it is there

We are taught to believe that the world belongs to us, and also that somehow we belong to others. We are conditioned to compete; to strive for excellence; to prove ourselves. We are rarely taught to just listen to the river that rushes beneath the earth, but I assure you it is there. If you allow yourself to be still enough you will feel the blood in your veins and you will know that it means something. Revere that knowledge, for if you can stand next to a river and not be moved then you are elsewhere, and if you can feel the life flow through your veins and still believe you are either superior or inferior to another then you are not who you say you are.  

That pulse is why I believe in the goodness of humanity. You can show me acts of kindness all day long and I will appreciate them, I promise you I will. But until I saw the wounds…until I acknowledged the rage within me, I never cared much about those pretty little bullets that need biting. Not until I bled and screamed and fought and cowered and scratched at the surface of all I couldn’t understand did I begin to recognize what they call grace.

It takes divine courage to realize and accept one’s self worth. (I am not there yet)

I Have Something to Say

We are women

We are daughters and mothers and lovers and wives

And very pleasant neighbors

Sometimes we’re simply “you know, that one bitch”.

Beautiful and plain; tragic and wise. We move mountains.

Our families expect us to be a little bit larger than life. Our feminist friends expect us to be even larger than that. The men we know joke about aprons and sandwiches.

And we’re kind of okay with all that. Sometimes.

We are graceful. We are sexy.  We are rebels.

 We are submissive. We are authoritarians.

We are not dull, except for when we are. Incidentally; only because your idea of interesting really isn’t even all that great.  

But we let you think it is because it's better for you that way

We are biologically driven to cultivate miracles and we are socially conditioned to think that that’s just not enough.

We are going to deny that previous statement and also discredit everything I say from here on out…

Because we defy gravity in ways that astound us

Because despite our painful thirst we still expect less from ourselves.

And we’re not really sure why that is.  

We ignore our hearts to follow other leads

Then rectify that discomfort by humiliating our sisters

We are the worst kind of misogynist, you see

The fruits of our desire turn bitter with neglect

We shrivel up and die, leaving behind rolling legacies; wheels to be reinvented

By other women; other daughters and mothers and lovers and wives,

Friendly neighbors with pretty gardens and prettier smiles;

We are women.

And we don’t even know what that means.

Wherein I go back and explain myself...

A couple months or so ago, I got all hyper and wrote a post on some of my experiences with raising an inquisitive daughter in this modern, sometimes superficial, often mind numbing world of constant stimulation. It’s plain to see that when I wrote the post I had a lot of questions and very few answers. I still don’t have any answers. All I can say for sure is that something just doesn’t feel right. I want my kid to have a more peaceful childhood- a more childish childhood- grounded in family traditions, imagination, and all of the silly messy goodness of being a kid. I want to encourage an awareness of the natural world around her, a deep respect for life on earth. 

I want, I want, and still I wonder.

I wonder because other parents are pretty good at leading us to doubt ourselves, and kids certainly have an interesting way of keeping us humble, don't they? In the day-to-day of it all these things can be difficult to make sense of. Some days end with me exhausted and tearful; others begin that way. But when I go to say my prayers and reflect on life in the quiet comfort of solitude I can finally let go of that fearful competitive streak. I lay aside my armor and realize that I only want my daughter to know for certain she is loved, she is important, she is a miracle; that if she governs her life by fear then she will kill herself trying not to live it; that there is no other soul on this planet quite like her and, since we are not Hindu, this earthly life is probably the only one she’s got.  

I know she won’t feel confident or secure every day of her life. I know that she has the power to break her own heart, and I know that in my fervent attempts to nurture her strengths I may end up doing more harm than good. I know all these things as both a woman and as a girl who is still trying to figure out how to be one.

Mostly, though, I know better than to pretend I understand who my daughter is more than she does. I can’t say for sure that this world is a bad place. It definitely seems that way sometimes from where I stand, but I can’t be certain it even has the balls to corrupt her. Maybe she will be a stronger woman than I give her credit for. But it is my responsibility to do what I can to prepare her for those things just in case, and the only way I know to do that is to trust my own intuition.

 

I am the Highway

I am the summer solstice, with its foiled windows; a canopy of light that gives the illusion of safety. I am home videos and oatmeal and karaoke and a pen that bends. I am Kathy Mattea, walking on tiptoes; a strange iridescent lamp, whose needles break off easily, making it impossible to step into the bedroom without sharp pain underfoot. My mom is running after me and my dad can’t hold the camcorder steady to save his life. I am flying down a snowy hill on a red sled and it feels like home.

