I have a special relationship with hummingbirds. My mom told me they are the smallest birds in the world. They represent gratitude and humility, love and godshots. The latter needs some explaining. Let me hum: God graced me with sobriety on August 13, 2015. I was sitting on a park bench around the corner from my parents’ house at this place called the “view site.” Over- looking valleys, peaks, nadirs & zeniths representative of despair & the bottomless pit: an abyssal gorge of treason against my raison d’être. Smoking a joint & looking to the sky. Overlooking Pacific Coast Highway. I didn’t know why I was smoking & doing what I was doing. — This substance, no longer sustenance for me. My dog by my internal fireside, peering deep into my inferno, blazing like the doobie. — Dubious, I cried out. Answerless… No response. No reason. Pain psychic & depressive. Feeling psychotic. At one of my first Twelve Step anonymous meetings, a fellow in this group of brave souls banded together to redirect the flames to burn brightly, rather than skewer wild boars — shared about hummingbirds & godshots: Little events. Coincidences and winks from God. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a visible wink. Blinking in and out —Tzim- Tzumic vessels, breaths, smiles. (I regained my faith in Judaism through the process of the Twelve Steps, particularly with receiving anonymous Chassidic texts, and ninth-step amends to my childhood rabbi …) When I was nearly two years sober, I moved into an apartment by myself. Living on my own, the neighbor above would shine a hummingbird feeder out my window. Balcony greeted song & winged love. I’d hear their wings flapping, music napping solace to resound within, as I meditate. Once in a while, I’d sip from a coffee mug—given by mother—a hummingbird etched, Read “begin each day with a grateful heart” & I’d sip, drink in the hummingbird humming, hovering outside my window… The neighbor, casting ballots of golden chimes. As cars passed on Figueroa. We would look each other in the eyes. Angel & man. Angelic, this winged waiter would dish out gratitude, me sipping coffee from its etched Talmud, listen to rabbinical analysis on YouTube; and would follow me showering the dove into my own personal Mikvah of song. Sometimes, these creatures would present (and protect) themselves to me on the grassy mounds of belonging out in Claremont. I’d meditate, rejoice & remember; eyes closed, open dove-songs from solace sheltered in the Lord belonging not just to the grassy pasture-place, but also to the winged bird inside me. Resonating raison d’être . . . When I taught a one-day course — a godshot too long to express, but some bits & pieces I’ll address . . . I pulled a book out from the Honnold Mudd Library. I was bored & exhausted, reading for philosophy of language seminar. And I was drawn to a book. Consciousness & Tradition. I took the book, read. And felt myself humming, hovering. That feeling remembered again. I found it in my bag a few days later, when I taught a course on “The Art of Story Weaving Experience.” Sitting on the patio of the inside-out classroom at Harvey Mudd; muddy waters washed away as a hummingbird hovered above my shoulder. Yesterday was July 27th. I drove to the view site. The place where I last used. To scatter there ashic, dustic, rustic remains of my late grandpa Mert. The dishes in my soul sink. Emotionally tone deaf in my solar plexuses & aortic authenticity. I called a friend from the Twelve-Step meeting I first attended. I was humming soon. Five minutes early, I sat there. Before family arrived. In peace, I read recovery literature, given to me when I felt like carrying on my shoulders suicide. Handed to me by the man who showered words at my first anonymous meeting — about hummingbirds & godshots. As I read, a hummingbird descended to greet me. Hello grandpa, I said. It Vanished. Grandma & others appeared from the distance. Roaming this dusty forest of Memories. Words & videos were spoken, murmured & hummed. Narration in Song… Yes, I’m leaving. On a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again… — As ashes scattered, our lot departed on the trunk of an old, wise tree— w/ knowledge, & the earth… returned a hummingbird. Hello Grandpa.
I tread transgressions against how far I’ve come as a kid diagnosed on the autism spectrum at the age of 5 and processing delay at 6 along with anxiety disorder and ADHD — I don’t want to repeat circles, with my feet. One smaller and the other — reminds me of my mind. Neurotypical. [also, alcoholic — Thank God I’m sober, but that’s another story.] Like a pacifist in rage I need to accept my brain chemistry. But persevere. Circles. Those feet make them. Quake. And color loses its vivacity… Like the squeamish self I am— (Just see me at the doctor. Please. Don’t. I’m embarrassed, by how I fade.) O, it’s so hard to fit in when you’re hardwired to differ. Range like a spectrum of shapes: I circle, but I transcend. But because I do, I have these fits {usually every 3 months or so, sometimes once a year} It comes from acting typical when you’re Atypical. — did I tell you I had to learn thousands of idioms? [I thought … when someone said, “it’s raining cats and dogs,” That it was.] — flashcards of rules… I don’t want to rock back and forth, as I pass on going out the door, because I am now the floor… unable to speak when I have so much to say… That happens every now and then… and my feet repeat themselves in circles… around a shape – a square or rectangle or circle perfect: the kitchen table, where Dad is late because he’s paying the bills, so I can get the therapy I need, and the speech therapy — to learn idioms … like … “it’s raining cats and dogs” — I feel like “it’s raining cats and dogs:” the words and screams of atypicality, in dysfunctional familiac ways – words invented I have so much to hear. I have so much to say. I’m trying to not repeat the circle and fall on the ground… But perhaps. Putting on the guise and persevering like I do. Perhaps, I need to fall. Perhaps, I need to circle. How else could I draw the line of when it’s time to stop the update?
Los Angeles native Joshua Corwin is an emerging poet and a graduate from Pitzer College in Claremont, California, where he earned a B. A. in Mathematics and a minor in Philosophy. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2019, his work can be found in Al-Khemia Poetica, Spectrum Publishing Vol. 20, Vol. 21 and Cento – Special Issue, Rattle Poetry‘s Rattlecast #9, #10, #13, #14, #16, #20, #22, Poetry Super Highway‘s PSH Live, also forthcoming in Ginosko Literary Journal and poeticdiversity. His debut poetry collection, Becoming Vulnerable, details his experience with autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality (coming soon). Collaborating with The Miracle Project, an autism non-profit organization, he is developing poetry performance classes for individuals of all abilities, including those with autism recovering from alcohol and drug addiction. He writes to honor his grandpa, Mert, whose last words to him were “Don’t ever stop writing.”