that my sister had made me.  Quite soft and feminine, actually.

All of us, Mom, Dad, brother, sister, her husband, their 2 toddler boys, and I, loaded up in our caravan and headed to the gig.  It was crowded and hopping already in the midsummer evening light.  The fenced in backyard open with a small bandstand awaiting.  We set up all the sound equipment and then my brother and I tooled around, wove through the crowd, met the owner and made our way to the bar to order a couple of beers before we got started.  Usual gig routine.  I started to notice, more than usual, side glances at my bowtie.  Which to be honest is pretty normal, but paired with the local personalities in attendance it began to feel slightly awkward.  My mind said “whatever”, as always and I pushed through the discomfort, as always.  When one is a member of the LGBTQ community, one gets used to being looked at and assessed.  However, also, when one is a member of the entertainment, one gets used to being looked at and assessed.  You see how my conceptual lines may have gotten blurred a bit.  As a musician, there is a lot of skepticism and judgement before you are allowed to play music and “prove yourself”.   It’s quite a masochistic place to insert oneself, but you get used to it, and learn to ignore it.  So at this time I mentally placed myself as a member of the band, ahead of the “other” membership flag I was involuntarily waving.

I made my way to the ladies room, or rather, the end of the line in front of, only to have all four women turn around and give me deer in headlight glances.  A large bearded man came out of the men’s room and gave me the same, as well as exchanging a quick look with the woman in line before me.  I contemplated going into the men’s room, as there was no line, but my gut said no, and I am very glad that I listened to it.  As the line shortened I made small talk with the last woman ahead of me and before it was her turn, she turned to me and said, “They do have another bathroom out back if you don’t want to wait…did you see that one?” I paused in my confusion, laughed and naively said “Nope, I haven’t been back there yet.  I will have to check it out later.”  “Oh” she said, nodding her head.  So, I waited, she came out, I went in, did my business and plunged back out into the bar without hesitation.  

I made my way to the backdoor, which didn’t actually have a physical door, shocker, and down the rickety stairs into the backyard when I noticed it almost immediately.  It had a clear, four foot space all the way around it, so was easy to see.  It was a clean white toilet, setting on the dirt ground, backed up to the tall, picket, wood, privacy fence that ran all the way around the open backyard of the bar.  A large American flag was hung directly above it on the fence and a cute basket of flowers sat on the top of the tank.  As I slowly approached the toilet I could see the seat was down and a sign written in red sharpie marker had been taped to the lid.  It read “Transgender”.   

I paused and stood there blinking at it.  It took a few minutes for my mind to register exactly what I was looking at.  This set up was placed here, I learned later, by the owner.  A joke, of course.  A cruel, hate filled, joke…which then turned into a very clear warning.  As soon as my brain caught up with what everyone else knew, all the faces I had interacted with as I had made my way through the bar made sense.  The bar was filled with a range of generations and reactions.  It was all a mixture of indignation, trepidation, shame and indifference.  As I processed the understanding of all those facial expressions, I could then feel all their eyeballs burning holes through the back of my overalls and knew it was time for me to move on.  I took a very long drink of my beer, turned on my heels, and walked away.

Now, I am not Transgender and do not claim to know what it would have felt like, had I been and encountered that.  I am an androgynous Lesbian, who often gets mistaken for a man in public spaces, so I am familiar with alienation, confusion, discomfort and on rare occasion violent behavior projected towards a fluid identity.  To be honest, I would be surprised if most of the clientele at this venue would know or care about the difference.  Wouldn’t matter anyway, it’s all “wrong.”  I cannot say that I am not familiar with the prejudices and stereotypes of this demographic.  I grew up amidst it.  It is sprinkled throughout every corner of this country.  However, it is still always a little surprising when a new avenue is opportunistically used to demonstrate the same demeaning, oppressive, aggressive and violent actions without even the most minimal objection.  As a lesbian or gay man, there are many ways to assimilate, which we learn, right quick, at a very young age.  However, when crossing gender boundaries, even with the simplest symbol such as a pink bowtie, as well as my personal demeanor, blending in was not an option.  I contemplated removing it, but somehow felt submission would make me more vulnerable, and increase justification for the intentions of the display.  Ironically it became the only armor I had on.  I was also lucky I was with the band.  It made me keenly aware of the possibility of violence that floated in the air like smoke, trailing behind me, anywhere I chose to traverse that evening.  If I had been alone, and tried to leave, it may not have been pretty, and could have been deadly, which scared the living shit out of me.  Just a tiny window, into the everyday life of every brave soul who does not fit the mold in this way, yet still chooses to venture out into this, at times, hate smeared country.  It makes me sick to my stomach.  I wish it had, literally.  I wish I had lifted the lid and vomited into the bowl.  Or better yet, undid my overalls, sat down and taken that living shit.

