Tilting The Prism

I know I haven't written in a while, but I've been processing a lot. In fact, I'm damn tired of talking about my teeth. But to sum up, Doctor #2 took diagnostics and x-rays, and found bone loss and possible periodontal disease. The man who said he could treat me and make it livable, changed his tune, offered to charge me close to $9,000 to treat me for six months and advised me to go back to my regular orthodontist so that he could "finish the job." He, in fact, called my ortho to "tell him what to do." The fact that this sounds like dialogue from a Godfather movie is not lost on me.

I went back to my regular ortho two weeks ago and in fact he was calmer, slower and answered my questions. I didn't like his answers some of the time, but he did answer. He replaced three brackets that were missing, and though I still feel disappointed in him, this seems to be the path that I'm following right now.

I'm thinking a lot about the phrase "dead wood." It's not something that you hear in New York City. We don't worry about things like firewood, and how alive it might be. I've been pushing that word away from me out of indignation. Out of the fact that the word is truly adding insult to injury. And yet if I am to be fair, he's not so wrong. I have been acting like dead wood. I've been sequestering myself. I've been suffering. I've been quiet. I've been single.

But now, I'm taking the prism and tilting it in my hand. Could it be that he did me a favor by pointing this out? After some processing, the whole "dead wood" thing might have served a purpose to shake me out of complacency. Every time I think about the phrase it's replaced by a stronger, impassioned determination to prove how un-dead-wood-like I am.

My friend Cory sent me this poem, and what a gift it is. This has also tiled the prism, and shed light where light was not before.

WAITING

by John Burroughs (1837-1921)

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,

For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,

For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day;

The friends I seek are seeking me;

No wind can drive my bark astray,

Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;

My heart shall reap where it hath sown,

And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height;

So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;

The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.