pink

i think of ballet slippers, watermelon, my collection of pigs…all memories from my childhood. i associate pink with little girls, not grown-up independent women—and certainly not the one i've become. i never associated myself with pink dresses or tutus, these things reserved for my sister jamie or newborn babies brought home from the hospital. PINK IS FOR GIRLS.  and i am a proud tomboy. my color would more likely be green for the hills i'd roll down, into the dirt of the baseball diamond at hines school. or the brown of the tree trunks i'd shinny in 3rd grade.

sure, there were ballet slippers and tutus for a time—but these are not the antiques i pull from the old trunk of my memory. these are someone else's childhood. mine is blue, the aqua of the pool where i spent mornings perfecting my 25 yard butterfly, the sky which cradled my kite as i dodged to avoid the trees overhead. denim overalls and blueberry muffins taken on road trips to nearby towns for yet another swim meet.

i think now of babies—of the little girl we see in our dreams. i think of feminism and gender roles and tiny pink booties sure to arrive gift-wrapped with bows. will she be pink, like the aunt jamie she will know only from photographs? or will she be fire-engine red like her mother's wedding shoes, the flaming orange of her daddy's artwork adorning the walls? how will she find her own color—and avoid being bound by that which society assigns her?

i come back to the image of watermelon, huge slices hacked off and handed to small fingers. to be eaten barefoot in the grass, juice streaming down elbows, seeds spit into flower beds. these are the pinks of my memories, of childhoods spent outside where children are meant to play. all of these thoughts converge as we spend afternoons contemplating the future of this life not yet created. how my childhood will influence hers, how i want for her the safety and love and energy of my own. and i wonder...can this place exist in the world i now inhabit?

i am not a monster...

i have been wanting to go to the rosenberg library since we moved to galveston...and finally had the chance to go!  i was just wandering the memoir section (my mind and reading habits are all in one place these days!)...and stumbled on My Invented Country by Isabel Allende. i was having a really rough day and decided i needed a glass of wine and a seat overlooking the crashing waves with my lovely new book. i could not have prepared myself for what she said to me in those few moments of peace...

from My Invented Country:

Once I heard a famous Afro-American writer say that from the time she was a little girl she felt like a stranger in her family and her hometown. She added that nearly all writers have experienced that feeling, even if they have never left their native city. It's a condition inherent in the profession, she suggested; without the anxiety of feeling different, she wouldn't have been driven to write. Writing, when all is said and done, is an attempt to understand one's own circumstance and to clarify the confusion of existence, including insecurities that do not torment normal people, only chronic non-conformists, many of whom end up as writers after having failed in other undertakings. This theory lifted a burden from my shoulders. I am not a monster; there are others like me.

time flies...

i cannot possibly believe that it's been almost a month since my last post! i've been writing almost every day and taking pictures and so much is going on...but i just haven't (wanted to?) taken the time to post. so...in an effort to recap on all the goodness of the past month, i'm going to include some pictures of the things i've been inspired by and my latest dreadlock update. enjoy!

 my niece...

 the color we chose for our bedroom in the RV....

and the sunsets....i am absolutely enamored by the sunsets.



life is good.

MOO.

i got in a huge fight with my dad last weekend, and it has been weighing on me ever since. most of my life it has been this way...most of my life i have blown it off, pretended i didn't care, ignored the pain. it is becoming more and more difficult to carry this burden. i hate to think that each one of these arguments chips away at the relationship that was so strong through my childhood. the days following our argument, i found myself quoting him or thinking of something that he's (in)famous for and that pang of hurt bubbled up again. reviewing some of my journal entries, i came across this one.

***********

we're flying down the highway, dad ejecting a deep belly MOOOOO, the animals unmoved by his mocking at 65mph. i used to think it was funny as a kid, horrifying as a teenager, and in the past year--barreling through west texas--i may have been found doing a drive-by myself. like father, like daughter...how scary. and this is not the only way we are alike: we are more like the bulls butting heads than the pretty dairy cows from the butter commercials. the wild bull and his offspring...passionate, opinionated, proud.

scrawl

sometimes i can't interpret my own writing when i read over the entries in my notebook. natalie goldberg says that her handwriting changes when she's really in the groove. i can see this now in my own writing practice; over the course of a few months i have filled two notebooks and when i'm truly in the zone...it is nearly illegible. i also find that when i read over the entries i barely remember the words that have been formed by my heart. writing as natalie has taught me, i don't use my brain. at least, not the part of my brain that tells me to cross my t's and use proper grammar. i just GO.

