self-actualization is a bitch

there aren’t many days when you can watch lightning erupting from a cloud in the night sky against the backdrop of satellites shooting stars and the french-manicured nail tip of the moon. and it doesn’t happen everyday that the afternoon sun becomes a torrential downpour during which an umbrella proves futile. seven years ago this week i decided i wanted to be a teacher under the same sky laying on my back not in my front yard in india but at my cabin. there it is again, the perception that the sky has gone unchanged in seven years. i search outside of myself for a constancy that doesn’t exist internally or externally. a constancy that is no more than fallacy that i have desperately pursued for too long.

the perpetually-plaguing realization is that we are alone. even when jamie, joe, ethan and i sang the lyrics while we walked out of the high school, a moment of communal bliss at the end of the day, the lyrics caught me, “life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone.” and i know “like a prayer” is not the most significant of songs. but the sentiment is still there. no one is going to do your learning for you, no matter how much you want to skirt the foremost responsibility in your life. and no excuse will get you out of this assignment, students. the truth is, i don’t know how to be alone. and how to permanently divorce “loneliness” from “solitude.” not that i don’t find bliss in myself. but the silence can be overwhelming. “just give me one thing to hold onto. to believe in this living is a hard way to go.”

the overpowering human consciousness that hit me with the veracity that only comes with painful self-realization awoke me to my numbness. how can numbness become a coping mechanism? a survival tactic? how is it that divorcing from yourself befalls after such a long battle to be awake? and how can that consciousness be as shocking as diving into a minnesota lake in may? the wonder of the shock that awakens you to every once-asleep nerve?

why do i expect you to love me when i secretly and not-so-secretly hate myself? “the paradoxical theory of change is that the more one tries to become what one is not, the more oneremain the same. and health is rediscovering wholeness after a fragmentation that comes from forcing oneself into a mold that doesn’t fit.” i have spent my life waiting for you to tell me what i want. what i am. what i SHOULD be. i’ve anesthetized me from myself. i’ve dreamt your dreams and spent a decade mourning the unfulfilled ideals. i’ve clung to every illusion i could muster. and the moment never fails to look different in the morning. and what was once fully awake is in hindsight pure numbness.

the tricky thing is that the future is based on expectations though i have tried my whole life not to expect anything. the tricky thing is that the truth is that you have to save yourself even though the whole world tells you he will do that for you. the tricky thing is that we don’t do a very good job of distributing the weight in our lives when all good grocery-bag-packers know not to put all your eggs in one basket. the tricky thing is accepting yourself when you said you would never be who you have become, smoking the cigarette you said would never touch your lips. the tricky thing is not basing your worth on comparisons even though we all know we can only be what we are. the tricky thing is that we talk about becoming, dreaming, aspiring rather than being.

wake up. there is no tech support. and the only person who can save me is myself. and the tricky thing is that ignorance is bliss but this fucking complicated reality is even better. because it’s mine.

the equation of wasting time

my new favorite time-wasting activity (that is less expensive than internet window shopping) is the google image search engine. this is a picture that came up for teaching. though i do not agree with this hierarchical classroom arrangement, i thought i would share it. look at all the happy little brown students! so multicultural...

this fine morning, as i wait for the lunch bell to ring, i have compiled an illustrated equation of my mood.


the formula: courtney humm @ 11:50 on 25 august= (x+y)/ z
plusdivided by

man. do i REVEL in the perfect time-wasting (though i hate the phrase "waste of time" for many reasons) activity. wasting time is really just becoming consumed in the moment without worrying about responsibilities or consequences. like the 2 hours of sex and the city i watched yesterday afternoon. rufus w. would deem it instant pleasure. and, let's be honest. i am a glutton when it comes to gorging on happiness.

these mornings of rain (subtitled: homestead #1)

this is my new humble abode, complete with whitey the dog and a swing in the yard. the clinching factor in moving down the mountain from mt. hermon was the ability to play music in every room in the house. that way, when you're getting ready in the morning, you can keep singing along from the shower to the kitchen while making coffee. spiffy. i spent many-a-cozy-monsoon-morning cuddled on my floral couch during my latest bout of bacterial-typhoidal sickness.
and it's true. i do need it all.

these mornings of rain
when the house is cozy
and the phone doesn’t ring
and i am alone
though snug
in my daughter’s
fire-red robe

these mornings of rain
when my lover’s large socks
cushion my chilly feet
and meditation
has made me one
with the pine tree
outside my door


these mornings of rain
when all noises coming
from the street
have a slippery sound
and the wind whistles
and i have had my cup
of green tea


these mornings
in fall
when i have slept late
and dreamed
of people i like
in places where we’re
obviously on vacation

these mornings
i do not need
my beloveds’ arms about me
until much later
in the day.
i do not need food
i do not need the postperson
i do not need my best friend
to call me
with the latest
on the invasion of grenada
and her life

i do not need anything.

to be warm, to be dry,
to be writing poems again
(after months of distraction
and emptiness!),
to love and be loved
in absentia
is joy enough for me.

on these blustery mornings
in a city
that could be wet
from my kisses
i need nothing else.

and then again,
i need it all.

(ALICE WALKER, of course.)


i would include more photos, but the internet is being fickle. imagine a bookshelf with lots of books, a doorway with a double-door arch and light emanating through the windows and a kitchen with a basketful of mangoes and apples and a stash of red wine.