Joy

The joy hits me like a torrent,

Rushes past me and through me

Like I'm made of nothing but water and dust

Not skin and sinew and stubborn bone.

I shed my workday skin, all scaley and gray,

And shine, like rose gold in the sun

New and light and warm.

You smile, I am reborn.

Troubles forgotten, loads lightened

My day is washed away

While my night with you is at its

Glorious beginning.

There is not greater joy

Than giddy expectation.

No greater miracle to witness

Than the first tender blades of love

Peeking through the barren fields of the heart.

Past and future have no place here.

This moment, the electricity of your touch,

The wild and wicked mischief in your eyes,

The rush of your skin brushing mine:

There is no space for anything here

But joy.

Screen People Vs. Meredith (Hint- Meredith wins)

I was having a conversation with a friend the other day about how "kids these days" don't know how to authentically connect with others. So much of their friendships and connections are through a screen, they are losing the sense of closeness that used to come with spending quality, unplugged time with another person. I too realize I am guilty of too much screen life. Living abroad, I do so much communication online. The people I am closest to in the world I can only reach thanks to technology, and while I am certainly not ungrateful for these means of communication, I also miss the connection. I miss knowing someone so well that we laugh over a look, predict each other's next phrase and anticipate how they will react to the weird dude behind us in line at the 7-11.

I am so #blessed to have had the same best friend since I was three years old. Her name is Meredith, and I miss her something terrible. I miss everything about her and about us that I took for granted when we were young and wild and free roving the 757, wreaking havoc on the roads and leaving no Chic-Fil-A unvisited. 

I miss her hands. She has beautiful, small hands, with nails she keeps meticulously painted. I miss the scientific method she uses to doctor up her coffee, and then how long it takes her to drink it (days). I miss her lack of appreciation for condiments- all she puts on a hotdog is mustard. I miss  how she reacts to cats, with the same begrudging indifference cats normally give to people, except cats are stupidly obsessed with her, probably because she views them with such begrudging indifference. I miss watching her drive while smoking and drinking coffee and shifting- her flow with this multitasking feat is an art form. I miss hearing her laugh with abandon. I miss watching her pick out what to wear; despite the real struggle this presents her (and all of us women, let's get serious) I love listening to her unpack her reasons why or why not certain outfits. Her ability to talk herself out of things is truly something to witness. I miss the way she listens without thinking of the next thing to say- she just listens to make sure she understands. I miss the way she says "awww, Hetero" when I am crying, because I know "awww Hetero" means "God I love you and I am so sad you are sad".

I miss everything about Meredith, but I am grateful that we grew up together and the her I know is the real her. We have spent countless real moments together. We have story after story of shenanigans, gut-wrenching sagas, dramas we survived together. We may not have been physically together for all of our stories, but man, we have such an amazing foundation, built from our years together as kids. 

I hope the current generation has Meredith's in their lives and not just screen people. I don't know what I would do without my Meredith. Even with all the screens, it doesn't make up for just sitting with her in the flesh. I guess I wonder if this is something kids these days even miss.

Patience

I am often amazed by the depth of rage some people display in the face of minor inconveniences.

Yesterday, I was stuck in traffic. This is a normal, abet frustrating, daily occurrence in San Jose. But, by virtue of being a daily occurrence, it is if nothing else predictable, so I sat patiently in my car, listening to music and waiting for the trail of brake lights to indicate forward movement. Without warning, the driver’s door of the car in front of me flung open and a man jumped out, and even in the fading twilight, I could see his face was purple with rage. Some clearly defined chest-bumping-fist-flailing movements alerted me that this purple-faced fella wanted to release a volley of fist-a-cuffs upon the driver of the SUV beside me.

What. In. The. World.