i've started writing on self-created prompts intended for use in my memoir. for 20-30 minutes at a stretch, i am submerged again in my grief, struggling to come up for air. i find myself dreaming now of death and loss; i rarely remember dreams usually, but these have been vivid in my hazy awakening. in one, it is me who is being stalked...a hit out for me and i am aware of the impending violence. last night, a second dream replayed my sister's death, but this time it was expected, a lengthy hospitalization or something. my family was all gathered together when the call came that she was gone.  we still sat in disbelief.

it will be interesting to see how the coming months affect me emotionally, as i dig through lost memories of that dark time. it's been almost 7 years now...and i find it more and more difficult to remember that girl and what she must have been thinking. it's amazing how much is wiped from my memory, how our brain can protect us from trauma, yet leave gaping holes in our histories.  i'm starting to paint again...above is a mixed media piece i worked on last weekend. i think my art goes hand-in-hand with the writing...some things just can't be expressed through words. i am remembering that i am a creative being, that our move to the island was to nurture that spirit inside of me. i am finally beginning to explore her more fully, to stretch into this space i have been granted and settle in for the long haul.

take flight

i will always remember my first big girl bike. specifically, that it was pink. and this surprises me, because i don't remember being a particularly pink kinda girl. but the bike was brand spankin' new and it was mine. it had a slick banana seat, patterned with miniature flowers and sparkles inside the shiny top coat. the handlebars had rubber grips and i'm pretty sure there were streamers bursting out from the ends. i had learned to ride on a bike with training wheels, but this beauty would never be bogged down with such childish accoutrements. this was only for girls who could hold it steady, push off with one foot, and churning the pedals faster…take flight.

restless extremes

i carry a lot of polarities inside of me, always vying for attention, one slowly gaining ground only to be taken over by a surge in its opponents' strength. at this point in my life, it is my desire to become a full-time-bohemian-nomad, living a creative lifestyle vs. my financially responsible professional self who wants to be sure my resume can hold water in the future. this has been a constant struggle throughout my life.

i am a wanderer. i love new places, adventures, challenges, and i can't find them working a 9-5 job in an american city. i've known this since i was sitting in a cubicle in the offices of Carat ICG on michigan avenue. back then, i read articles of women adventurers, working as scuba instructors in exotic oceans across the globe. of business owners and travel writers and national geographic photographers. i envied them, yearned for the opportunity to live a life of excitement and adventure. to take the road less traveled by, to be daring, original, to blaze my own path. and i still do this—a dozen years later—craving the untraditional, eager to explore new possibilities, distant lands; seeking fresh ways to share my gifts, learn new skills, expand my mind.

these extremes have become much more apparent over the last three years, as i've been forced to reconcile my wild-child dreams with a marriage and a master's degree. my more stable husband is a study in rationalization, master of pro/con lists and back-up back-up plans. he leaves no room for unexpected contingencies. and after two years of study, i felt the need to actually use my social work degree, to work at a respectable job and make money. but the more i do so, the more i realize…this is not the life i was born to live.

mystery

hayley had a large trampoline just outside her back door, which was always covered in leaves and sticks, strewn across the dark fabric. one day we brushed all the debris from the top and began to bounce. higher and higher until she captured something from the sky and brought it down to eye level. it was an ugly thing, dark in color, an almost circle. she encouraged me to collect one for myself; intrigued, i did as i was told and soared into the leaves to pluck one for myself. cross-legged on the warm surface, we cracked open our treasures and i discovered a grotesque collection of seeds inside. i had no idea what to do—believing mine was rotten, or not ripened yet—i frowned in disappointment at my selection. but as i peered over to hayley, the smile on her lips showed that this was not the case. ours were identical, and she quickly used her fingers like a spoon to scoop out the soft insides. i followed her lead and allowed the foreign flavors to tickle my tongue before crunching down on the tough seeds. i thought i might die of pleasure—the zing of the fruit, the warm australian evening, this exotic flavor dancing with my taste buds. "what is this?" i begged. her broad smile widened as she said "passion fruit."

loneliness

loneliness. my eyes well up as i scribble the word on the page, surprised by it—not the tears, but the naming. it is odd as i feel them trickle down my nose and cheek. i suppose the aftershocks of so much emotion and searching and expectation. but what am i afraid of—this sharing of myself? why was i so scared to reach out, to admit i was lonely, that i needed more to fill my hollow heart?

