A poem

Somedays I miss being a child so much it hurts.  I find myself giving oblivious toddles dirty glares, envious of their lack of responsibility and abundance of time.  And while this new life is certainly a transition for me, I cannot fathom what a unusual feeling this must be for my parents.  For the first time, the nest is empty, as Jenny has also left home to begin her Freshman year of college.  This is all to preface my decision to post a poem I wrote this past year.  I am no poet, however sometimes I prefer poetry because it enables the delivery of a poignant message with a dash of ambiguity.  It permits the reader to use their own judgement to interpret aspects of the message and thus enables the potential personalization of the prose.  I give you the following.

 

Mama

Times of change are bittersweet

We round the turns, knowing not what we’ll meet

Yet I feel as though we’ve been here before.

Faced these same dragons, escaped these same storms.

Yes mama, dragons we already defied.

Each time we weren’t too proud to cry

To one another.

We’ve always had each other.

 

Someone once told me that I sing the sadness.

I think you know the tune.

I always thought is was written for me

But it was also written for you.

So together lets sing it so we can get through

To the joyful chorus

Also written for us.

 

I know so much of who I am,

Was also experienced by you.

You need not tell me when,

You need not tell me why,

Let us both refuse to justify the crises for which we cry.

Because we both know,

That to grow

Has mean fighting many dragons,

Who sometimes nearly had us

Defeated.

But we beat them.

 

So come with me,

This is victory.

And sing with me this chorus

Yes mama, it was written for us.

My first novel...

I have decided to write a book...I have no idea how long it will take, or what it will be about, but I feel as though I have no other choice.

Planes

I hate flying. I wish I was kidding when I tell you that on every flight, I fear that I am on the brink of death. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I am a super human. I neither breathe nor blink for hours on end. Sure this is unrealistic, and some might go so far as to say that I am embarrassing myself. I look to the closest person for consolation be it a former Air Force pilot or yesterday, a snotty nose seven year old boy who was kind enough to inform me that I looked pretty scared. Children are so wise these days. I know what you are thinking, how odd that I chose a job where I could fly up to 100 times a year. I suppose I view myself as a martyr for the business world… or just girl who needs to get over a couple of her fears.

Bumps...

I lean into the mirror to examine the texture of my skin. It reads like brail, revealing neglect. Not pimples, but risen redness, taught, oily and dry all in the same moment. My Dad tells me that he knows how I am actually doing by looking at my skin. The transformation begins above my temples. Sneaky bumps on the sly, pitter-patter down my cheekbones, consuming my forehead, and never neglecting to kiss my chin. One bump for Starbucks, a smatter from the sun, another for that extra glass of chardonnay, a constellation for short nights of sleep, and evenings when I was too tired to wash before I rested. My skin speaks the truth…

Bumps are never good, since they either refer to things too small, or others to large. Due to the mysterious nature of this audience, I won’t focus on the bumps I wish were lumps or even humps.

There is, however, one bump that plagues all women. Maybe it is better referred to as a landmark, as it is the spot all women eyes immediately focus when standing naked in the mirror. It is that space below the navel, that despite hours of cardio, slim fast shakes, and voodoo pills from Rite-Aid, will not subside. I am told that because I am a woman and will have children someday, this bump is necessary. It is my kangaroo pouch. Shape magazine says it increases in size due to Cortisol expenditure, and thus stress is a trigger. If that’s the case, I am going to need a sling in the near future.

In a perfect world, this bump would be sexy. Women would get implants, and have bump envy. Padded panties would be a top seller at Victoria’s Secret, and all the stars would wear designer jeans to accentuate their muffin tops.

But for now, bumps are out. I suppose one can always dream.

Thoughts of the day...

Sometimes it feels like I am running out of time to do all the things I want to do. You might role your eyes at this notion and remind me that I am merely 22 years old, but these years were a blink and I am told that each day time only passes all the quicker. When shall I be a scholar, a best friend, an activist and anthropologist, an artist, and a business woman. Not to mention a daughter, a world traveler, an entrepreneur, a peacemaker, a revolutionary and a writer. Does this string ring of contradictions? Am I selfish to seek such a bounty of independently intricate identities? Would someone say, “She wants it all”? Because I do. But quite frankly, in this moment, I struggle to fathom how I can simultaneously be all these things. While I am not ready to surrender the possibility that I can, neither can I shed the perception that some things must be pushed aside, at least for now. But what I ask? I certainly cannot disregard my role as a daughter, a friend, a sister, but neither can I cease to be any of these other identifiers. At the end of the day I am exhausted being me, but I would rather be tried and true than compromised and rested. I suppose that drained is a small price to pay for authenticity. I can imagine nothing else…Some people make-sense, while others make-believe, and then there are those of us who are plagued by the perception that farcical ambitions are the only available to us. I am not the kind of girl who dreams of possibilities, but impossibilities, and I pursue them with such unrelenting passion that I occasionally manage to transform mirages into nearly tangible oases.