Having arrived late to the scene via a side road, I could not fathom what previous infraction occurred that warranted this scene. As Purpleface approached the driver’s window, my attention returned to the car in front of me, where the woman previously in the passenger seat had jumped into the driver’s seat and was yelling imploringly in Spanish. By now, I had obviously rolled down my window as I wanted to be a good witness for the police in case of bloodshed, yet I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I can only imagine it was the Spanish equivalent of “WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING GET YOUR ASS BACK IN THE CAR.” I also, sadly, could not see what was transpiring on the driver’s side of the SUV, but in short order, Mr. Purpleface returned to his vehicle. As he tried to return the driver’s seat, the woman promptly (and wisely, if you ask me) sent him around to the passenger side. At first, the passenger door was locked, to which my brain immediately rejoiced “YAS GIRL SLAY YOU TELL YOUR MAN THAT SHIT IS UNACCEPTABLE”. However, a moment later the door popped open and Purpleface got in, and as I followed them for another few moments, I watched with relative amusement at their ensuing frantic and bombastic hand gesticulations. I can only imagine the verbal lashing he was (deservingly) receiving.

Next, the airport.

Airports are not efficient places. No one is happy to be there. They all want to be somewhere else. Literally. I include the people who work there, as I am sure they would all pursue other career opportunities should they present themselves. Given this, my bar for humanity in airports is so low I have to dig for it. Yet, oh yet, some people still sneak under right on under it.

I’m in a clusterfuck of humanity at my gate and we have begun boarding zone 1. I am zone 5. I know this clusterfuck will continue for at least a half hour. I figure, everyone else in zone 5 understands this as well. That is how zone boarding works. Clusterfuckery followed by sitting in a confined space for hours. Cha.

The man behind me was enraged by this sequence of events. How did I know he was enraged? Constant verbal diaharia. This man had never heard of an internal monologue. “God, why can’t they get in a line”, “They aren’t listening” “God pay attention” “Can’t you read the number” “What is wrong with these people” “Jesus”. Huff, puff, headshake. Repeat. By the third repetition (zone 3), I moved farther back in the clusterfuck. I’d rather get on the plane six people later than spend another moment in his energetic orbit. By the time zone five began boarding, he matched Mr. Purpleface. When my turn came (a mere six passengers later) and I saw him (thankfully) a few rows in front of my assigned seat, he was still purple, huffing and shaking his head. I couldn’t help myself. In my chipperest kill-em-with-kindness voice, I said “Don’t worry, we are still well ahead of schedule I am sure we will take off on time.” He looked at me and said, in a patronizing tone “You think?” Despite my overwhelming desire to verbally castigate him over his horrible behavior, I simply replied, “I do” and went to my seat.

We took off at 12:40, a mere six minutes behind schedule, and by Latin American airport standards, a good half hour early.

To return to my original statement, I am amazed- no, I am flabbergasted- by this rage at little things. While Airport Purpleface was ranting on, all I could think of was the people in Florida, Texas, Louisiana and Montana literally losing everything they own. The earthquake in Mexico, the flooding in India, the whole North Korean regime. And you want to lose your Goddamn bananas over an inefficient boarding process? Really?

Have our modern conveniences only served to make us selfish assholes? Are we now treating each and every one of our minutes on earth as our own private commodities that simply cannot be wasted on something as useless as waiting….for anything? Alternatively, maybe we are all just sleep deprived and cannot self-regulate? Or are we all texting so much we forget how to comport ourselves like civilized humans IRL?

I don’t have the answers, and I am certainly guilty of this rage myself. The other day, I nearly lost my bananas on the pharmacist of the eighth pharmacy I visited that did not have the medicine I needed. I also laid on the horn for a good 20 seconds at the guy who nearly clipped my car as he tried to whiz around me as I backed out of my driveway. So there; I too am guilty of giving into The Rage.

Maybe just identifying the problem is half the battle towards solving the problem. I know I will certainly be more cognizant of my patience and subsequent anger in the future, because frankly, there is no time or place for these shenanigans. We are all fighting our own personal wars. All trying to get to the same place: home, happiness, a life well lived. Who am I to make someone else’s road that much harder over the slightest of inconvenience? I am so blessed, and I should carry my blessings like a badge of honor and a great responsibility. Those who have much should give much. And if nothing else, I never, ever want to be “that purplefaced girl” some random person blogs about. 

Words

Words. I love words.