I am the other side of the country. Where men go to lose their minds. My hair smells of pine; it is covered in sand from the neighborhood playground. I am aerobics in the living room and Easter Parade Hats and an ink drawing of a thunderstorm in the local paper. My mom is seven feet tall and I am learning that I should not use “ducklings” more than once in the same sentence of my story… and wondering why that is. I am a classroom with two teachers; a room full of other army brats just like me. Their dads aren’t home a whole lot either, but their dads don’t offend the teachers by saying books without words are not really books.

I am the highway; a long car ride to a magical land of Sunflowers and cousins and working mothers. My best friend is coming with me. She runs beside the car. She sometimes rolls along the hills. I am the grass beneath her; the flowers she picks along the way. I am country music and the sunset over a Texaco sign. I am aware that I probably know too much, and so I pretend to know nothing.

I am straight bangs and dirty hands and high-waters; a new school and then another, where there are only white kids and I am totally freaked out by that.  And then, almost overnight, I am unwanted attention and late night phone calls. I am awkward and I say all the wrong things. I am fairly certain I don’t belong, but then again, none of us really do. I am in awe of the tiny freshman girl who spins around in the rain during lunch; ashamed that the other students make fun of her; sympathetic because I know they will never feel that free. But I am mostly sad because I will never feel that free.

I am savagely beautiful but heartbreakingly unaware. And then I barely have time to exhale before I am first kisses I’d rather forget, pickup trucks, football games, 3am bonfires, abandoned houses, haunted cornfields, uninhibited laughter, shy smiles, busted window screens, parties I wasn’t invited to…and maybe a secret even I couldn’t keep. I am spinning times.

I am so much more than all of that.

(inspired by the poem “I am from…” by Meredith Winn)

And I’m wondering…who are you?

Snapshots

I think it’s time for some clarification. I often write with little regard for my audience. True, I try to keep things decent and interesting for the reader’s sake, and I genuinely hope anyone who reads anything I’ve written can take something positive away from it, but I do have a tendency to forget that most of you reading this know a woman outside of the infinite blog space; one with skin and bones and a penchant for pointing out the silver lining (however annoying that may be). And even those of you who really don’t know the woman I am, but remember the girl who lived in the little yellow house, well, I can see how some of what I post on here could raise some questions for you as well.

When I write I try to keep it as honest as possible. And my words are honest, even the creative parts, sometimes excruciatingly so. I wish I could say I write for the pure enjoyment of it, or for something major: like humanity or world peace or something. But really, my reasons are boring. I write when I feel like it, and usually only because I am compelled to do so. Sometimes I get strung out on the craft, wake up at 3am thinking I am thirsty, and end up scribbling out thoughts until dawn, only to have my husband wake up super freaked out, wondering if I am possessed. And then sometimes I go weeks and weeks without writing a single original sentence and feel perfectly fine. Sometimes I get up two hours before my daughter, with plenty of time to write, but opt instead to watch Good Morning America with a cup of coffee (or five). Sometimes I think I hate writing and swear to myself that my hand will never press a hopeful pen to a piece of paper again. Sometimes I feel genuine panic at the possibility of living the rest of my life without creating another story or poem or chapter of a novel I will never attempt to publish because I never really wanted to commit to it in the first place. There is no rhyme or reason. As Henry James said, “Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”

So, back to my point…

With pieces like Thoughts on Depression, Smile Aphrodite, Desvanecerse, Superbia, and any others…please do not mistake those snapshots for who I am as a whole.  I would never put anything on here I could not share with my husband or my dad or my oldest friends… and I think that is important to say. This space is simply a gallery; a photo album; a place where I can display the pieces of me I would like to share, but it does not tell the whole story. This is not a room I use to pour my soul out, although I might put some groovy soul paint on the trim. I do not document everything I see, nor do I share everything I write. Like most people, I have crappy days I’d really rather not talk about and days of pure and utter bliss I'd like to keep for myself.  I enjoy my moments of insight, but there are also many times I seem to be incredibly near sighted and dull. Not everything I write is about me personally, even when I am speaking in the first person. In fact, a large portion of what I put to paper involves the parts of life I’ve never even “seen” for myself.

I suppose sometimes the stories really do choose us.

So with that said, I would like to thank you all for laughing and pondering right along with me as I continue to muse my way through this enchanting life of mine. Thank you for your patience as I clumsily attempt to capture the beautiful things surrounding me and also as I learn to develop a respectful understanding of the not-so-pretty stuff.

But thank you most of all for the lovely pieces of you that you have offered to share with me.   

Crazy, Messy, Happy

For the past two days I have gotten a taste of what it might feel like to live as a Bachelorette...well the cat lady variety anyway; one who prefers Edith Wharton novels to social events. Colton and Bean went out of town for the weekend to visit a sick relative, who with some prayers and good rest should heal just fine.   I opted to stay behind because they really need me at work.

