Haesito in Medio [3 of 5]

<-- part 2                                                                                      part 4 -->

3 The Invitation is Extended

The door swung open behind me and a very dark German shepherd slipped in. She bared her teeth and growled at Elmer viciously. Before he had mumbled his “holy shit” a new voice pieced the air “Loba! Sit.” The dog sat down, not taking her eyes off Elmer. Her owner exuded the same blackness as his dog, wearing a black blazer, dark sunglasses and a black flat cap over his dark hair. Even his stubbles were dark. Funny, Elmer had stubbles too, which added to his raw and uncivilized appearance. The newcomer had a certain air about him, a little bit of arrogance, - just enough for flavor, like a properly spiced meal - and his unshaven condition did not degrade any of it.

I finally managed to tear myself free from Elmer. The new man 'on stage' already stood beside me and helped me get back on my feet. I started to brush off the dust from my clothes, partly to get rid of the Elmer Experience, partly so I didn't have to face the newcomer. He did rescue me, but he also caught me in an awkward situation.

"Loba, it's OK," was the only hand out he gave the giant who obviously had a lot more trouble getting up. "Get up Randy." - Randy?- "Why are you in here anyway ?" He talked to Elmer, or rather Randy, as if reprimanding a child.

"Dropped off the the logs for ye sir, as ya ordered."

"I asked you to bring them Saturday."

"Yeah, so?" Randy defended himself.

"Today's Sunday."

Randy's eyes grew large. "Can't be. Yesterday I went to the Observatory, to help set up a camp for an overnight party. Some Indian stuff. These fellows sure know how to make a dull job interesting. Wow."

- The conversation between the two became more and more interesting -

"Randy, you went there two days ago. You must have spent two nights at the Observatory." -I would have run into Randy at the Observatory, if I hadn't missed my bus. His fate was definitely woven into mine.-

"I dunno's I have." Randy scratched his stubbles, looking forlorn. "Anyway, not much of a party going on now. Police broke things up at dawn. Said there had been a terrible row. Dunno. Slept through the whole thing, I guess." He shrugged.

"You'd better leave now," the woodcarver said curtly, "We'll talk about this some other time."

I almost felt sorry for Randy, he slunk out like a beaten dog. I wasn't even sure if I felt relieved at his departure. Now I was in a one on one situation again, no Randy to keep my new host busy.

"I'm going to make fresh coffee. Do you mind sharing a round with me?"

Coffee? Never will I touch that stuff again, I said to myself, while nodding in agreement.

"Then bring your mug here." The Unknown gestured to the workbench. At least these few steps helped me to shake off the nightmarish feeling that still clung to me. As I reached the kitchen counter, my host had already taken off his blazer and cap. I placed the mug on the counter. "Thank you for rescuing me," I managed to utter.

The dark haired man turned away from me, reaching up to a kitchen cabinet for a tin of coffee. He moved with grace and the agility of a cat. There were some gray streaks in his hair, so he was not as young as his physique suggested. Did he wear sunglasses and cap to hide his age? I could not imagine someone living in such an atmosphere - a cabin dedicated to art and creative work, in the middle of a forest, comfort without luxury and such hospitality - to be vain. But I had already proven to be a bad judge of character, today.

"Do you really have such bad instincts?" His back was still turned at me.

"What do you mean?" I said to avoid an answer. Had he been reading my mind?

"Why didn't you leave the moment Randy came in? You disliked him from the start."

How much had he seen? Had he been around all the time? 'Accidentally' popping in at the right moment?

"You are the most unspontaneous person I've ever met. You have a thousand questions, yet you're not saying a thing." He reached for a coffee spoon, out of a jar that was on the kitchen counter. He pulled too impatiently, another spoon came out, fell into the crate next to the counter. It disappeared between the logs Randy had dropped in there. My host bent down quicker then I did and reached for the spoon. As he pulled it up, he held back a swear word with difficulty. He had cut open the side of his hand. A nasty cut, it bled immediately. Loba winced, stood by her boss with a worried look in her soft brown eyes. The dog's pity pushed me over the threshold I often face when someones needs help. "Where do you have band aid or a first aid kit?"

"In the window sill, behind my workbench."

