Holiday Revalries and Family Matters

It seems a little silly that a small festively decorated cup can make me so happy. Goodness I'm easy!! I mean that in the best way possible. I will be carving Thanksgiving pumpkins with my sister come Sunday. I cannot wait. I wish things could remain, but I know they can't. I'm finally beginning to become ok with that. Over pumpkin coffee this morning my mom told me she would miss me and doesn't want me to go. She also said she knows that I have to. I love her. I'm so glad she is my mother. She helps soften my heart every day and I'm glad cause I need that. She told me one day that I would understand her viewpoints on family and life. She said I was far too young and didn't know what I was talking about. I want to say confidently that I do not agree but a small part knows she might be right. I think I would be ok with that too.

Force field vernacular

Kindness. Hate. Annoyance. Sympathy. Encouragement. Tearing down. Tangled feelings found in a few words. These forced sounds that sing of grievances and loss. That have the power to raise the dead things in us, to fight the unseen, to cause us to tenaciously cling to our own inability to be what by now we thought we should be. Let it go already. Just give it to Him. Musical words help me escape. They cause me to run to the places of my heart that I once thought lost and hidden for good. By now you would think I would be able to turn my own phrase to express what my heart feels. Instead I find them there. Always there. “I let it fall, my heart, and as it fell, you rose to claim it.” Thank you. My inability to express my own thoughts lay not in the words I cannot find, but in the words I throw out to shield me from having to talk about much weightier things. The hilarity and harshness of my choicest phrases protect me. I must say that I have always been afraid to admit what I so strongly consider weakness, even if my weakness seems to them strength. I am so stubborn. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Skywalker, let’s get it in gear. Time to disable the force field.

Learning patience though impatient acts

It was purely selfish, dialing the 10 digit number, area code included, with my partially wobbly, obviously nervous pointer finger. Recruiters put me in a dither. I was relieved when she answered though, and kept my cool. She kept cooler, although she must have been thrown off guard by my unexpected phone intrusion, “I’m glad you called,” she said. And I heard it in her voice, she was glad I called. My heart jumped a little.

We discussed matters regarding Peace and future meetings, unknown information, and her gratefulness for my patience. She didn’t know I was starting to wonder if anything was ever going to happen, and this is the reason I called… maybe not so patient after all. After all was said and done regarding business matters, I asked her how her day was. It seemed to be going well enough. Her voice smiles on the phone. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a meeting over a cup of coffee and ready responses to the questions brewing in my mind. Don’t worry, kid, you will find out everything, all in due time, all in due time. I steadily reassured myself as the phone call ended. I truly feel "ok" being in such good hands, His and hers.

The Peach Tea Discovery

Today I discovered a new thing. Although little and seemingly ridiculous to write about, I have discovered the joy of drinking Snapple. I never considered myself a tea person, unless it was hot and black or herbal and green with just a tiny glob of honey added. But today I decided to venture wide, jump out of my comfortable bubble of the well-known, of the already-stamped "me approved" beverage selection. Ok, Ok, I take too much credit. I’m a creature of habit, I know, so I’m really glad that 55 cent off coupon was hanging from the refrigerator doors of the Circle K, gently nudging and encouraging me to risk the .63 cents necessary to purchase it. That gentle nudging joined with my disdain for change was the final blow. I buckled, and buckling has never tasted so good. So thank you .55 cent coupon, you’ve added another joy to my life.

Restlessness: Well, this morning I decided I don’t like it very much.

It’s that feeling that wakes you up in the middle of the night, the one that induces stomach pains and headaches that have no specific bodily reason for existence or seeming derivation. I didn’t eat something bad. I didn’t drink too much. They come and go as they please, and nothing helps to abate them.

Distracting helps a little, but only for so long. It isn’t the act of examination that I fear, although my palms do get sweaty and my hands shake a little. It is the underlying implication that this examination brings. It seems to me as if they are lined up, all together, each having the same expectant look on their face that says, “Let’s go kid, let’s see what you’re made of,” one thing that I fear the most. I don’t even know what I am capable of, I guess. But somehow I like resting in the unknown, because it leaves no place to reveal lack.

My goodness, I’m nearly 25. When is this going to end?!