Colton travels often with his job so I am used to his absences (also I did not carry him in my womb for 38 weeks), but since her birth my child has not left my side for longer than it took for me to go to class or work…or maybe a day of window shopping with my mom. She has certainly never been on a trip without me, and what’s more is I’ve never really been in my house without her. So as excited as I was about the prospect of a weekend retreat in my living room, as soon as I blew one last kiss and watched the G6 pull out of the alleyway I was a little startled to find that I had no idea what to do with myself. This from a mama who values her solitude- who is not exactly a “morning person” but sets her alarm for 5:00am just to have a couple of hours to practice yoga, or create something beautiful in peace.

 So I sat on the couch for a good twenty minutes just staring at the coffee table, thinking “pinch me".  Then I flew around the house like the neurotic lady I am, cleaning and rearranging, just to channel all of that nervous energy. After that I went to work, felt relatively normal for five hours, and decided that if I was going to be granted a weekend of me-time (a weekend that many mothers only dream about) I had better make the most of it. I had to work early the next morning so I went to bed after I finished a paper for one of my classes.  But not before receiving a much anticipated "good-night" call from my family. Bean, of course, had to ensure that I was taking excellent care of her babies...the living ones as well as the others, who reside on her window seat and are very much alive to her.

But after work on Saturday, I fell back into the funk of what the heck should I do? I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to practice yoga for two hours or eat an entire box of brownies. I compromised with one hour of yoga, followed by a plate of French fries, a glass of cabernet sauvignon (Yellow Tail…cheap and delicious), and two of my favorite movies: The Family Stone and Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette.

About three glasses deep it started raining outside. I don’t know if I’ve made it clear but I truly adore rain. So before I know it, I am out in the yard, with wet grass between my toes, and feeling incredibly happy about it. My neighbors already seem to regard me as the crazy white lady (I never really lost that small town habit of chatting with every single person I see) so after about thirty seconds of that I decided it was a good time to go back inside and put the cork back on the wine bottle.

Sunday is my day off and I really don’t have much to say for it because I am still in Sunday, and all I’ve really accomplished is this...

Oh and this…

I think this is a healthy experience for all of us. Bean is in extremely capable hands, and I know she is having a blast road tripping with her daddy, running around with her cousins, and being spoiled rotten by relatives who've missed her terribly. Colton leads a busy life outside of our home, and a lot of days he has no choice but to bring his work home with him, so it isn't often he gets this kind of one-on-one time with his little girl. And me, well as you can plainly see I've had some much needed relaxation. I will enjoy the next couple days of living like a Parisian; learning the richness of doing nothing and liking it.

But I'll still be looking forward to the moment I get back to this:

Crazy, messy, happy life.

Thoughts at Sunrise

She is young.

She admires the night sky;

Listens to Elliott Smith with a candle lit, and fancies herself in New York

Or maybe London

…Perhaps she'll stay in Kansas

It doesn’t matter because

She is young.

Her hair is too straight.

Her eyes are too dark; her bones impossibly thin.

She is restless

In the way that only a too-quiet girl from a loud small town

Can be

She's older now;

Determined, but still surprised, 

To be a woman who understands that she is responsible for so much more

Than just her own life

…And even if she isn’t

It doesn’t matter because

She's older now.

Her hair is still straight

Her eyes a softer brown, flecked with the slightest gold 

She is restless

In the way that only a too-earnest girl in a make believe world

Can be

Pause

Rainy mornings, I drink them in
Like a young child swallowing bath water

...Unapologetically


                       And with a Cheshire grin.

The above picture is simply a moment I want to remember. A snapshot of a slow, easy morning in which everything sort of fell into place...or it didn't, but we were too peaceful to notice or care, really. We accomplished very little except listening to the rain's music on the rooftop, sipping hot chocolate, and feeling a togetherness that is far too often overshadowed by our busy, hopeful lives. I always feel sentimental when it's raining. I think rain has that kind of effect on people...particularly people who have no need to leave the house, of course, but I still think there is much to be appreciated even when you're out in the rain running errands or working. I've always thought it strange that metaphorically speaking, a rainy day is something of a "this too shall pass"; something to make us appreciate the clear skies a little more. We are just so anxious for that next fleeting moment, aren't we? 


I have this theory that perhaps rain is the most honest part of nature...and that is why we always seem to be waiting for the sun.

Superbia

I once had a good friend who wrote me a letter I wasn’t ready to read. She told me that I have the potential to do extraordinary things with my life, but I’m not always right; I was wrong then and needed to understand that. The argument was very personal. I responded bitterly and held pride’s hand as I watched that bridge quickly burn, until it disappeared altogether.