my face feels hot, the mercury rising in this crowded room, tucked among strangers and new friends. the letting go i promised myself. the slow, aching steps toward healing. the cracking wide open—bleeding onto the page, the words blurry through my salt rimmed eyes. i want to write about heartbreak, my sister's little green urn, about emptiness and pain. i want to write about the long treacherous trail, the broken bones, the torn layers, the shattering of the life i knew. i want to feel it all, let it consume me, envelope me in its cozy mohair embrace. to nourish my cracked soul, fill in the tiny spaces with the nectar of understanding.

i want to see the truth, to be fully present to every hope, wish, desire. to stop stuffing it all back inside the box, desperately pulling at the bow, tying it up all pretty like a new gift. it is inevitable, the bow will not remain—the box crumbles away, decayed and rotted. but it's there inside, still glowing, shining, that tiny green sphere of hope—energy—growing slowly each day. fueled by my fellow artisans, healed by the universe; ready, waiting, pulsing, breathing.

calm. without the layers it is peaceful, free. nothing to stand in the way of the continuous circular journey. i am approaching the curve, it has been coming slowly, but i am closer now. i see the bend, the shift, the opportunity. i will not backpedal, not press the brakes. i will not be alone.

*************

this is something i wrote last november in my workshop at kripalu....i just found it in my notebook. wow.

home

i've had a lot of homes in my life. but when i say "my hometown," this will always be peoria. grandmothers live there and groups of cousins, the screen porch and grandma o's china collection, cabinets full of antique mementos of a life and past worth displaying. i think of the woodpecker—both with dad as a seven year old, awed at the daring height, and again as a married woman in her 30's, showing off the view to her new husband. i think of christmas eve's and church on sunday, riding bikes criss-cross around the familiar neighborhoods. i remember climbing the treacherous staircase to the top of pat's warehouse downtown, the best view for the fireworks over the river on the fourth of july. there are riverboats and steamboat days and the gus macker basketball tournament: filling the streets downtown with boys in long shorts and matching jersey tanks.

peoria is my grandma's stuffing on thanksgiving, her china dish on the oversized hutch and sneaking sugar cubes. a dozen of tins of christmas cookies and her famous egg salad on doll-sized pepperidge farm bread. peoria is sneaking out with my girlfriends to TP the neighbors house, flying millard's plane, and mowing the lawn on that horrible riding lawn mower on sheridan road. i remember learning to drive in the richwoods highschool parking lot; josh teaching me to drive stick shift in that old rabbit convertible. the easter egg, parties in the basement, beer cans hiding amongst the shelves of cabbage patch dolls. i remember toys-r-us when my name came up on the waiting list the day the doll arrived. my teal-painted furniture—refreshed from the antique streaked blue of my mother's youth. the bubblegum carpet in my bedroom, the aquarium, and the hermit crab in the glass bowl on top of my dresser. peoria will always be swimming: willow knolls, the YMCA, lifeguarding at the park district. standing outside the fire on the way to lakeview with jamie.

my story

there have been multiple times over the years when it became clear that i wanted to write a memoir. the first was as clear as the michigan lakes, i could see straight to the bottom of it, everything laid out in front of me. and this is strange because i cannot remember anything from that period in my life. i was sitting on mom's cool leather couch on a houston summer morning and began recording a timeline of events for every day following my sister jamie's death. in my heart i knew that these details would prove invaluable when finishing the book i was destined to write.

i recall the subsequent mornings, wrapped in a blanket against the chill of the air conditioner, noting the events of the previous day and pouring my anger and sadness onto the clean sheets. following the funeral this tradition continued, though becoming more sporadic –evenings spent scribbling drunken entries into that old blue spiral notebook until i couldn't see through my tears.

the second time was during that workshop at the hospital, when for a few hours each week i could fulfill my dream of being a writer. the day i presented my short story to the room full of doctors and nursing assistants, i was as sure of anything in my life that i would write my story. the support from my classmates was overwhelming, insisting that my story was only a chapter in a much more important book.

all of these hints culminated when i ran across the posting for natalie goldberg's writing workshop focused on memoir. it was as if i had followed the trail markers, cautiously navigating the well-worn path and arriving at a clearing. in the open field i found all of the authors before me, smiling with an invitation to their private celebration. it was as if they had known i was coming, but it was me who had forgotten the location. writing had slowly crept back into my life like a child under the covers in a storm.

after the workshop ended i could envision my own heart flowing out onto the page, my truth exposed naked in the sunshine. i could feel the power of my pain, cracked open wide and bleeding with my readers at the bedside. to acknowledge my despair, the hopelessness, the filth that lies at the bottom of grief. and the sweetness that comes with surviving it.

