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.”