Once, a well meaning young man with a poor sense of timing asked me a question that has haunted me ever since: “Danielle, why can’t you ever just say what you mean?” He went on to criticize my way of dancing around the truth, accusing me of being honest with just about everyone but myself (which if you think about it really just makes me a big fat liar because one can only account for what one believes in, right?). I didn’t have a solid explanation for him then, and I still wouldn’t today. The words that I spoke were unkind, but I hope he is doing well.

I once awoke in the night several times before accepting that I wasn’t going to get any sleep. I shook off the covers, poured a drink, and stood out on the back porch wishing I still smoked. A moth whipped past me and I swear I heard God whisper, “Child, you are looking in all the wrong places.” I stepped back inside, angrily deciding not to give thanks for the rest of the year.

I suppose there are certain truths about oneself that are better left buried.

Daughters

I was getting ready for an evening out with friends when Bean, who was happily destroying shampoo bottle villages with her soap-bar dinosaur, looked up and said, “Mama, you put on makeup so Daya thinks you pretty?” *Daya is what she called her daddy before she could speak like a human being…and then it just kinda stuck.*

I’m really not that big on makeup and my first instinct was to tell her to bite her prissy little tongue because Mama doesn’t work that hard to look pretty for no man! But instead I went back to painting my face with chemical laden acceptance and tried to look all casual and non-hypocritical as I asked her, “Honey, is that why you think Mama wears makeup?”

“Yeeees…” Translation: Duh, Mother, is that not what I JUST SAID?

 I pressed on. “Okay. Is that why you think all ladies wear makeup?”

“Mmmhmm”

“Really? And what makes you think that?”

She stares at me incredulously. I take that as a cue to continue and say something along the lines of:

“What I’m trying to say, Baby, is that things like makeup and nice clothes are not always about people thinking you’re pretty. A lot of grown-ups, like mama, wear those things because it makes them feel happy. Ya know, I don’t always wear makeup and I think I’m pretty without it too,” (and if your daddy likes the fact that I seldom burn meals anymore it would be in his best interest to agree) “I just like to put it on sometimes.”

Call me naïve but this is honestly a topic I didn’t expect to discuss in any great detail until she was a little closer to the double digits. But hey, times is diff’rnt now. There are Dora the Explorer themed cosmetics on the market and my toddler and I could get matching bikinis if we wanted to.  Her peers are in the news because their beauty-obsessed pageant moms are taking them in to have their bodies spray tanned and their eyebrows waxed…and the preschoolers who aren’t having sexualization shoved down their throats are being overworked and groomed for their Ivy League futures.

The other day Bean- who just turned three, mind you- had to demonstrate for me how her aunt’s iPhone works. I was all, “Um, excuse me wonder child of the millennia, shouldn’t we be turning cartwheels or jumping on the couch or something??”  My child’s generation may be all kinds of smart and pretty in the future but if you think the psychiatric business is a-boomin now you just wait.

There’s a quote by Melissa Wardy, an entrepreneurial mom who fashioned the Pigtail Pals brand for young girls, that I think is kind of amazing: “A girl cannot become a woman, in the truest and most soulful sense of the word, if she has not been allowed a girlhood. Exploration, education, and empowerment will make our daughters the women of tomorrow.”

 Without a proper childhood, our kids are not going to have a solid foundation to launch from. There is a reason for the phrase “never a child, always a child”. When circumstance comes into play that is one thing but when we are the catalyst for negative social change in our children then it’s time to wake the hell up people take a step back and ask ourselves: Are we raising our children or jerking them up into adulthood?

On Going Home

We make our way past tall Louisiana pines, vibrant city lights in Texas, and sunset colored cliffs of Oklahoma for what feels like days before we begin racing alongside the gorgeous Kansas flatlands. My husband, Colton, and I exchange tales of our youth, laughing at memories we once swore we’d sell our souls to forget. We chat about the people we can’t wait to see, and I say silent blessings for the friends we’ve lost touch with along the way. I spot the sun hovering low over a field of some kind of young crop, like a brand new mother. The air has finally cooled enough for me to roll down the windows. I breathe in the smell of home, letting the wind be my gypsy hairstylist. Maybe it’s the caffeine high but I feel wonderful. We get into Wichita late at night and I fall asleep with that self-assured glow tucked quietly beside me.

The next morning I dress my daughter with ridiculous enthusiasm, tucking each piece of her feather-soft hair neatly in a bow, and double checking to make sure her face is jelly free. It’s an exciting day; we are going to reintroduce her to mama’s former stompin’ grounds. I am absolutely euphoric. Colton is grinning now because I can’t stop smiling and talking, smiling and talking…and talking. As we approach the highway anxiety revs up deep in my stomach but I flood it with another sip of coffee and turn the music back down so I can talk some more(yes, Colton is a very patient man).

