i have closed myself as fingers
It has been a week of this kind of closing. Hurt me and– should I be surprised?– I am no different from the box turtle in my garden or the mussels in their sandy bed in the bay. I will withdraw; I will shut myself; I will not let you in. I have tried hard not to give in to it, but sometimes effort of any kind can be exhausting.
Tonight at the end of light
Tonight I feel lonely
I thought I heard my heart stop beating
And I longed for you to hold me
Anger makes an excellent shell. And it is also true. The words that come out of it, I mean. When I’ve finished with my exhortation, my diatribe, surely you can see that I’ve been wronged here, yes? And I am in the right? See? See?
The mussel is a bivalve. When forced open, the soft hinge lets the shells fall away from each other and you can see how they match perfectly: the arching curves extend and bend in the same degree. But the shallow ridges of the shell’s edges do not match. Instead, their crests and troughs meet at exactly their opposite points. And so the animal inside, as long as it is alive, can be entirely sealed and protected by holding those two shells together. It is made to do this. A mussel, despite its size, is incredibly strong.
I tempt myself with the notion of sealing myself off. I draw imaginary lines. These, I think. These are the ones I would shut away and not allow in anymore. People can be categorized, you know. They can be cordoned off with ropes in your mind. Entire groups of people, not allowed access any more.
It can be done. I know a woman who hasn’t spoken to her own brother in years and years. It can be done.
Where were you tonight?
Did I push you away
Or am I closing my eyes tonight?
Oh honesty
Have you come to rescue me
From everything I can’t admit I’ve done tonight
Cause I know how to lie as well as I know right from wrong
What is that like, I wonder? Does one simply stop speaking? Do you just not return phone calls? Is it all a hard-shelled, stony silence in which one cocoons oneself so that the words of the exiled flood over you like so much water? Do you hear nothing? Does it sound like it’s coming from very far away? I wonder about this, because it tempts me. Not infrequently. Sometimes more than others.
We are always Eden
The twilight tried its best
Tonight I feel good and evil
Against my chest
The trouble with all of this would be, of course, letting those one has shut out know that they are, indeed, shut out. And doesn’t one want them to know why? Maybe if you are lucky you can have a dramatic conversation, after which you can make a dramatic exit and then let the silence begin. You could tell the other exactly what it is you are thinking and then sweep out the door of the coffee shop. And the door, swinging slowly shut in your wake, would be like the shells of the mussel sealing itself against danger.
So is it black and white?
Where is the line that I once drew?
One step back feels like miles from you tonight
Oh honesty
come and save me from myself
From everything I can’t admit I am tonight
Cause I know how to lie as well as I know right from wrong
On second thought, it might be best to avoid the conversation, the dramatic sweep and everything. Let the silence commence without ceremony. Conversation and, indeed, ceremony are, after all, dangerous. There is entirely too much risk of exposure, and this is what we are trying to avoid in the first place.
When the tide waters recede, the mussel draws its shells around itself and waits it out. It knows the water will be back. But until then, it will not risk exposure to the sharp beak of a bird or, even, its sharp eye. The mussel musters its strength as it feels the water’s regress; it clamps its bivalve tightly. This is a case of life and death.
I am much more fragile than I look. I am much more fragile than I seem to be. I am much more fragile.
Don’t take the truth from me
The only thing that’s real
And save me honesty
From the way I feel
This has been one of the hardest weeks I can remember. And I will confess here that in my efforts at closing myself– both now and at other times– I have met with very little success. I am far too big for the shell that encloses me. It is uncomfortable in here, in this silent darkness, where I am confronted with myself. Honesty is painful. Here it is. Here. Here. Do you see? Here is my fault, my error, my blindness. And here my remorse, my contrition, my Help.
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
I do not want it– this exposure, this help. I am as resistant as that mussel against the fumbling fingers of a child, who slides a stone between the shells and tries to force the hinge loose. But I am no mussel, and I need that light to live.
Don’t take the truth from me
The only thing that’s real
Save me honesty
From the way I feel
Show me your ways, O Lord
Teach me your paths,
Guide me in your truth and teach me
For you are God my Savior
And my hope is in you all day long
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
lyrics by alli rogers; poem by e.e. cummings; Psalm 25:4&5