Barbies and Bowling Balls

I wore fire engine red lipstick to work today. What else was I supposed to do? In what other capacity can I be rebellious these days? In college, edgy meant people would talk. In real life, edgy means layoff…

If I was a sport, I would be racketball: spontaneous, frustrating, and painful if you don’t know how to handle me. During a recent meeting with common sense, I was encouraged to put away my rackets in exchange for a tight-rope. To my dismay, balancing is a hard act. I hold my breath and attempt to channel all my energy into the task at hand: survival. I don’t want to fall and crack my head open. Unfortunately, patience and I were never good friends . As some of my peers run across their tight ropes in wheelbarrows, blindfolded, or riding bikes, it takes every ounce of that goodness mama instilled in me to refrain from pushing them off into the caverns below.

I’m wearing swimmies in this pool and using bumpers in this bowling alley. I’m “that” girl, the one wearing a neon Barbie helmet with matching elbow and knee pads. Usually I would resist these aids, but I don’t want to drown, throw my ball into my neighbor’s lane or scratch up my knees. Oh sweet humility…

Frank

I interact with a wide variety of people every day. I see in them characteristics I aspire to embody, as well as qualities I pray will never be ascribed to me. These people occupy all levels of social totem poles, and I have quickly recognized that there is little to no correlation between “good” and “powerful” people. Moreover, I often recognize the opposite to be true…

Frank is a simple man. He cleans the bathrooms in the building where I work. His hands are worn and his eyes say that despite his smile he has seen many storms. I am just an analyst, and most individuals needn’t remember my name, since “new girl” is a sufficient identifier to which even I have learned to respond. But this is not the case with Frank. When we pass in the halls, he shakes my hand, and says my name. He never forgets. Sometimes, it is Frank who makes my day when I cannot make it on my own.

But is he powerful? Maybe that is more of a philosophical question, because it is hinged on ones perception of power. In the traditional sense, of course Frank is not a powerful man. He is not the CEO of the company, but the man who scrubs the toilet seats on which the CEO sits. But it is Frank, not the CEO who inspires me. In this regard, perhaps Frank among the powerful. He is the pebble that generates not ripples but waves. Frank inspires me, and because I have the resources and opportunity to succeed, when I succeed, Frank has made a mark. So often, the pebbles are overlooked because they have worn hands, stutters or limps. But pebbles cast, ripples make, and when receptive turn to tides.

I say all this, to endorse the sense of responsibility I feel, to myself, my family, my friends, and people like Frank. My task is not merely to succeed, but to be a good woman while doing it. Frank reminds me of this responsibility everyday when he shakes my hand and says my name...

Curiously Content

I have days that feel as though they are not my own. The alarm halts my dream before the sun rises, and I occupy myself with work into the darker hours. I hear the weather has been nice lately, and the skies exceptionally clear, but my frugal allowance of personal time only permits me to wash my face and brush my teeth before collapsing into the continuation of this cycle.

When I emerge on Friday evening, I look at myself in the mirror, and ask how I can retain myself amidst this chaos. My skin is clammy, my nails chipped, and I am drowning in a sea of unopened bills and bank statements. I miss writing poetry, slowly inhaling and exhaling during long sessions of yoga. I miss painting for hours on end for no reason other than self expression. STrangly enough, if you were to ask me if I am happy, my eyes would ignite with passion and I would tell you that I have never been so content…

And as this is the case, I infer that my happiness is rooted in several things. It is not so self-evident. Firstly, I find this new taste of independence extremely satiating. I leave my mark on all I touch, but most importantly, I am gradually finding ways to make “me” time. I use post-it-notes during lunch breaks to sketch ideas for future paintings, I run in the morning while it is dark and quite, giving me time to breath, think, and sweat, I talk to the people I love when driving. I refuse to sacrifice the important things. But now, every minute is precious…I never forget this.