We roll past the liquor store and turn onto the all too familiar uneven brick road that leads to my mom’s house. Without any kind of warning I am fifteen again. I have the sudden urge to call one of my oldest and dearest friends, see if she wants to drive really slowly down a dirt road and chain smoke with me. She’s getting married in a little over a week and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than by pouring too much Southern Comfort into a 32oz Diet Dr. Pepper and writing dirty poems to leave on people’s parked cars. (Yeah, we were pretty cool huh). But we are dignified Grown-ups (with a capital G) now so we settle for an iced tea and I forgo the cigarettes on our ceremonial drive down the Douglass back roads.

The week in Kansas goes by so fast. We try to divide our time equally between loved ones but it never feels like enough. I do my best to carry out all of the necessary Matron of Honor duties and make the days leading up to my friend’s wedding as smooth and stress-free as possible. I cheer as she projectile vomits at her bachelorette party and I smile broadly as she glides down a rose sprinkled aisle to the man she loves. She looks stunning and genuinely happy as she reads aloud the vows that I know she truly believes in with all of her heart. It’s an overwhelming feeling of gratitude to witness a well-deserving woman’s dream come true.

As the reception party quiets down we begin picking up stray cups and pulling down decorations. She hugs me close and thanks me for everything. I tell her absolutely and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. We laugh like fools because we know we’re about to cry and she makes a light-hearted joke about how I wasn’t even supposed to ever get married, let alone before her.  

Our bond is very much a sisterhood. I am fortunate to have a person like her in my life. Aside from a few good ol’ fashioned values we really do not have a whole lot in common. But despite our obvious differences we never seem to run out of things to talk about…and thanks to those differences we can bring out some really great qualities in one another. She encourages me to loosen up- enjoy life. And I know where all the best restaurants are! See? Give and take.

She calls a few days after I get back in Louisiana to see how the trip went. We’re both busy ladies and probably won’t chat again for another couple of months, maybe more. Life just gets in the way sometimes, but we’re okay with that because we have to be. That’s the thing about being adults. When we do finally get the chance to sit back with a cup of hot tea, watch the world spin by, or perhaps call up an old friend to gossip like fourteen year olds again, we cherish those moments; we hem them in gold thread and display them lavishly in the living rooms of our souls.

And when my daughter is older, when she’s tying up the phone lines at crazy hours of the night, giggling like a maniac because her best friend noticed that so-and-so couldn’t stop looking at her in 8^th hour and she’s pretty sure he’ll be at the lake with them that weekend and should she wear the green dress or the blue one because she’s not really sure and wh-…maybe I’ll remember what it felt like to be her age. I’ll roll my eyes and tell her to get to bed because it’s a school night, but with irony- only because the mom rulebook says I have to- really I’ll be smiling a little because I know as soon as she hears my door close she’ll be back on the phone, dialing up that one close friend she can trust with her life.

I used to think I only needed to depend on myself- that I didn’t really need friends. I suppose I don’t need them but through friendship I have come to know a sincere compassion that I had no idea even existed in my selfish little body. Love gave me something to live for, motherhood gave me something I would die for, but friendship has always kept me centered. They’re the people I call when love and motherhood drive me freakin’ bananas. My friends remind me to hold on fiercely to who I am and never let it go. They tell me things like, “Danielle. I think you’re being pretty fucking ignorant right now,” when I need to hear it most. They bring me closer to earth, and going back home, if only for a little while, brings me closer to them.

Own Weird Way

A few weeks ago I rummaged through a box of old letters and things from my dad, looking for a description of martial arts moves he wrote out for me, in exhausting detail, years and years ago. I thought they might be useful in self-defense training for my new job (more on that later…maybe). Naturally I was swept away in memories and spent the rest of the afternoon reading through the letters sent to me over the years; pale yellow pieces of paper filled with compassionate lectures and promises made in the distinctive, slanted penmanship of a convicted felon (two of my cousins went through a ridiculous inmate pen-pal phase and trust me, they all have the same handwriting…it’s a little creepy).

One thing you must understand about our relationship is that he went away when I was eleven years old. Our bond is sealed in bi-weekly envelopes and short, inconsistent visits. I guess in some ways I am still eleven years old.

But even before all that, childhood for me was not so much boy bands and sleepovers as it was Chess and cappuccinos. Evenings were cloaked in philosophical talks with Dad and I truly thought he knew just about everything there was to know- each word kept tightly clenched in tiny fists, locked away for safe keeping because I just knew I’d need to use all of that wisdom someday. The thing about Dad is he has no idea what it means to have a casual conversation, and he certainly didn’t have any idea how to relate to a young female child. Not on my level anyway. So I was always struggling to climb up to his.