Instead, I swiftly took my place amongst the shelter of the ‘’band” and my family and danced with my nephews.  My family rolled their eyes and raised eyebrows in protest, but our business there was, well, business.  There was no room for moral or emotional dissension.  Nor could we afford it.  This was our livelihood.  If you piss off the proprietor, you don't get paid.  We finished out the time we had to play, the music lulling everyone into emotional unity, as it usually does.  We packed up our stuff as fourth of July fireworks were set off.  We watched the sparse, sparkly display quietly for a few minutes before piling into our caravan again to head home.  Prepared to hate this godforsaken place, forever, I offered to drive, as I had drank the least, choosing to keep as many wits about me as possible.  My brother-in-law happily agreed, sat next to me in the passenger seat, my sister and the boys in the back, and I gratefully drove away. 

Manifestations

Barrel chested hollow

only aged bourbon can fill

Blackberry scratches

wincing when washed

Lead marrow limbs 

that rest like bricks

Sorrow, the glue that sticks

heartache memories together 

Shaped by

warmth

landscape

wind

and change

We are but clouds

Manifestations 

of condensed water vapor 

floating in the atmosphere 
As far as the eye
As high as the mind
As full as the heart

This 

body

is my body 

My body 

is God’s body

God’s body 

is my body

Delicate and strong

This

 is God’s body
As long as I treat it that way

Right handed

I have been right handed pretty much my whole life, I think.  I remember realizing it very intensely in the second grade when I broke my arm.  I was staying with my Uncle Mark and Aunt Carol for the weekend.  Having a great time with my cousins, I attempted to jump off a swing.  My shorts caught on the seat, my intended trajectory changed and I fell to the ground.  I lifted my noodly arm, Uncle Mark scooped me up, we all jumped in the car and went to the hospital.  I remember looking at my Aunt Carol and asking "Am I going to die?" She said "No Honey, but I think I might."  Anyway, the next thing I knew, I had a huge cast on my right arm and I couldn’t use it anymore.  I was a waif of a girl with almost no muscle, so I remember barely being able to lift it, walking around with a sling all day. I couldn’t eat with it, I couldn’t run with it, I couldn’t wipe my butt or pick my nose with it and, most memorably, I couldn’t write or draw with it.  I had always drawn, but I was beginning the second grade and I had just learned how to write my full name in cursive.  I had just learned how.  Just. And suddenly I couldn’t do it.  It’s not like when you are an adult and have been writing for years and you may not be able to write very well with your non-dominant hand, but you can still write with it.  I actually couldn’t.  I couldn’t even print it.  I had to totally relearn with my left hand.  It was an illegible scribble at first.  I remember looking at it in disbelief.  I became so aware that what I was willing to happen with my brain was not coming down the circuit system of my left arm and hand.  I felt a constant disconnect and coordination struggle as I sat at my desk, now the slowest writer in the class.  Already my identity as an achiever had set in and I could feel the blow to my tiny ego.  I didn’t know that is what it was at the time, but remembering back, I am sure that my hot face full of shame and sweaty brow was what my ego looked like.  My teacher was a large, tough, scowling woman with a hair-lip who scared the crap out of me.  She was loud and looked disapproving and skeptical all the time. I only remember her smiling once and that was when, at the end of that very long fall semester, and yes it took a whole semester, I finally presented her my handwriting sheet with my name legibly printed at the top.  Her dark, bushy eyebrows softened, she smiled a big chipped toothy grin and pulled me in for a side hug.  Ok so she wasn’t that bad.  She was proud of me and I was proud of me too.  

However, interestingly, after I got my cast removed, I automatically went back to my right hand.  I remember looking at my left hand and contemplated continuing with it, but my right hand did things so much more smoothly and efficiently.  My awareness that I could use both hands more from then on increased, but my dominant took over in general.  It was amazing how quickly the motor memory returned and how deep and stubborn that neurological groove was.  Story of my life.