it is true: we are stronger than we can ever imagine in the face of tragedy. we are more powerful that we ever thought possible. as humans, we are resilient – we are destined to learn the nature of our existence through incomprehensible means.

reticence

p.s. this is my new backyard

truth be told, i had to google the word after reading the critique. my teacher for the first writing workshop i ever attended referred to my narrative as "a little reticent." this was in early 2010 while i was still yearning to become a writer, to stop talking about the book and actually get my pen moving. i'm currently reworking the story to submit for an online publication and excited to see how much my writing has changed over the past 12 months.

and you know what? she was right. i was restrained, i didn't reveal my thoughts or feelings readily (dictionary.com). it has been a problem all my life...and not just in my writing. my therapist referred to this phenomenon  as my "frozen feelings" and charged them with my resulting panic attack. but it was hard to open up, to say what i truly felt and not what i thought someone expected me to say. a year of self-reflection through this space has showed me that this was definitely true. it felt uncomfortable at times to be honest with myself, but i persevered. i did so in the name of authenticity.

i posted a piece of my writing last post and promised to start adding more of my daily musings. but i didn't. weeks elapsed and finally i decided to flip through the old journal and pull from its scribblings. it seemed that once i typed it onto the screen, i was disenchanted. it didn't feel how i wanted it to feel. i closed the document and avoided my blog as a result. but today i opened it again and felt the power of my own words...it's true what they say about letting your writing sit and coming back to it.

so, that's what i'm going to do. tomorrow i will post that entry i struggled with. and today i will spend the afternoon perusing my notebooks and picking some entries which are authentically non-reticent. because that is what this blog is about...overcoming the fear of being truly myself and celebrating the joy of this crazy beautiful life.  here.we.go.

a place i haven’t lived…

milos, greece. but i will someday. i wanted to pretend i lived there during those seven glorious days. pretend that i was european and glamorous and could stay forever taking pictures and making art. but i haven’t lived in one of those dusty stucco houses nestled in the hills, the white gleaming like ivory against the mediterranean landscape. i haven’t woken up with the view of the ocean twinkling below my perch in the hills, with a church to the east and another to the west. i have not received mail or prepared a meal, nor have i taken out the trash.

but in my dreams i am there. in an airy studio with native tunes floating out of an old radio and a breeze that could melt your heart. i have dishes and a garbage can and a flowy ink pen to send airmail messages across the sea. in milos, i am an artist. i am a writer—a famous american writer—with her rabbi husband, the quirky couple who ride their bikes across the island and skinny dip late at night off the pier. i am fulfilling a lifelong dream, to live in a place where i first realized true beauty, where life is simple and safe and inspired.

i have not lived on a tiny island in the aegean sea, with a restaurant in the fishing village that serves grilled calamari so good you’d spend all day on a dirty fishing boat with two stinky men, just to have seconds. an island with secret places to explore, mountains to climb, sparkling oceans to swim. with more sandy beaches than any of her sisters lining the path to athens. a magical place where australian expats throw pottery and open their studios to curious travelers. and the sand artist who works by lamplight, late into the night as tourists admire his intricate handiwork. where greek yogurt is just yogurt and is served with the sweetest honey bees have ever created. and when they dance around the table amongst the teacups and thinly sliced provolone, they are welcome breakfast guests.

in my dreams, the living room opens onto a wide terrace where we take our meals. fresh tomatoes and feta and sweet onions join the rustic bread basket and crisp white wine on the tablecloth. here, i am home.

***********

i haven't put a lot of my writing here on the blog....which doesn't really make sense because the whole point of this blog was for me to improve my writing.  the above piece was sent to the writing group i met at kripalu in november.  we have committed to doing a monthly submission to each other...mostly as a way to stay connected across the country. 

i have been doing an almost daily writing practice, using prompts from my natalie goldberg book old friend from far away. this prompt came from the book, which is full of things to get me going on my memoir.  hopefully i'll be posting a lot more in the weeks to come...i quit my job at the hospital (finally!) and will be moving to the beach full-time.  i'm so excited for my new life i can hardly stand it.  i'll be sure to post about all the changes soon.

kripalu

the breeze is cool on my bare feet, sun streaming over my toes like kisses from a lover. my heart thumps a bit deeper in my chest, all those spaces filled with love and power. with determination, fierce love--for myself, my life, this crazy world of which i'm a living, breathing part. the clouds drape the sky, the pure blue broken by wisps and streaks. my plane will divide them this afternoon, tearing me away from this place, but the string remains. i am connected...i will always be connected. to this large outdated building on a hill in massachusetts, to the fresh apple cider filling my belly. to the books, the pages, to anne and armely and jess, to my hamstrings and spine and writing arm continuing to strengthen.

i believe in healing. in the power of this place. of my mind, my spirit, of my place in the universe. of all the particles and energy flow and salty tears leaving a well-worn path on my cheek. i believe in myself. my commitment to this story. to my story. to sharing myself--open wide, naked to the world. vulnerable and broken, the bits of glue peeking through the spaces of repair.