Then I got older (as kids often do) and realized that perhaps Dad is less knowing than he is seeking. In the mind of a child- even an almost adult one- that can be a truly devastating realization. What was it that Steinbeck said? “There is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck.” Yeah, that’s it…  

I owe quite a bit to my dad. His carelessness unearthed my own survival instincts and his selfish actions inspired me to always strive for compassion. I inherited his relentless energy, which has provided a pretty solid foundation for my ambitious nature. He taught me many useful, albeit often age inappropriate things. I read Les Miserables when I was probably nine. I learned the fundamentals of driving a stick shift at such an early age that I forgot it all and now I can barely even drive an automatic! ;) He also suggested I read this book on how to teach yourself Calculus (that I still have…not opened) before I even mastered long division and he had me theorizing on the origin of life when all the normal kids were steady feeding their Gigapets.

I can recall a time in my early teens in which he sent me a damn near ten page letter detailing various Chess strategies. Quite frankly, all I really cared to master at that age was how to put some nice looking guitar pickin’ fella in check mate, ya dig? But the point is his heart is usually in the right place when it comes to his children. I respect and appreciate him for that. I am thankful to have a father who, despite screwing up big time, found a way to be a dad regardless…in his own weird way.

I find it strangely impossible to fully explain who I am without relating it all back to good ol’ Dad. Well for starters, we are both hyper active narcissists with bi-polar tendencies and a self deprecating sense of humor. For years, I idolized the genius I wanted to believe was my father so that I would not have to hate the weaker man whom I suspected lay deep beneath his overwhelming presence. I don’t know how to discuss this without giving away too many details that are really not mine to give away, but suffice it to say that the choices he made- the ones that eventually directed him into the animalistic life of structure and obedience he must now live- epitomize the raw disgust I have for certain humans and their abuse of emotional and/or physical power over others.

I have spent years struggling to understand and accept the severity of my dad’s crime(s). Even now, it is difficult to divulge so much information to you without immediately trying to follow up with some kind of defense or explanation for his actions. And the only reason I am sharing so much is because my journey through this piece of my life is precisely the reason I am able to sit here (at almost midnight, coffee cup to my left, school work being procrastinated on) and tell you that I genuinely like the woman I am becoming. She is good people. I welcome the future because I know I can count on her… well I’m about 85% sure I can count on her and that, my friends, is a passing grade.

Desvanecerse

A short story.

Desvanecerse

Rena

I lay in bed, immersed in foolish thoughts, letting my heart beat to a Mazzy Star song. Elliott climbs up next to me and places one of the earbuds in his ear, humoring me as he rests his head in the crook of my elbow. We lie there like that for several minutes, silently breathing the same air; listening to the same soft acoustic tune. No worries. No expectations. Only the moment.

He shifts his body closer to mine (I am not even tempted to flinch) and casually plays with the tips of my fingers, letting his own dance lightly along them with the eloquence of a concert pianist. His eyes will not meet mine but he is smiling and for a moment I am convinced he enjoys the music as much as I do. But I know better.

Then the song changes, a quicker pace now. And the moment is lost, evaporated almost as suddenly as it came. Smoky vapors linger but that is the only proof it even existed. He rolls toward me in a light hearted attempt to reach me on a level I cannot be easily found. Our fingers brush as he stretches closer but there is always that centimeter of space between us. We revolve around the same sun but we do not collide.

Desperation hugs onto the air molecules so tightly they begin to suffocate. Part of me knows if I pushed just a little harder I could ease the room of all its suffering, but I lose my grip too soon. His strong arm is a faint silhouette in the distance, reaching as far as it can go. I consider holding out my hand once more but the fall feels too much like flying.
I simply close my eyes instead.

Elliott

Rena sleeps with her back to me, so close I can taste the clean musk of her skin and yet too far away to touch. My love is always most pure in these starlit moments. It is not busy and affectionate as it often is in our waking hours; not frothy with passion as we fumble over buttons and door handles, trying to reach some kind of understanding. The night brings forth a simple, unavoidable humming; a kind of reckless admiration that holds no secrets…no lies and no truths.

I listen to her breathing and watch the way her shoulders rise and fall with every breath. The undulation is graceful and I realize with regret that it is the only action she doesn’t over think. Suddenly I am reminded of June Miller. How Anaїs and Henry both agonized over the possibility that June was merely a projection of their desires, a storyteller not with her pen like them, but with her body.

Without thinking I begin to trace the curve of her spine. She shifts her weight and I retreat. To awaken her would snuff out the magic. Asleep, she is not tense; prepared to brush away my advances and scoff at my desire. She does not rage and cry and tell me to go away, her black eyes shining with a sincere hatred that makes me question everything I’ve ever believed about love. No, in her fluid dream state she retracts those sharp defenses… She melts into my embrace and smiles when I kiss her cheek. In those short evening hours the moon illuminates the earth and I am enough to keep her.