Words, neatly typed

On a page that smells like home, dust and imagination.

Words, softly spoken

Meant only for me to hear.

Words, breathlessly giggled

Before we all dissolve into stomach-stitching peels of laughter.


I like words on a screen less.

They lack emotion, yet often carry undue weight.

Shouted words I like lesser still,

As they are often used as daggers against the unsuspecting.


I love words, but I also fear them.

Words wield an incredible power.

They can surprise, they can maim, they can resurrect the dying

Or lay a family to waste.


Words can be fickle.

Said with conviction one day,

Only to lose their luster in the days that follow.

Their meaning has changed, but the original intention cannot be unremembered.


Words. I love words.

May they be full of love,

Or full of threat.

May they result in unstoppable joy

Or life-bending pain.

Words are the best chance we have

To finding meaning while we are all together in this place.

Glorious

I play the same song on repeat.

Macklemore, Glorious.

I play it so loud my doors shake with the bass.

I yell along with the lyrics,

But can’t hear myself scream

Over the refrain.

In my car, I could escape.

I don’t, I can’t- where to?

Surrounded by mountains, oceans,

The America above me and America below me.

So I drive home.

But on the way, all I hear

Is Glorious.

If only all I could hear

Was Glorious all day.

If only I could drown out

The rest of the refrains.

Shit, drama and pain,

Rinse, refrain, repeat.

If only, if only

The one single in the disc drive

Was Glorious. 

Trigger Warning: Family

Secrets cycle through, generation to generation,

At first, lost in the last rays of dusk,

Awash in white light and then consumed by the rising darkness.

But then, with the first orange glows of dawn

Secrets cycle back down to the next of the kin.

They were secrets for a reason.

Ugly, unbecoming of good southern folk.

Uncomfortable to tell, more uncomfortable yet to receive.

Words come in short breaths, ears hang on to every syllable,

Desperately seeking the ultimate gift: answers.

Answers for the sobbing 16 year old.

Answers for the lost 24 year old.

Answers for the lonely 30 year old.

A sense of understanding for the woman standing before you.

So many whys answered in brief half-truths.

So many hours wasted in contemplation,

Only to, at long last, have the cycle of secrets circle back.

Finally. Understanding.

Acceptance will come, not today, or tomorrow.

And the secrets will stay secrets, lost again

To the rising darkness of the night,

Until the morning of the next generation

Begins its ascent over the horizon. 

New Orleans, My Old Friend

New Orleans you

Are a blessing

And a curse.

You with your beads

Stuck in my heel.

Your jazz

Forever in my ear.

No, I said.

Leave me in peace.

Let me live my life impervious

To your

Free. Love. Booze. Swing. Thing.

Let me keep

The straight and the narrow.

Let me live my life unchallenged

By your sweet bayou sway.

Sweet Jesus, show me your mercy.

Take this Cajun drum beat sweet rhythm heat

Off of my brain.

Good lord, show me your grace.

Take from me these Creole love sweat swaying toe-tappin feet.

I have lost my way entirely.

Because you, New Orleans, wrecked my plans

So well made

For a life unfettered by change.

If you take me, take me whole.

Drown me in the Pontchartrain.

Smother me with Spanish moss.

Take me down with a pair of dueling pianos

And a round of purple haze.

I cannot defeat you,

God knows how I've tried.

You've cast your hook into me,

For years now I've writhed,

On your hook, your unyielding line.

Pull me in, I'm done resisting.

I am ready, reel me in.

You are the curse that once betrayed me,

Now be the force that won't forsake me.

Soul Searchers

There are a good many of us soul searchers in our 30’s. My guess is that few of us thought we’d be there by now. At 21 we had it all. figured. out. Career plans. Family plans. Retirement plans (at least we thought about opening retirement accounts). All the plans intersected at 30, the point at which we would have all our plans realized and be on the smooth path towards a life lived well.