This morning after waking up I decided, I think I am going to take a wiffle bat to life’s knees, just to see where it will get me. Because I want to know what I’m made of; I want to know where I lack. I want to make myself better. And well, you will never realize you have the remnants of this morning’s powered doughnut on your face until you decide to look in the mirror. And wouldn’t you rather discover it now rather than 10 min later on the bus when a stranger informs you of it with the universal silent gesture of the “you-have-something-on-your-face” hand swipe? Yah, me too. :)

Quando non sei qui vicino, sei ancora con me.

Quando non volgio andarci da sola , ci andrò con te.
Quando non posso vederti più, a te penserò e ci riuscirò.
Quando il buio scende, voleremo al sole portati sulle ali dell’amore.
Fuggiremo dal mondo, dalla sua tristezza,
Dall’odio della gente, da tutto che c’è di male.

Don't stay put

Goodness I see the potential
For you to become what I have not
For you to win what I have lost
For you to remember what I forgot

For every word, letter, and phone call, I thank you. It seems that thanking you is all I can do, though I hanker for the day when I can do much more. When I can see you live your dreams and help you, if you ever need it. Though I doubt it. Your will, at times, is far stronger than mine. Stubborn even, I am sure, but still soft, malleable, clay-like in its rawness.

I have blinked and the time has flown.
I have learned and have come to know
That time won’t leave us left alone
Always together though not at “home”
Or the home that used to be our own
Now given to dust-covered pillowcases
Old threads and ratty shoelaces
Half-chewed by our animal friend
Who couldn’t remain with us in the end
A sad state he left us in
and in which we will not remain.

Revisions, Revisions and the Art of Revising the Revised.

I gladly released it from my hands this morning.
In fact, I sent it away with a warm welcome,
A glimmer of hope, and a post-marked price of $2.73.

Destination known, Atlanta.
Sender, nervous aka Clammy hands.
Future unknown: nowhere, maybe?

So in the back of your mind you revise your life plan,
With fallback options including plans A, B, C, and BFE.

Oh weary soul,
When will you stop planning and re-planning for tomorrow
You are going to waste all of your time, leaving no time for now.

Allusions to elude

No one will remember
None could forget.
Corporations and government
Outtakes and shipwrecks
Baby bottles and Nyquil
This oil spill… too complex?
No thanks to BP,
No help from the GOV
In fact, should there be?
-Parties made of tea cups
-“Moral” degradation
-Standing with the right
-Standing with the left
First flights, first fancy, foul fake ornament
Looks good from the outside,
But inside descent
Too big the great divide
When will it all collide?
Mesh into one
Undo what we have done
Will no one return?
Will no one learn?

The card you were dealt was paper mache
Made out of wet and dry and grey
Old wrinkled newspaper never once read
Those stories, those lives, left for dead.

Different can be the same

They say she can’t influence you because well you aren’t the same.
Different history, different color, different name,
Yet I see a reflection of the darkness of my heart.
The part I try hardest to conceal,
Shoved relentlessly, unequivocally inside
Hidden in my closet behind those ratty, torn shoes,
Dust-covered boxes and old journals filled with youthful musings.

They are pieces of me left abandoned
But somehow you can see my veiled attempts to masquerade
And you are intent on telling the world.
Though you do not even know me,
You speak of me in oddly overt, unspecific terms
I am like you, like everyone else; we are all one in the same
We have a same heart, a same soul, a same need for oxygenated air.

It is clear I have a story just like you
Yet if our pieces were put together not even half of them would mesh
Though some would fall naturally others I would force, berate
The harshness of their clashing tones
Would equate to forks and knives and plates all rubbing together
Underneath the guide of a four-year-old in an upscale restaurant.
Where all the heads would turn and take notice
And the news would probably report it
It’s dramatic. There is discord. This makes good news!


To err is human, and an error it would certainly be
To coerce all our pieces to subsist as cookie-cutter shapes,
Rather let’s leave seeds of dissension behind,
Not to go forever untouched, but considerately set aside for now
Until we can learn to reshape us in lieu of trying to shape each other
Instead let’s find the pieces that sing sweetly together
They are somewhat similar still wonderfully diverse
And when combined they don’t rhyme, they harmonize.
Only one picture, only one image, only one name.
Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Different can be the same.

