The Run

My feet hit the gravel filled pavement, kicking small pebbles up behind me. The thought of a stone- filled truck driving on the freeway comes to mind, the ones that are uncovered slinging debris at your windshield as you try hopelessly to dodge the next oncoming crack. I quickly glance over my shoulder hoping no one is behind me, especially someone wearing glasses. My legs are swift and strong, and I run for miles without stopping to catch my breath. And then it comes over me...what I've been waiting for - the sensation of pure ecstasy. I'm not sure if everyone who runs avidly gets that rush once they reach a certain distance. But for me, it is like a bolus of some opiod they might use in a hospital ER. It had reached it's pique in my system, and my anger, frustration, and worries melted away like an inexpensive wax votive. I feel a smile creep over my face as the surge of a second wind infuses me. My body was made for this. In some moments, in my more graceful hours while gliding across smoother terrain, I would sometimes catch a rush of wind that left me with the sensation that I was flying. Those small moments were ones of perfection. The next moment was not one of those. I saw it coming ahead, but not quickly enough to change my course - a pothole about two feet in diameter (if you could call it that, looking at its amorphous shape). I quickly veered to the left, but my right foot lagged behind, catching its sharp corner, leaving me defenseless.  My brain slowed, as if retaining each millisecond of the next few moments the path this pothole had predetermined for me.

It was then I realized I was falling.

And with a mighty thunk, my body hit the ground. I took a moment to catch my breath. My sheets managed to catch the brunt of the force, though they twisted in a way that awkwardly fused my thigh to my abdomen.

Another dream, I swallowed hard to catch my breath, as if I actually had been running. I lay there a few moments wanting nothing more than to escape back to that place of ecstasy. I held hard to the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, the way the cool wind swept across my plum face, the feeling of freedom and absolute surrender.

My eyes were burning now, tears flowing, the realization stinging me; I would never return to that place. I was in a different place of surrender, now. I traced the knotted sheets down my thigh, and clenched my jaw when my fingers ended their journey, right above where my knee once lay. No matter how many times I traced and retraced, no matter how many dreams, my leg was never coming back. I had to surrender to that fact.

AHH! the agony was like a blade ripping through my skin. I grabbed at my right leg, for the pain to stop, only to discover . . . air.

There is an irony in the phrase phantom pain. I honestly never gave two thoughts about my legs before the accident, self-righteously assuming they would always be there -- until one wasn't . After that, the phantom was a daily reminder of what I now couldn't do so easily, what I had once taken for granted, and what I would give for a sense of normalcy.

I paused a moment, before untangling the sheets that connected me to that other world. Before, calling my mother for help back into my bed. Before I had to succumb to a long arduous morning routine, that had replaced the eager simplicity of jumping out of bed, I wanted to remember the simplicity of running.  

I held onto that sheet like a lifeline for what seemed like hours. I replayed every little league game, every school dance -- roller skating, jumping on trampolines, swimming at the local pool . . . guys looking at me like I was an object of affection and beauty. . . not someone who needed pitying. I went through every memory, every stupid stunt that could have gotten me killed . . . my accident.

I don't remember much about that night:

I was about six weeks in to my freshman year of a Division III school on a merit scholarship for track and field. I was the first leg runner (I realize the irony, now) in the 4x400. We placed first that night, and decided to have a bit of a rager. It was my first college party, so, believe me, I took full advantage of the opportunity.
Then things started getting a bit fuzzy. The cops got called, and everyone started scattering like cockroaches in the light. Me and another guy escaped to the roof. I remember a cop's voice, thundering  inside the bedroom. The only way out was down. So, we both agreed to jump on three. I can still hear his voice inside my head.
One! I looked over the edge. Two! "Here, I'll hold your hand!" Three! . . .
They kept repeating how lucky I was to be alive.
I kept asking about the other guy, but nobody ever answered . . .
I had conveniently forgotten about him.
It's funny how people choose to remember the past and how that, in turn, effects their view of the present.

At that moment, I took my 4 pound, 400 thread count umbilical chord, and let go. I untwisted the knots that gagged my body, and gawkily forced all my weight up onto my left leg. Then, I fumbled through the darkness, feeling thankful for once when my hands reached the right leg's cold, hard replacement.
I then propped myself back onto my bed, ineptly preparing my right leg for the first time I would handle this morning's routine.
My mother popped her head in and turned on the light, shocked at what she saw.
I'll do that. she interrupted.
I've got it! I recanted, pushing her away.
That's my job. What are you doing? Her eyes and mouth contorted.
I stopped for a moment, and looked her square in the eyes.
I'm going for a run. 

2:52

Flashbacks haunted
Memory daunted
The iron lung won't let me move.
Pressure's falling
Lungs in need of outside rescue
Air flows
An artificial breath inflates me.
Short lived
Breath expelled
In need of another quick jolt
Allowing the process to continue
Knowing I can breathe . . .
On my own
If only I make the choice
To open the chamber.

Morning Dance

Morning
It's time for our secret early hour ritual
Donned in bathrobes and the scent of fabric softener
I hear the stiff crinkle of the pages of our worn book
As I worm my way into your lap.
Your circus-like juggling act of coffee, books, and cigarettes
Always eluded me...my tiny hands dropping objects to large to fit their grasp.
But your hand manages to make its way to mine.
Mine... half its size, is enveloped by your glove.
I find it odd how much security and comfort can be found
In the way your hand wraps around mine.

I inhale the bitter but fresh aroma wafting from the coffee mug in your left hand
As your right hand softly dances to find the dog eared page
So customary to our morning retreat

You take a sip of coffee and exhale
My head nestles into your chest  and I can hear your heartbeat
I take a moment to relish the aroma of mountain and pine, sighing from your skin,
Urging me to nuzzle closer.