I would have opted for the bathroom, but a woodcarver probably prefers to have his first aid kit in closer reach. With less fumbling or dizziness then I expected, I managed to help wash out the wound and press it shut until the bleeding stopped.

"Now I have to thank you," the host said. I waved it away. "My plight was a lot worse than yours."

"So what. I hardly did a thing to help you. I just arrived in time. Loba did the work. And you, you helped me even though you can't stand the sight of blood."

This guy was beginning to get on my nerves. He had said only a few things, asked a few questions, but all his remarks pointed out that he saw right through me. What was he, a psychic? To change the subject I remarked that I'd pour in coffee. “But on one condition. That you take off your glasses.”

I expected a sharp remark, but no. He just placed his glasses on the table and looked straight at me. His eyes were bright blue and so big they seemed on the brink of popping out. I held my breath. "If he says his name is Jack, I'm going to scream," I thought.

"My name is Justus," the woodcarver introduced himself. After I had poured in our coffee he gestured at a chair at the kitchen table. “Please sit down, you are making me nervous. Only very few people make me nervous, but you manage to do so."

That imperfection of him, broke the ice for me. "I will take that as a compliment," I joked.

"Not intended." I froze again. "But let's dig into that. Why is it a compliment for you? "

I gazed into my coffee mug. Someone at my first apprenticeship, taught me to turn a coffee break into a ritual. A sure, fast way to say "stop pulling at me" to others, at least for the duration of the break. A moment to be honest to myself. And now I saw Justus was right. Why did I say that making him nervous was a compliment?

A range of things, stupid things. Mainly my low self esteem. I never expect to get someone's attention by being nice. Being nice meant disappearing into the shadows. Only by being the opposite, could I make myself visible. Negative attention had become a reward. That's what I answered while looking shyly at Justus. Sensing he had already read the answer from my mind. Or at least from my face.

Blood dropped from his wound onto the table. I took one of my always present paper tissues and spontaneously wiped it away. When I looked up, my eyes caught his. This time I could read his mind. "Well done" he thought. "A first step in the right direction." I fought against my tears. If it was well done, why did his respons hurt?

Loba laid her head on my knee. I stroked her. All my life, I could not walk past an animal without patting him. Or her.

Justus reopened the conversation again. "You weren't afraid of my dog, when she came in, growling and showing her teeth."

"She didn't snarl at me. And besides " I looked at the beautiful shepherd, "She reminded me of Hertha, a German shepherd that lived in my neighborhood,when I was about five years old." Justus leaned back, smiling, willing to listen to the story. But didn't he already know what I was going to say?

"Hertha always roamed around free during daytime. There was a story going that she had bitten a child and was dangerous. So the kids in my neighborhood were all afraid of her. But I knew she was a gentle dog. I petted her often and sometimes walked along with her and her owner. And she always came when I called her. From kindergarten, I always walked home alone. I had to cross just one street for it. The other kids often scolded me as I walked out of the school gate. Whenever Hertha was around I called her to me, before walking through the gate. The others were so afraid they'd back off, so I could go home without being bally-ragged." I looked into the dog's eyes again and contemplated my own story. Without knowing it, I had just come up with an example of when being not nice had been rewarded. My bragging of being the only one who was not afraid of 'danger dog', was paying off. Funny.

"Finish your coffee, woman, we've got work to do."

"Work?"

"Your party at the Observatory is over, so you might as well spend the rest of the day here."

A little voice told me that I should return home, to look after my mother. But I wanted to stay. This cabin and its owner were my gift, even though at times I felt cornered here. I wasn't going to let it slip. Not this time. "Alright, I'll stay. But call me Joanne. Justus."

Justus got up and walked to his workbench. Loba followed him. And so did I.

Getting Unstuck

This morning I sat in a hall of the train near the entrance, on my way to work. With Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ book on my lap, I was staring into space thinking about how to get ‘Haesito in Medio’ unstuck.

Just then the conductor went by and winked at me. I smiled back at him, letting the moment pass by as just a funny meeting. Suddenly I got hold of the moment's tail just in time. “No” I corrected myself, “I’m going to accept this wink as a gift, of a fellow human being who obviously likes me and wants me to know it. It’s a GREAT gift and I’m really happy with it.”