Hand writing was a very controversial thing again in the third grade.  It was at the end of the teaching trend which insisted everyone be right handed and hold the pencil exactly the same way.  It was deemed necessary to achieve “perfect penmanship”.  Well, the right-handed thing went out the window pretty quickly as there were several lefties in class, but the structure of the grip was not let go.  I distinctly remember being horrified as one day our tough, veteran bird of a teacher went around with a roll of ducktape and forced little fingers into the correct position, snuggly wrapped, remaining there all day.  Somehow, I don’t remember any parental outrage at the time, but there probably should have been.  I made sure to shape my fingers exactly as instructed, and I don’t remember ever sitting up straighter than I did in that class.  I am positive my posture did not help my hand position, but I wasn’t about to test it.  

So, of course for the rest of my growing years, my right side became more and more dominant.  Kickball was kicked with my right foot.  My backpack was carried on my right shoulder. I ate with my right hand.  I played basketball, guard position, dribbling the shit out of my right hand. Played softball and pitched, with, you guessed it.  Anything and everything: tennis, darts, archery, shoveling, firewood chopping, dishes, reading, cartwheels, cooking, drawing, painting, you name it.  Seriously, I'm convinced my right boob is smaller because of all the jiggling from brushing my teeth with my right hand.  It’s not like it was a conscious choice. It was a natural efficiency.  Even the way I slouched, as my mother would often point out, weight on one leg, hips off tilt, shoulders hunched forward, pushed everything to the right.  Parted my hair to the right.  My first root canal was on my bottom right molar, because that is the side I chewed on. I became an art major in college. I worked in sign shops and bakeries and eventually became a house painter.  All handy work.  While learning the trade of house painting, I began to understand the value of my latent ambidexterity.  Painting 10 hours with a six inch wide deck brush full of stain is damn near impossible with one hand. You learn to switch back and forth, just to balance out the back spasms under your shoulder blades the next day. It was a precursor of sorts, it stuck in my brain for some reason and was an important, increased conscious use of both hand tools I was born with.

This consciousness was leveled up again, several years later, when I suffered a major back injury. I was living in a northern, remote area and my partner and I were chopping firewood for extra heat from the fireplace.  Once again, my ego got the best of me.  Something tells me this ego thing is going to be a lifelong conversation.  Sigh.  Anyway.  I arrogantly decided I needed to demonstrate the proper way to chop wood and ended up pulling all the muscles in my lower back.  I was quickly bedridden and could barely stand up halfway, bent over at the waste.  I had jerked my right side so hard that my pelvic wings and sacrum were completely out of alignment.  Of course, bones can be moved back into place, but the chiropractor told me I could spend the rest of my life healing and maintaining the muscle strength in my lower back.  A prediction that has so far been true, over five years later.  I now love yoga.

Talk about your five year plan.  At the time I was not just physically imbalanced, but emotionally and psychologically even more so.  All of my life I learned to observe what was the “Right” way to do things.  Right, according to everyone around me.  I was the master of external assessment and behaving accordingly.  I was a drawing and painting professor.  We teach observation and replication.  It ironically permeated all areas of my life.  So now, I was in the middle of what most people refer to as a midlife crisis and I was about to discover how much of my life was not right, for me, anymore.  Over the previous few years, I had made so many decisions that were not right for me.  They may have appeared right logically, or morally or socially.  But not for me.    So, upon the realization of that, I began to make decisions that everyone else may have thought of as "not right."  I left a 15 year relationship.  I left my job and a career I had worked 10 years to get.  I fell in love with a married woman, stripping away any sense of self "right"eousness I may have had.  Right or wrong, it returned me to my heart, which I had left 30 years before.  However, it also broke my heart.  It did not work and we both left.   I left some family and some family left me.  I left some friends and some friends left me.  I left the city I had lived in for 14 years.  I left the community I had built.  I left the old definition of myself for the unknown.  I had left the concepts of hope and faith, cynicism death-gripping my mind.  I had left my soul.  I had left my self worth, way before any of this happened and it was the beginning of remember who I was again.  Everyday, I am still remembering.  "To the left, to the left.  Everything you own in a box to the left."