Smile Aphrodite

So for the past two or three days I have been trying to locate this magnificent poem I read in a book either shortly after Bean was born or around the time we moved to Florida. I can’t exactly remember when it was, all I know is that it was a critical time in my life and the words of this particular poem just sort of leaped off the page, grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted, “Listen here young lass!” So I did. Unfortunately that’s all I did. I failed to write down the words or even memorize any of those life-defining lines I so crave to read again. The English translation of the poem is called “Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name” by a Sami poet named Marry A. Somby.

The title is enough to make me nostalgic, pulling me right back to that moment in time. I can feel the tug of the words lulling me into a kind of merciful depth but I can’t remember any of the words or even really the content of the poem, only the feeling it gave me. My strange selfish memory allows me to recall sensations but rarely details.

So instead of obsessing about this poem for yet another day I thought I’d share my own, in honor of National Poetry Month. It’s somewhat of a coming of age poem, I guess. I wrote it this morning over breakfast because somehow in the midst of shredded wheat and pomegranate tea, I came of age. Not really, but I have been doing some spiritual branching over the past few weeks and this is sort of a marker of my growth. A Soul University progress report, if you will.

Smile Aphrodite

Rise sullen angel, your fortress awaits

Over valleys that sneer;

 A most charmed kind of place.

Relax bitter maiden, king is far from his throne,

He’s sweeping the floors

In Burberry cologne.

Smile Aphrodite! Raise a toast to the past.

But you’ll taste bitter tannins

If you drink from the glass.

Take note sparrow bride or you’ll never be more

Than fingers crossed in your pocket

And one foot out the door

Rituals

On a typical morning you would likely find me racing around the house, drinking an entire pot of coffee (you think I’m exaggerating but I’m so not…I pee a lot, folks), checking emails, scheduling and outlining my day/week/month/life/whatever, trying to finish a paper or test and if I am lucky also cramming a quick, high intensity, very possibly ineffective, stomach churning workout into that breathless two hour window before Bean wakes up and totally turns the day, the house and everyone in it upside down…oh, but not before spinning us around until we’re dizzy and throwing us against the wall a few times. Toddlers are evil. Just saying.

It seemed so normal. It really did. I thought I was being supermom. I thought I had it all under control. And I just could not, for the life of me, figure out why I felt like such a…well, Bitch (with a capital B) all the time. It really is no wonder my thoughts were hanging by fickle little strands. I was completely out of balance, trying to control all of the wrong things in my life, slamming myself with adrenaline and caffeine and stress every single day before I had even sat down to eat a decent breakfast.

Then, out of the freaking blue, Bean- the wonder child who sleeps in until 9- decides she’s now a morning person and begins waking up as soon as light stretches in through the mini-blinds and pirouettes along her dimpled, olive toned cheeks. So I spent an entire week being coerced into waking about a half hour earlier than I was used to.

I knew my routine wasn’t working out, especially given the new circumstances, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I tried a little research and scrolled through an assortment of wellness blogs and yoga sites for inspiration. I stumbled through several, barely reading, as they were all beginning to blur together. Yeah, I get it…I need to be mindful. Savor moments. Do backflips around the silver lining. Yada yada yada but HOW? How does one go from manic to Zen overnight?

While browsing what Kris Carr calls Love Lists on the Crazy Sexy Life website (I am obsessed. Shamelessly and forever. Please do yourself a favor and go read her delectable insights. She and the rest of the Crazy Sexy gang are wonderful) I stumbled upon this piece and the words, “When I start my day with caffeine, emails, news and stress, I can pretty much guarantee 24 hours in shitsville,” caught my eye. Zing!

 She made it sound so simple. Take 20 minutes in the morning and treat yourself to a little slice of peace. I made a mental note to try it sometime.

Fast forward a couple of mornings: I prepare to scramble out of bed as quietly as possible and try to get a few things accomplished around the house without waking Bean up. Then I remember those wise words about making my morning count and I stop myself in my anxiety fueled tracks. I sit for a few seconds wondering if I should try meditating or something. Then I glance over at my book shelf, stretch like elasti-girl and grab a couple of gems: A Night Without Armor: Poems by Jewel Kilcher and 20 Something, 20 Everything by Christine Hassler (a self-helper I highly recommend for any of you 20-something or hell even 30 or 40 something ambitious women).