Such a simple decision, on such a small thing … a wink. It caused a burst of positive energy and it helped me look at my unfinished story from a different viewpoint. It means rewriting part 1 and 2 a bit, but it’ll be so much better afterwards!

As for part 3… be patient.  I'm putting on my sealskin for I have heard the call of the Old Seal from the sea. And only when I have refound my soul and replenished my heart again, will I be back.

Those who know the works of Clarissa P.E. will know what I'm talking about. And those who don't ... read the book. (Women Who Run With the Wolves).  I've read it from beginning to end twice. Wow! Now I pick the chapter I need, just like taking the right kind of medicine when being ill.

I know I've chosen the right chapter. It mentions "injured animal dreams". I've had one several days ago. One that still lingers on my retina. My pet wasn't hurt in the sense that he was bleeding or -almost- dying . But his chest was open and empty. He had no lungs and worse: no heart! Yet he looked lively and was jumping around my living room like lightning. He could only last for a short time, he badly needed treatment. The animal was too fast for me however and nobody wanted to help me catch the little 'bugger'. His speed made everyone think he was alright.

I know what it means, I didn't call myself the Queen of Unfinished Projects for nothing. After reading the Sealskin Soulskin chapter, I know I have to pay heed to these signals. So I am packing my virtual valise to spend some time in Solitude.

Here's a photo of some artwork I made, inspired by that very same book:

La Llorona

Be patient !

I'm currently reading Clarissa Pinkola Estés' "Women Who Run With the Wolves", the chapter about "Sealskin, Soulskin"   (Homing: Returning to OneSelf). Don't be surprised if it creeps into part 3  of Haesito in Medio.  Because: I really am stuck in the middle!

To keep you entertained, here's an add I wrote:

JALF is urgently looking for an

Animus

who will transform the wishes of the Soul into Reality

and build a bridge connecting the deep Self with the World

Experience is not required.

The candidate must have

• appreciation of Modesty

• aversion of anything related to Pomposity or Convenience
• inexhaustible Patience

• Rock-solid Conviction during Stormy Weather

• a Sharp Eye for the distinction between Acting out of Fear or out of Love

The Animus is not easily intimidated.

Required language skills:
• fluency in telling the Truth

• a good working knowledge of 

* Symbolical and

* Metaphorical speech

• or willingness to learn this

For more information please contact JoAnne Lakefield

 

[April 2012]   P.S.  The vacancy is filled

Haesito in Medio [2 of 5]

<-- part 1                                                                                                                                   part 3 -->

2 Enter the Giant

I froze for a moment. To be honest, I was suppressing the urge to run off. Now that I knew I was expected, literally invited to have a coffee, I didn't feel like taking it anymore!

“Come on, weirdo,” the coffee craver in me spoke up. “Pour yourself some and sit down. You've been on your feet for hours. Thanks to Mr. Jack Daw.” Well, alright. This was not a day to fight Fate.

As I sat down, caressing the warming mug in my hand, I took a better look at the place. The kitchen and living room formed a single open space. In the wall opposite the entrance there were three doors. One obviously led to the bathroom, the others to at least one bedroom and maybe a closet. The living room was not a common one. It was the studio of a woodcarver. Along the wall with the three doors mentioned, a workbench and shelves served as a showcase displaying an array of carved animals and abstract shapes. Spread across all four walls were masks. Some were animal too, but most of them were human faces, expressing strong emotions. They reminded me of the nightmares I used to have when I went to school. There were some paintings as well. They were cluttered around the fireplace, in front of which lay a thick grayish (once white) rug. There also stood the only armchair of this room.

Another workbench stood at a window, next to the entrance. This workbench was obviously still in use for it's proper function. On and around it lay wood carving tools and wood shavings. In the midst of it flaunted an unfinished mask. I stood up and walked over to the workbench, to see the mask in more detail. The outlines were still pretty rough, but from the shape I judged it was going to be a bird's head.

Actually, it reminded me of the young jackdaw that had made me miss my bus.