The ax that I swung began to split the twisted and knotted grains of my posturing, bringing changes that showed me in so many ways how off balance I had become.  I had completely lost my center.  I became so aware that what I was willing to happen with my brain was not coming down the circuit system of my heart and my life.  I felt a constant disconnect and coordination struggle as I sat at my desk, now the slowest student in the classes I was teaching.  This physiological overuse that had grown over the years, this right side dominance, and the pain that accompanied it, became an insistent metaphor.  My body was the alarm sounding for the emotional weight of overachieving, people pleasing, a perfectionist complex, and lack of self worth.  The pain of awakening pulled at my heart muscle, even harder than my back muscles…and so I broke.  Again.  Thoroughly.  Completely.  More than anyone else will ever know about.  It was about damn time.  I didn't want to be right, anymore.

Antonio

Enlightenment

I moved to Bloomington Indiana in the fall of 2017 to have a go at living with my girlfriend Joann.  Bloomington was a completely unknown and undiscovered place to me.  I got a job as an adjunct at the local community college teaching drawing and printmaking, but I was also interested in a large beautiful Tibetan Buddhist center a couple miles from where Joann lived.  It would be a fantastic opportunity to dive deeper into a path I had been reading on and trying to practice on my own for several years.  So, we visited one day and signed up for their mailing list.  Soon after I received a notification for a Sunday morning Darma talk.  What is Darma, exactly, anyway, I thought?  Sunday morning came, and we drove down the winding wooded drive through the beautiful nature preserve surrounding the buildings, as one would expect of a Buddhist center, to the main temple on the property.  We entered and removed our shoes, as one would expect.  We walked into a room with a huge multicolor alter consisting of a plethora of pictures, flowers and figurines, as one would expect.  We sat down cross-legged and uncomfortable, on the floor pads provided, as one would expect.  There was a small, diverse group of attentive people in attendance, as one would expect.  A short, elderly, bald, Tibetan man with glasses wearing colorful, monkly robes quietly walked down the center isle and took his place in front of the alter and seated crowd, as one would expect.  His young protégé, who looked strikingly similar, followed humbly, at his service, as one would expect.  Prayers and instructions were given, and everyone stood for some traditional chanting, as one would expect, and then we all settled into place.  This is where the expected ended, at least for me. 

As the two sat at their places, the protégé opened a laptop and connected via video chat with another Asian man, from somewhere across the world, who was to provide the translation for the monk who sat in real time in front of us, as he did not speak English.  Okay, I thought.  This is a little unorthodox, but here we go.  The eager, middle-aged blonde woman sitting next to me pulled out a legal pad and a pen, poised to take down every word.  So, Realtime monk (that is what I will call him for this story), started to speak in Tibetan, I assumed, and talked for about 10 minutes.  Then he would stop and Virtual monk (that is what I will call him), would translate in a fairly broken, but understandable with sincere effort, accent.  Realtime monk would then bow his head, close his eyes, fold his hands in his cross-legged lap and wait.  My studious neighbor scribbled maniacally.  About the third round of translation, just when one of my legs had fallen asleep and everyone else started to shift in their physical and psychological discomfort, as one does at any Buddhist event, Virtual monk started to emit a slight Buddhist fervor.  He began to elevate his volume, ever so gently, and lengthen his pauses in between phrases to create emphasis.  Everyone’s ears perked just a little and made effort to hold still, as we could sense that something important was about to be revealed.  The anticipation was birthed with the next statement.  “There are 3 things that you should remember about the concept of Darma.” Virtual monk said.  “Crackle, crackle, er, um, eh, blurp, boop, beep” and the internet connection was lost. Small patient sighs and smiles were given as the protégé worked quickly to regain a signal.  As the image and sound returned, Virtual monk continued to talk as if unaware of the interference.  “and those are the things you should remember about Darma”, he said.  Realtime monk silently giggled, shrugged his shoulders and lowered his gaze as his young protégé nervously carried on, and a large, technological weight now sat upon his shoulders

“Oh my god!”, I thought.  We missed the whole answer!  Joann gave me a ‘be polite’ poke in the ribs, as I had started to laugh, silently to myself of course, at the irony of the situation as well as the confused, hovering pen and desperate blank space on the woman’s legal pad next to me.  Not to worry.  Realtime monk began speaking again and after another couple rounds of translation, the waning attention span and physical discomfort returned.  There was a row of black chairs lined up at the back of the room behind the kneeling pads and one by one, my girl Joann included, faithful Buddhist novices began to drop like flies…or rather, awkwardly rise out of their pins and needles pretzel knot on the floor, desperately reaching for the nearest chair behind them to regain circulation.  