I know I’m getting chatty here so I’ll get to a close by saying that this small change (which, by the way, barely interferes with my busy schedule) has made an unbelievable difference in how I feel. By taking no more than 25-30 minutes that morning to seek some inner refuge I was able to face the day’s tasks with a clear mind and an uplifted spirit. So I made a conscious effort to do something every morning since. Some days I have to improvise of course. This morning, for instance, I was greeted by a perky toddler perched on my chest saying, “Maaaaama…sun goes up! I have to pee I’m hummy I want ‘yucky’ charms WAKE UP MAMA!!” Reading in bed was obviously out of the question. So I did some journaling while she ate and I taught her a couple of new yoga poses. She soon grew bored and began playing with blocks while I did a few more series of poses, with reverence and thanks this time. Then I ate breakfast by the open window and listened to the birds in the trees.

Big changes are taking place in our neck of the woods, people!

Keeper of the Crab Cakes

My husband has been out of town on business since Wednesday and even though I really do enjoy his company and cower under the covers at night with the gun on one side of the bed and the baseball bat on the other when he is gone...I savor his absences for two reasons: One. After Bean is all tucked into bed (stories read, teeth brushed, cheeks kissed a zillion times) I get to relax with a tall glass of wine and listen to whatever kind of music I want- music that does not involve hoes, money or cocaine.

And Two. I get to eat real food!

One of the many things I absolutely cherish about being a part of the south is the cuisine. The pressure cooked fried chicken I tried once while visiting relatives in Birmingham was a-freaking-mazing and the peach-anything in Georgia had it going on but nothing quite compares to the Creole dishes I’ve discovered here in Louisiana.

My husband loves it here just as much as I do but he has found inspiration elsewhere. Give that man a microwave burrito and a SunKist and send him on his merry way. Cajun ain’t really his thing. I, however, am head over heels in love with it.

Seriously, if I were to be stranded on a desert mountain or whatever and could only take three items with me they would be as follows: sunscreen, DiCaprio’s charming sidekick from the movie Inception (what? I have a type…leave me alone) and this dish right here!

Okay, you're right. I would miss my family way too terribly much.

So I would also smuggle along some flares to communicate with them. One flash means “I love you”. Two means “How’s that leftover pizza tastin’? Suckers!!”

Alright, alright I’ll stop.




**Editor's note: Yes, I do realize that crab cakes are not cajun food. Thank you for asking. **



Simple Bliss

Despite being so awkwardly shy and introverted by nature, I happen to be a pretty chatty gal. Talk, talk, talk I always seem to have something to say whether something needs to be said or not.

Took getting two wisdom teeth pulled and my jaw swollen shut for me to realize how emotionally draining all of that chatter is. Although it sort of feels like a man with smelly gloves took a drill to my mouth and then sewed it back together (oh, wait...), I am so, unbelievably relaxed. (The pain pills deserve a little bit of credit for that as well.)

It required a little effort but by the time the novocaine wore off and I could feel my tongue again I had found some non-verbal ways to communicate effectively with my family. By not talking I am a better listener. Through silence, I can say so much more.

Plus, my child thinks it's hilarious that I am reminding her to use her manners in sign language. She has taken to not saying "please" for kicks...

So as I sit here in my kitchen, listening to Bean boss her toys around, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Today I am thankful for the underrated joy of saying nothing.

Humility, Virtue and Sincerity walk into a bar...

When I first began blogging I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do with it. I love writing…it makes me feel as close to free or calm or me or whatever as I think I’ll ever feel but it’s been a rocky, winding road since I let the ink dry on my first poem nearly ten years ago and somewhere along the way sincerity must have fallen out of my backpack. In fact, I believe it’s lying very near Humility and Virtue but those two can roam as they please. I have long since accepted my ridiculous ego and let’s face it, purity has never been a strong suit of mine but I sure would like to get back to Sincerity again.

Although I wasn't always aware of my strengths at the time, I have a motherly adoration for the young woman I once was. Looking back on old journals I can see that I rarely let my tendency to appease cloud my judgment and I generally didn't let fear of external judgment interfere with me being true to who I was.

I don't believe we ever really lose ourselves but I think it's possible and far too easy to oppress our minds until we all but forget who in the hell we are. So while my motivation for blogging may have been to exercise my creativity and maybe share a more intimate side of me (less so than in a journal but more than say, on Facebook) with a few deserving and like-minded people, I think that my truest intention is to figure out how to be that girl again.

Of course, I needed to grow and I am not denying the importance of evolving when life blesses us with responsibility but I think there is a delicate line between a natural maturation and a forced one and those of us who continuously try to grow up too quickly often have to backtrack and fill in some of the places we overlooked…if we ever expect to really get anywhere useful, that is.

And that’s kind of where I am at now.

So please bear with me, I am still getting the gist of this blogging thing. In the near future I plan to make my blog space a little homier- add a few good details and maybe a few pictures here and there- and write more consistently. Maybe I’ll even get a theme going, although don’t be surprised if the theme ends up being sporadic, slightly exaggerated anecdotes…that’s sort of my thing.