Flattery will get you anything. That's what my friend, Ellen, told me in high school. She had red hair and pouty lips. And she always got her way.

I can't really say we were friends. It was something more than that, and yet, in a lot of ways, something far less.

We started spending time together after my sister moved away for college. That's really what I was looking for. For her to be my sister, a replacement sister. To step into the gap that had been created with Anna living four hours away and no longer in the bedroom next to mine. Someone who gave advice on everything from what sweater I should wear to how to swim in the social waters of high school, who helped me see things from the female perspective, and was just comfortable and safe to be around. She was happy to do these things, but it didn't equate to a sisterly relationship for her. Rather it was the road to intense emotional bonding that would eventually lead to something more. And in truth, that is exactly what it ended up being, not my naive expectation of something neutral.

Soon we were writing each other these intense poetry-laden (often lyrics stolen from angst-y 90's alternative rock) notes. If I read them now I'm sure I would find them laughable, but at the time they ignited a fire in my belly. They brought up these emotions somewhere between lust, curiosity, and fear. I was never quite sure if I should run towards her or get the hell out of there. And that was torment to her, me never committing to anything solid, staying in that ambiguous state.

That was all more then ten years ago now. And yet I still find myself doing the same thing.

Trying to manipulate my friendships and relationships into something that will meet my needs, and be exactly what I think it should be. Trying to suck life, comfort, love from those around me. And Ellen was trying to do the same to me, using flattery to lead me towards a deeper surrender, asking me to give things that weren't mine to give. For a while we used each other, but it was never enough, and it imploded, leaving us bitter and angry. Which lead to more angst-y notes passed in hallways en route to math class.

I take comfort in the words below. Nothing else has ever proven to be true. I know these words to be life giving as I've experienced the slow change of self-pleasing sin habits being burned up, and God breathed truth embedding itself in me.

1 John 3:18-24
My dear children, let's not just talk about love; let's practice real love. This is the only way we'll know we're living truly, living in God's reality. It's also the way to shut down debilitating self-criticism, even when there is something to it. For God is greater than our worried hearts and knows more about us than we do ourselves.

And friends, once that's taken care of and we're no longer accusing or condemning ourselves, we're bold and free before God! We're able to stretch our hands out and receive what we asked for because we're doing what he said, doing what pleases him. Again, this is God's command: to believe in his personally named Son, Jesus Christ. He told us to love each other, in line with the original command. As we keep his commands, we live deeply and surely in him, and he lives in us. And this is how we experience his deep and abiding presence in us: by the Spirit he gave us.

We live on street corners and back alleys
pressing our faces against pastry laden store front windows.
We hear hawkers and hot doggers calling in the street,
but all we can do is stare and wonder.

I can't pretend very well, and
turning my eyes away when I think something that I shouldn't say
I disconnect from honesty for your sake, and
shuffle back.

Before and behind trailing blood, and
following a bloody trail I feel again a warm hand upon my shoulder.
Strangers give me drink and call it life's blood, and bread
body.

Now I see your face for the first time
although I've long known you by reputation.
Ragged, wretched, beaten, beautiful. My eyes
fill up with tears.

We Hoist Bottles to Harness the Wind

Slightly alive in this world of furled sails
We nail plastic and glass to the mast.
No friend is the wind who comes now and again
Just to jest at our stagnant distress.

That cursed captain, he said "Listen well, all ye dead,
Land's a treasure, and I am the Key.
Hoist yer sails in wind gales that could empty the sea
But you'll ne'er budge an inch without me."

Childish riddles as these to my ears spoke disease;
Such a sailor as I earns his keep,
Yet he spoke as though toils would earn me no spoils
So I slit his damned throat in his sleep.

"Call me dead man again. You can die in my stead."
Snickered I as his pillow turned red.

Yet it seems he spoke truth, for now nothing we do
Moves our bow any nearer to home.
We've done all that we could to bring land to this wood,
Not a hint of slight progress we've known.

I've lost all hope in sails, they've failed time and again;
We hoist bottles to harness the wind.

The Germans Call It Fruehling

The world smells like dog poop these days.

Thawing preserves from Labrador walks and Terrier runs, creating obstacle courses for melting streams of snow and strollers. Mutt Mitts are shockingly neglected in the months around the winter solstice. Probably secretly. And bitterly.

The earth squishes. As if it's given up its grudge, finally caved in on that thing it said it wouldn't do. Like the time Jennifer Zawislak did invite Karly Kaneski to the birthday party, even though the fight happened on the bus and there hadn't been much talking or notes or phone calls since. And like Jennifer, the ground is breathing is easier for it. Things seem to fizz and pop, as the juices exchange.

Alarm clocks seem too slow, as we lean into the sunshine instead and swap out dark stumbles to sinks and toilets for liftings of window panes and bypasses of wool ensembles.

The melt ensues and the Germans call it Fruehling.

All Alone.

It made a sound. I know it must have, because everything that moves makes sound.

drip.......drip.......drip.......

There was so much other noise. Your people aren't known for their stoicism. Women wailing, thieves begging, soldiers mocking, the clouds thundering,

but I can't believe you didn't hear it.

drip.......drip.......drip......

Amidst the pounding of your heart, and your gasps for breath you must have heard it.

drip.......drip.......drip......

Your life was draining away and soaking into hard uncaring earth. Such loving liquid. It must have been a maddening and terrifying sound.

drip......drip.......drip......

A sinister voice in your head said, "You can make this stop." You chose the rack. You chose the noose. You chose this torture.

all alone with your

drip.....drip......drip.....

March Haiku

today I dream of
July and sand in my cracks
oh fearless loofah

midnight is an old
friend who greets me with wide eyes
two lids peek SO LONG!

The hair hung in his face covering his eyes but there was no doubt. He wept. Not the soft, willowy crying of a man accustomed to control, but the the penetrating wailing of a man who has just encountered the robbery of death. Deep, heavy, chest heaving, dangerous tears, moans, and mucus erupting from his face.

There was no shame. His grief was private and public. He could have been the only one standing there and his sorrow would have looked no different than it did now as he was surrounded by bewildered, wanting people.

This was a brother. Not simply a friend with whom you meet for a beer and a laugh, but someone who had shared in pain, fear, joy, conflict, and pleasure. It was the kind of pain that I imagine a tree feels as it's limbs are shorn off. The tearing of the saw into the wood, the weight of the limb as it begins to creak and fall, and the deafening crash of it hitting the ground and splintering into pieces.

The emotions acted like waves, the next one crashing as soon as the one before had subsided.

But there was no bitterness in the sorrow. No anger. It was grief unencumbered by these other emotions. Just a pure steady drip of sorrow pouring into his veins and making it's way through his body. He wondered whether he had stopped just feeling the emotion and instead had become his sorrow, it wrapped itself so completely around and through him.

He felt all this even though, within moments, through his own actions, he would be reunited with him.