**********

this was written on my last day of a three-day writing retreat with natalie goldberg at kripalu center in lenox ma. i have been home since sunday and still...there are no words.  hopefully a few excerpts from my journal over the next few days will suffice.

i wonder...

does the butterfly feel trapped in the cocoon? does she know what she will be? that with patience and time, she will emerge anew? i wonder: does the caterpillar dream of flying? of beautiful wings and freedom. does she realize her full potential, yearn for the transition to be complete.

oh butterfly, how we admire you--graceful and carefree. do you worry? that you will never break free. of all the time wasted. that you won't survive until that glorious day. or do you enjoy the silence, the solitude, the warmth inside? contemplating your future...dreaming of the flowers, the sky, the trees.

i wonder...

this i believe

a little happy for my hump day....my essay was posted on thisibelieve.org!   take a peek here.

cravings

i want to write. i want to sit with my pencil and legal pad and scribble it all down. i want to get it out there...blow the petals into the universe. i am yearning for the long, uninterrupted time for me and my words. i am ready.

who is she?

Who is she, the one they see? Bold, fearless, carefree? Likely independent, unique, hard to define. She is quiet at times, thinking, watching. Waiting for her moment to shine. A storyteller, the center of attention. Definitely funny, always ready to laugh.

But also dark. That humor, just on the other side of light. A deep thinker—maybe. At times, with a Blue Moon (or 3), the serious one. Conversationalist, asker of questions. Honest. Brutally, at times. She is passionate, opinionated, sometimes harsh.

But she is a lover. Affectionate when in close company, and always the nurturer. Great with kids, yet unsure about motherhood. A child at heart, curious, always ready to learn. A reader—lover of books—shelves lined at her messy home. Organized chaos she'd have you believe. And an artist, a newfound love both for herself and in another.

Theirs is a fierce kind of love, the one so rarely found. One of novels and old films. Wild and messy and strong. She found him at the only right time. Once broken and shattered, combing the wreckage, she had completed reconstruction. Her fighter's heart had won, building up from the rubble of her grief, and forged on.

An independent spirit needing no guide, only a companion. A fellow traveler prepared for the ride. Her wings have spread wider, his breath blowing her higher in flight. From the ground, they cannot see from where the wind comes.

And so it will be their secret. This peace, this joy, in knowing the other. Her grief-filled tears—their salty trails like a snail's path to his heart. She will grow, change. Her art will blossom, alongside their dreams. She will shine. And the glow will be hers alone to see.

summer daze

i volunteer at an amazing organization called bo's place...and yesterday was the first session of our summer daze series. i actually got to participate in one of the exercises led by some of the HGOco team. as i wrap up the first week in my flying lessons e-course, it seemed like a perfect thing to post to talk about my goals and fears.  if you want to give it a whirl...just fill in the blanks...

i hope...my article gets published. i hope i can finish the book.
i have learned...how important it is to have people to support and encourage me.
i believe...life is short. we need to make every day count.
i don't believe...in failing.
i fear...rejection. that my work will not be seen; my story not told.
i have seen...beautiful places all over the world.
i have never seen...the grand canyon.
i don't know...what happens when we die.
i wonder...what my life will look like in 10 years. will i have children?
i know for sure...i will always see the beauty in the world. we are all unique.
don't tell me...i can't.
i want...to be an author.
i have heard...the waves crashing at the beach.

i am...happy. grateful for the gifts in my life.

reflections...

 

a glimpse. a snapshot.

a moment in time.

fuzzy. a representation, not fully clear.

in the mirror, the pond...

is it me? who is she, this image gazing back?

today she is strong, brave fearless.

she smiles, confident in this knowledge.

we believe what we see.

is it real?

do our eyes reveal what our hearts only know?

reflections. ever-changing.

with time, with the wind--a ripple, a wrinkle.

capture this moment.

what do you see?