Where cake, crowbars and Johnny Cash cover songs intersect.
A few random thoughts as we lean into summer, lets start with this photo! Despite leaving religion more than a decade ago, I’ve retained an appreciation for anyone wrestling with their own darkness and edges and who seemingly are seeking out redemption. Even if I no longer look for healing to come from outside of me, I hold space for the ways others explore a way back to integrity.
I was never a huge fan of Johnny Cash’s music but made room for the ways he seemed to reckon with his wretchedness. I am unabashedly a sucker for a good cover song and will also start a club with anyone invested in eating cake as he appears in this photo (or perhaps he’s just stoned? hahaha). Cash’s cover performance of Hurt brought me to tears within seconds of hearing it the first time (the original song is by Nine Inch Nails). As someone who in their twenties coped with depression through self-harm, I recognized myself in Cash’s version of the song in a way I didn’t with the original.
Recently while on a desert trail run, I stumbled across his cover of Personal Jesus which Depeche Mode originally released in 1989. While I love both versions for different reasons, I found myself drawn towards Cash’s cover, similarly to how I’d encountered his version of Hurt—there is a part of myself I recognize in his voice. I played with the lyrics, exploring my own, what emerged was the poem below.
The line in the fourth section of the poem references handing my best friend a crowbar and perhaps to no ones’ genuine surprise, it is not metaphor. The line refers to an experience from last year, one that doesn’t belong to me for detailed sharing yet nonetheless is an opening for more of us to walk through.
I’m writing a longer essay this summer, one that explores how to be with the heat and bigness of rage—ours and others—along with what’s at stake when we bypass, blend or displace it.
I’m curious…what does it feel like for you when you encounter your anger? Where do you avoid, become stuck or overwhelmed by it—where or how would you want to feel anger or rage differently? Feel free to comment below or send me a private message/email. I welcome your thoughts as I work on this essay, and for now will leave you with the poem inspired by the song Personal Jesus.
My own, personal Jesus
locks faces with me, we take turns
rolling our eyes, offering languished
hap-hazardous sighs,
quelling laughter and smirks
it’s inevitable, the things we do in synchronicity
somehow making bearable
living in *these bodies, in *this world
My own, personal Jesus
shows up with unarmored awareness,
seeing the best in people while
I’ve historically shown up
with gasoline in my tank, also,
in the car’s trunk,
I’m prepared for different situations
a therapist might assess that
My own, personal Jesus and I
have different trauma responses,
mine has kept me alive longer
admittedly, it isn’t always who I want to be
My own, personal Jesus
loves to feed people and gawwwwd
does that boy love to talk,
his mouth is full, just like mine
our words and their actions pull us
repeatedly towards each other
he doesn’t own a weapon
(doesn’t need one with *that mouth)
he isn’t above borrowing a neighbor’s whip
when his rage wave arches
bigger than his words, I do the same,
which gets us both into trouble
I am the kind of woman who
isn’t above handing her best friend a crowbar
the kind of woman who,
will low-gutter growling
will tell her it’s a righteous act
to name him, then say:
“hit it harder now, FOR her”
My own, personal Jesus
nods quietly in approval
things that are broken sometimes need
to break completely, differently,
all-the-way-on-purpose
this Jesus chose me, knowing
the kind of woman I am
unafraid, unashamed, always adaptable—
both a bobble headed desk figurine
and my childhood king
My own, personal Jesus
inhabits the middle way,
which is often nearby yet
distinctly separate from me
paths that are mutually unrelenting
ever-evolving, he’s with me
however he did not teach me
the lines of self-belonging, how could he?
every friendship has limitations
He and I are human, so very human
I’m still into him, everyone ought
to have their own, personal Jesus
which leads me to ask,
who might yours be?
My friend Paula asked recently how it feels to have my words out in the world and it felt like an invitation to sit with the differences between what it’s felt like to publish a book (so many highs/lows) comparative to the feelings of having parts of me exist in spaces that would’ve otherwise remained invisible, which is best akin to what having my words out in the world feels like.
In short: I feel less alone.
It isn’t what I expected and has been one of the sweeter surprises of this journey. I wrote In The House Of Me as a container of stories and options, specifically ones that I needed two, five, and ten years ago—what I needed a lifetime ago. I wrote her because one of the most common aches I hear in my therapy office is the sound a wound makes when no one was there to witness it.
Much of my childhood and young adult years were spent feeling alone and know feeling alone is far too common an experience—the ache of trauma is deeply exacerbated by the experience of feeling alone during and after it. I wanted anyone whose fingertips graced her cover to feel seen and cared for and based on the messages coming in, I believe In The House Of Me is doing this and can neither quantify how moving it feels nor put into words what those messages are shaking loose for the younger parts of me—my 11, 15, and 19 year old parts are hearing your #metoo also.
Isn’t that the miracle of what a mouthful of honesty does? Telling our stories becomes both a bridge to each other and a deeper invitation into ourselves.
I wrote her so you’d feel less alone—and feel less alone too. Thank you, thank you.
*If you’ve been meaning to grab a copy then I’m happy to share In The House Of Me is now available at Bookshop, Changing Hands (locals, you can order her online and then pick-up at the store and grab a latte or beer and peruse their amazing selection!) and of course on Amazon as well.