On writing poetry and other things...

"I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it--and that's all I got."
~ Sabrina Ward Harrison

Let Him be your peace

Violent beatings of your heart drive your blood pressure upward. The pace of your breathing increases, and it seems this time you will drown for sure. And then... strange how life jackets are found in the form of empty syrofoam cups and half-submerged crates full of 500 thread-count linen sheets.

Let not your heart be troubled middle-aged one. He will carry you when you are unable to walk, just as he did when you were young.

On sitting in Starbucks looking into Moravian mirrors.

These glass walls seem liberating. They lie. They tease. They show you where you could be if you weren’t currently tied down to this chair, tied to this life. These never ending tasks weigh heavy on you, and you are tired. This constant stream drains the delight from it, squeezing it dry. And this is not what you wanted it to become. But still you rest content to see your hands form something, although not as you imagined, it remains beneficial. And you will always welcome this growth, though it comes slow.

You look constantly forward, waiting for the moment to become more. When will you dare glance in the mirror to see who you are now, and what you have already become? Hide. Go ahead, try. Turn off all the lights. But here it won’t matter. This glass prison lets only light in and forces you to see you. Maybe now you will remove the black cloth. The mourning period is over, it is time to move on, to see what this tragedy has made you.

This is the moment that you knew…

…the moment that left you so completely unsure, that leaves you feeling lost and confused. But these come, and they will go, these feelings of insecurity and non belonging. You will wake up tomorrow and you will feel completely loved.

You wish that you were lighter of heart and mind sometimes, but these thoughts come like water from crying clouds, unable to be stopped, pulled down forcefully by gravity. And you realize you are equally being pulled downward, unable to slow your descent. So you welcome the earth with two arms spread out wide. And for the first time you truly believe beyond yourself.

You say to yourself, “It will never be the same again.”

And it will never be the same again.

Oh Ulysses, how hard you fight reasoning around this inhumanity.

Facing future thoughts with past places in mind

You slip your sunglasses on. The sun washed whiteness that fills your eyes hurts a little, but you can’t turn away. Such a beautiful sight. Beyond the limits of happen-chance until the furthest reaches of perfect planning you find yourself. You can’t go back. You can’t change it, and you wouldn’t for anything.

And though it seems that all could crash around you, that you would remain with nothing left in your hands but your five fingers balled up and tucked under your palm, you face these future thoughts with unbelievable determination. 27 months isn’t that long, you tell yourself. But you remember well that day that seemed to last eternity, dragging out, full of sorrow, full of loss. And that was only 27 hours. But this can’t be the same. It won’t be, you tell yourself. So you face it with a positive outlook, all the while wondering if the ones you love will be here when you return.

This is just one of those times where you have to jump. Jump into the unknown, into the uncertain, into the unending change- one of the only constants in your life until this point. Your heart beats fast, and still you feel peace. Unnerved, you remain calm. He is greater than you will ever have to be. He will go with you. You will be ok. It will be ok.

Love is an impossible thing, impossible to figure out, impossible to be without.

My sister came to visit me today. It left my heart feeling unusually warm. I love that she is my sister, that we are more honest with each other than most people, that she shows me parts of me that others don’t, things that I want and should change that aren’t necessarily up to par.

We ran a lot of errands. That is our thing, hop from store to store buying things that we need that we don’t want to go shopping for by ourselves because it is much more fun going with someone you love. We went to world market and bought two baskets, one for each of our parents, and we filled them up with random things that we thought they would like. From Christmas ornaments to chocolate-y treats and beyond we filled it with things that reminded us of them.

Perhaps we were driven by our morning conversation over coffee. I don’t know how we got on the subject of one day being with out them, or the possibility of one day one of them being without the other and how hard it would be for them. Though sad, you have to think of these things. They spur you forward to a consciousness that everyday is valuable, that nothing should be taken for granted. You never really know how much longer you will have with someone. So if you love them you should tell them. And not just once so that you can check it off of your list of things to do, but everyday, in some way small or big. It doesn’t matter how you say it, but THAT you say it.

I don't think they make stopper plugs for this.