Zara the Bather, you announce in a tone that would make Hugo proud.
As you begin my ear searches for that perfect spot
Filled with rich baritone vibrato and the steady drumbeat of your voice.
Once found, I melt into you and let the rhythm, the musicality, our composition overtake me.

And I discover,  I am home.

The Mariner

To dive beneath your skin

Where the scent of sunrays and mountain peaks beckon me.

Oh sirens!

Your melody, so sweet

Hangs like a vice around my heart.

I’ve become accustomed to the ache.

In moments it loosens,

And I am aware of its yield

Stay! I beg for more of the rhythmic pounding that follows its cadence.

It pulls me to the undertow

Where air evades me-

Far beneath the waves that have cracked the shallow surface.
Deep...
I find myself crashing to the ocean floor, my brain dizzied by orchestration.
In moments of clarity there is solace in this place of vulnerability.
The vastness of warmth, here, in this space only we two, share.
Caught off guard by a gaze inviting me closer into the depth of you,
I'm leery of timeless tales, of the melodies relayed by those on shore
Those with deep furrows in faces scoured clean and fragile by years of salt water embedded in their skin.
You wrap your strong arms around me, inviting me further...inviting release.
Breathless, I succumb. I have nothing left to offer.
Nothing to give. My body grows limp.
Like a miracle, you grab my face and place your lips to mine. Life pours into me.
An aria. Music I've have never encountered floods my ears. Sharp. Crisp. Bellowing. Pure. It's almost too much to contain, and I break away for a moment of respite.
But, I quickly realize it is something my soul is in need of in this vast unknown territory.
In the darkness, I am guided toward the familiar tune.
Until our lips meet again.
I have but one request. 

If I drown entangled in this one breath between us…

Please, heavenly creature…

Sing me home


Poem by Tracy Medberry 2012; Video: Never Let Me Go by Florence and the Machine, Universal Island Records 2012

Is Your Idea Worth a Million Dollars? Try Patent or Not!

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Fix Me

My rant of the day is around this song called Fix You, by Coldplay.
I have a love-hate relationship with this song, albeit not as bad as Electric Feel by MGMT, which just completely torqued me off after I had a good listen to the lyrics - I mean come on, shock me like an electric eel. Not to mention the music video has the feel of a creepy, egregious, knock off done by a member of the Peter Jackson Restraining Order Club.

But don’t let me get my undies in a wad over this. Because sadly, I still find myself swaying to this song, electric eel and all, when it finds its way to my radio dial.
But, I get this is just some cheesy pop song, meant for people to dance to at the clubs. It’s catchy. Nothing more, nothing less.

It doesn’t toy with your emotions, leaving you having deep philosophical conversations with yourself late into the night.

Here is where Fix You, by Coldplay comes in. It is a gorgeous song. It’s a song many have embraced for advertisements, for choreography, or for just when in need of an inspirational moment. It’s a song with which my soul connects. It hits me at the gut level every time I hear it, especially as the song builds to its climax with the a simple quickening of an electric guitar melody, followed by the layering of drums, burning their pattern into my ears and my heart. And then comes the final layer. The lyrics:
Tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace. Tears stream down your face, and I. Tears stream down your face. I promise you, I will learn from my mistakes. Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.

So, even if you are the Grench, your heart is most likely swelling by this point. What adds to the agony, is that it was supposedly written by Chris Martin for his wife Gwenyth Paltrow, after her father died. She comes home drenched in tears. Her husband asks what he can do for her. And she replies something to the affect of “Just hold me, because you’re the only thing that can fix me right now.” The single thought of this, is incredibly romantic.

But what if you have someone in your life, who believes this to be true to their core? What if it’s not a one time tragic event? What if it’s years upon years of tears and pain and grief? What if the person’s hands are bloody and their soul is tired from trying to fix you?

When does it become one’s responsibility to take a step of faith to change negative patterns and take steps to fix oneself? To possibly take some insight from The Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference

I’m not saying we don’t need a safe place to fall from time to time. I’m not saying change can’t be elicited from the inspiring words of a loved one. I’m not saying I don’t love this song. I do believe, everyone needs encouragement, hugs, intimacy, inspiration, LOVE. People need other people who will spur the on when times get rough.

But when does this encouragement become enabling? When does it teach the other that she cannot do for herself - that she needs another to be whole or fixed? What happens when she begins to believe she holds no value apart from another human- The person who’s been trying for so long to bear the responsibility of fixing her?

What if, instead, she, like Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz, finally realizes those walking beside her on her path to find home, had no special powers to fix her? They were incredible, reliable, loyal, and inspiring companions. They were valued friends to share in a journey, help keep one another from danger, care for one another. But those companions could never guide her home. Fortunately she discovers in the end, she has had in her possession the whole time, the thing she most needed at the core of her being: the ruby-red slippers. The one thing that would guide her home. That would fix her.

Ten Angels

Ten angels wildly dance on the head of your pen,
They peer on with anticipation as new melodies,
Crafted with your ink, take their first breath.
I see them. Clothed in brilliance, but like children on Christmas morning
Excitedly drawing closer to each syllable until it is finally time to unwrap your next “ahaha!”.

Ten angels sitting on your shoulder, tonight as you sleep,
Eagerly awaiting the moment when the dawn kisses your lips
And the sun bursts forth from your mouth singing praises to your Creator.

Ten groggy-eyed angels,
Lying on the edge of your morning cup of joe
Inhaling just enough caffeinated fumes
To make up for last night’s deficit.

Ten slightly buzzed angels
Doing deep stretches on your writing tablet
Before they take their rightful place atop your pen.
Knowing today’s performance is just about to begin.

And then...

Encore!