Then, in the nick of time, once again the Buddhist fervor returned.  Virtual monk raised a finger in emphasis on the tiny laptop screen in front of us.  “The most important thing you must remember about Darma is…Crackle, crackle, crackle, er, um, eh, blurp, boop, beep!” and the internet connection was lost.  We all almost faceplanted in our strained forward listening leans.  Holy crap. Are you kidding me, I thought?  Is this a joke?  Realtime monk’s eyes popped open, and he gave the protégé an inquiring side eye.  Poor protégé maintained his mild temperament, but a restrained panic was definitely detectable at this point as he hopped up and quickly glided to the back of the room, to check the modem.  Monks softly glide peacefully through space apparently, even when stressed or panicked. Maybe it’s the robes.  Anyway, by the time he sat back down, the connection had returned and there was our trusty virtual monk, this time informed of the interruption, but still unphased by the pause in his stream of translation.  “in any event” he continued “those are very important things to remember about Darma”.  Realtime monk squeezed his eyes shut, lowered his gaze and giggled even more.

Oh my god!  I thought, once again.  Seriously? Is this really happening?  This has to be a joke!  My mind was very confused.  Frustrated, physically uncomfortable and extremely amused simultaneously.  I joined Realtime monk and laughed harder too.  Silently, with my hand over my mouth and Joann’s disapproving toe in my back, as she was sitting behind me in one of the chairs.  I could see cartoon heat waves begin to emanate from my neighbor the scribe.  She stopped writing and straitened her spine.  Nervous laughter sprinkled around the room but did not last very long.

Translation continued, and I caved into the beckoning chair next to Joann. We were about an hour and a half in when it happened a third time.  I can’t ever remember the question anymore, but I am positive we did not get the answer, as I watched the same dance of the protégé take place.  The dutiful note taker had stopped writing completely, putting her pen and paper back in her bag in resignation.  I wish I had had the courage to laugh out loud because I began to think that Woody Allen was going to pop out of a closet at any moment.  It really could have been a movie.  We sat patiently through the questions at the end and the invitation to tea and cookies afterwards.  As we escaped to the bathroom, Joann asked if I wanted to stay for tea and cookies.  “Nope,” I said.  “Great!”  She responded. Not only had our patience been spent but we were dying to get back to privacy, so we could ask, what the heck just happened?!

The mailing list notifies me on a regular basis and although I have not been back to another Darma talk, I continue to study Buddhism and meditate on a regular basis.  I have told this story to several friends and I have thought a lot about that question. What had happened, what was that? I didn’t learn anything new about Darma, still can’t tell you much specific about it.  However, the more I think about it, maybe I gained some understanding about overarching questions of enlightenment posed by the comedic turn of events that day.  

Most everyone there, I would imagine, may define themselves as a searcher, a seeker, or an explorer of sorts. The general conception, or should I say misconception, of enlightenment, as most people think of it, holds the mystic idea of something to be found or understood or attained.  However, this definition is wrapped in the false disguise of pursuit.   Everything I have read so far, as well as my personal experience, tells me that enlightenment is not something that can be “achieved”.  It isn’t a static state, it isn’t even a “something”, and furthermore it may not even exist.  Pema Chodron says “Enlightenment is not something we're going to achieve after we follow the instructions, and then get it right. In fact, when it comes to awakening the heart and mind, you can't get it right.”  I am not referring to concepts of bliss, the sublime, transcendence or joy, which are all elusive emotional states that I have personally experienced.  Maybe what has surfaced for me while reflecting upon that day is a message that I consistently hear, day after day, which is that all enlightenment is, is a simple acceptance of what is, or what is not.  Acceptance without anticipation, or guilt or resistance of any kind.  Maybe the video chat pauses were the very answers that everyone in attendance yearned to hear.  If enlightenment is truly just acceptance and presence, then surely it is held within the excruciating absence of answers.  Within the musical translation between languages.  Within the humming of pins and needles inside fingers and toes. Within the surrender of one’s pen sword. Within the silence of private internal laughter.  Within those quiet spaces in between connections.