Left foot up. This thing is harder to raise in me than to put down, to quell with an unrefined manner of violent battering.
Right foot down. It is easier to cast this thing to the ground than to continue carrying this unbearable weight.
Right hand up. It comes to my forehead under my command, this effort is strenuous. The sweat has no end, no relief exists. Dehydration at this point might be a good thing. Maybe then I could save my shirt from the possible threat of arm-pit stains. Maybe I can preserve it’s perfect whiteness.
Left hand down. My shoe has slipped off the back of my ankle. It was clearly an accident, but since he stepped on it, my heel has felt constant pain. (In fact, my heart feels just the same, mildly bruised.) A pinch of blood seeps through my sock, yet I remain unaware. I will discover it later I am sure.
Sometimes not knowing is easier. Sometimes there isn’t enough to be gained in the falsities sold to you, in the lies disguised as truth, in the breaking that comes unloose.
Run, Run and gather it up. Your soul is leaking.

Silent moments in foreign places

The garden was the start. Just as the flower begins underground wrapped in the warmth of the heat-filled earth, so I began, just a seedling, just a thought of all the things I could become. I've searched for years with no resolution, with all the resolve I could muster. I will find it in myself I said, but now I begin to wonder. I wonder if the seed by itself is enough. Can it grow without water, without sun, without earth? Can love grow without sustenance, passion, and work?
It’s quiet here. I like that. The trees barely rustle, the birds chip, but they leave me to my thoughts. In fact, they add to them. The nature of the thing is its nature itself unselfish, always giving, unrestrained. I seek it in earnest and find it not. Have I done wrong by it? Were my words too harsh? Will it not return to me? I said it because I like to lie to myself, to hide my need for this thing, this beautiful thing, this belonging.
But still the pebbles on the ground seem soft in comparison to my soul, hardened and calloused-over by the “reality” of the world. When will I realize the “reality” is no reality at all? When will I rebel against the traditional social norms set before me? Would he forgive me if I did?
It sounds like rain, it’s time to run and hide again.

Believe in what you once renounced. Hold tight to lost dreams and make them real again.

You have fought. You have given up. You have found yourself in this in-between, this unsure, waste-filled place. But still, giving up is not an option. Giving up happens far too often, and you are unwilling, UNWILLING to end up like they did. This thing it weighs on you, it beats your soul down, it holds your heart hostage, and you are unable to find yourself, among the disdainful, among the hateful, among the dead.

Beat fast heart, feel alive. You will only live once, you will only feel alive if you wish it into reality. Only you can make this change, only you can fight against the judgment of others and say eff them. I will be who I will be and that is what I will be, regardless.

You love and you love hard. You cry and you hide it. You will stay this way, and you will feel ashamed. Why does your heart have to be so shadowed-over, so hidden, so heartless. When will you face Him? When will you face them? When will you say what you really feel? When will you finally call him near and tell him all the things that you really want to tell him?

You doubt so many things; you believe in so many more. You hurt, you hurt, and you never tell a soul. You fool.

And as you read words you don’t understand, as you fight this battle hand-to-hand, as you see past this public demand for more than you planned to give, you discover more of yourself. You discover that you are so much weaker than you thought; you are so much stronger than you ought to be in some regards, just all the wrong ones. Stubborn soul, for some reason you can never find this balance. For some reason you will never have this solace. Wander, wander far. Never return, never descansar.

Four in the morning comes a little early, but this makes you feel young again.

...Not that you ever felt old, just that you may have started to grow that mentality of the old, of the same-old-same, the mundane life of “adulthood.” You fight against the norm. You beat your fists against the wall, determined to take this “expectation” face to face, to stare it down. It will become as nothing.
You will become what you want to be.
You will become what you should become.
This has become more than just you. You are just one piece in this billion- plus piece puzzle of humanity, to this world, vast, torn-down, broken.

And as you look on the past, you see all the pieces of your life fit. They just came together, seemingly effortless. But this, oh this won’t be.
You will fight.
You will carve your will into existence.
You will claw your way to this end.
Resignation is unquestionable. Positive self-formation is inevitable.
Now, it is your turn to fit. Now, it is your turn to stand out.