I took another sip of my coffee, From the mask's basic lines, my attention shifted to the air above it. In the sunlight gliding over it, tiny particles of dust were dancing. It looked as if the mask's breath had turned into vapor, just as our breath on a cold winter morning. I shivered. “What a creepy place I've gotten into,” I silently muttered to myself. Precisely at that moment a dark shape filled up the entrance. A large broad man, carrying a bulk of chopped wood in his arms. That must be the owner, I realized and stepped back from the workbench like a guilty child. It was more a reflex, than that I was really conscious of any committed 'crime'. Although … suppose the note was meant for a special guest, not just any passer-by. The man was of such formidable build, I didn't enjoy the idea of getting into a quarrel with him.

The 'giant' dropped his load into the crate that stood near the kitchen sink. He shrugged and winked at the half empty mug in my hand “Dunno how's you can drink that with this here temperature. Got something colder for ya right here.” He opened his voluminous hip-bag and produced a can of beer. I spotted a second one still in it. I stifled and shook my head, secretly vowing to finish this mug only to please my host and than I'd move on to the Inti Festival I was supposed to be at. And on no account would I accept a ride from this unshaven creat... person, with twigs and dirt in his uncombed curls.

Had he read my mind? While opening the can for himself, he walk back to the entrance and shut the door. He stayed in front of it, while taking several sips. Then he walked over to me, staying between me and the exit. Another gulp. Then he stared at me with a look that was supposed to be a 'dark melancholy look'. “Admirin' ma work, eh?”

Actually, I was disappointed that such fine things were made by someone so, so... OK, one shouldn't judge a person by his looks. But I could not deny that he was making me feel uncomfortable. I decided not to respond. My tongue often picks up a mind of it's own and manages to utter words causing deeper wounds than a sword ever could.

Instead I tried hard to come up with something positive about this burly bulk with his torn shirt and dirty trousers. Just t osteady my alarmed nerves, but it was a hard job. He smelled as if he had spend the night in a stable. This aroma was getting mixed up with beer as he swallowed more of it from the can. It should be empty by now. “Not used-ter alcohol, eh?”

He winked at me again. I certainly did not want to give him the idea that forcing me to drink some beer would loosen me up. So I remarked that I do consume alcohol, but never before lunch. There was nothing funny about it, but he roared with laughter. “You call me Elmer.” This non sequitur was uttered as soon as his 'fit' was over. Meanwhile he moved closer, trying to put his arm around me.

“Why are ya here, Missy? And how come yer drinkin' ma coffee without waitin' fer me?” My eyes swerved over to the note, under the thermos. Hadn't he written the note? Then who had? My uncertainty could evidently be read from my face. He bent over, his hazel eyes scrutinizing me. “Yer not afraid o' me, are ya?” Only now I saw how bloodshot his eyes were. This guy hadn't been sober from the start. My mental alarm rose in volume. “Get out of here! Now!” I put down my mug on the workbench, trying to slide past Elmer. But he got hold of my shirt. “You ain't leavin' me now. Let's have some fun first.” He dropped the can so he had his other hand free. Tried to stroke my face with it. My heart started to pounce hard, as if breaking open my chest. And not for joy. I felt like throwing up at the thought of his touch. With one hand I warded off his 'caressing' hand, with the other I tried to pull away his hand holding my shirt. Useless, his hands were like sledgehammers. My opponent giggled at my futile attempt. Why hadn't I ever taken better care of my physical condition?

As a kid I used to pick fights with boys¹ older than me (and I was small for my age). But I quit the habit at secondary school, when the boys became more muscular than the girls. “Come on,” the pugnacious child in me urged me on. “You're sober, he's not. Play with his center of gravity.”

I grabbed his upper arms as sudden as I could (I'm horribly phlegmatic) and placed my right leg after his legs, pushing him backwards. He crashed down, but as with most drunkards, his fall didn't hurt him. And he hadn't let go of me. I ended up lying on my right side, diagonally over his chest. His odor made my nose sting. Elmer got over his surprise, cursed and came up, trying to make us switch places: him on top of me. The one position I was trying to prevent. I tried to yank myself free from his iron grip around my arms, at the same time trying to suppress an attack of panic.

1 I'd never pick a fight with a girl. Because most of them fight mean, they scratch and bite. With only a brother around, I was used to stumping and wrestling.