I’m 33 and I had Nutella straight out of the jar with a spoon for breakfast yesterday. I have not figured it all out. I will, with cautious optimism, say that I have about 30% figured out, with the remaining 70% residing between cluelessness and I’ll figure it out….later. Furthermore, I have no magic intersection age at which I plan to have the other 70% worked out. Certainly not 40, that’s in seven short years, and I’ve noticed the older I get the faster time goes, so seven years is practically the blink of an eye. If I was still 21, this lack of urgency and certainly would cause me great mental anguish and probably constipation. Lucky for me and my bowels, I am 33 and fully embrace my place. I am a soul searcher in my 30’s, and like I said, I have it on good authority there are many of us yet out there.

Make no mistake though- we are not a type. We are not all married or single, childless or with child(ren). Employed, unemployed, gay, straight or bi. Just because I fake tan doesn’t mean I’m lost. I just might like not being pale all the time. Just because I am single doesn’t mean I am looking and just because I am married doesn’t mean I’ve settled. There’s just something about being more seasoned that gives one the permission to be untethered. Experience forgives us if we choose not to commit to a certain course of action, or to change direction if the wind moves us. At 21, an uncertain future was the enemy. Now, I feel that an uncertain future is merely a blank page, with endless possibility. Perhaps the page will be filled with words of sorrow, or colors dark and boding. But with any luck, there will be another blank page after that, and another after that. A life long lived is a book full of all the colors and stories, fantastic and woeful. Why, at 21, in the very beginning, was I so eager to have my book already written?

My fellow 30’s soul searchers, hold your Nutella jars up high with pride! We are in the zone! Tethered by our past choices yet with a long untethered life before us- there are many pages of our books still unwritten. Embrace your search, with all it’s colors. Yes, we have more responsibilities now, and yes, adulting often sucks. But, the search is on, and there is so much yet to come. So much yet to discover and embrace. So much to figure out, or to leave for another time….later. Embrace your search in all it’s uncertainly, and give zero fucks about what you eat for breakfast. 

Vincible

The power comes in waves. Triumphant, 
with the windows down and music loud. 

Later, alone, with the rain for company,
All is quiet, and so much heavier.

I'd welcome a middle ground:
Rain, with a bit of song.
Windows down, ears filled with only wind.
Power laced with mortality.
Power tempered by prudence.

Strength in vulnerability.
Answers whispered before the questions
are even asked. 

2nd Honeymoon

I’ve been in the world long enough, and gone through enough break ups of my own to realize that every one is different. Some are worse than others, and there are even categories they might fall into that people can recognize and know, at least peripherally, what the breakuper is going through. When someone cheats, the breakup is often filled with anger, perhaps remorse on the part of the cheater. Ghosting, the most passive aggressive form of a break up, is just rude, so I am not going to talk about it. The mutual breakup seemed to me, before last month, the cleanest, prettiest breakup one could hope for. No hard feelings, no anger, no remorse and certainly not rude.

I am learning that the mutual breakup has it’s downsides. Indeed, there is no anger, but that means there is nothing to counteract my sadness. I feel my losses doubly, both because of my lack of anger as a counter balance, and because I am now sad thinking both of my good memories and the plans I had created that will never come to pass. I have entered a phase of almost a second honeymoon. The first honeymoon was the beginning of my relationship, when all was love and love was all. There was no bad, no friction, nothing to interfere with love and wanting and joy and hope for the future. Now, in my second honeymoon, the well thought out reasons for the breakup have vanished from my mind and have been replaced with all the good. Everything good that ever happened is all I can seem to remember. All the love, the wanting, the joy and the hope are there, on display, all of my waking hours. Yet, I am alone. Just me and my good memories and my sadness.

Just as I know the first honeymoon ended (and boy did it), I am sure this one will as well. A good friend said I should just start dating- force the inevitable to help me get over my sadness. I wish I could, but the memories have swallowed me. Truly, while I fake it pretty well, all I want to talk about is the memories. My love, my joy, my wanting and my hope. They are on the surface of everything I do. I cannot swim around or over them, as much as I would like to. I fear that going on a date, they would bubble up and out of my mouth and ruin all my chances for, whatever.

Thus, I need to sit it out. Wait for the bad and the angst that was also to finally resurface. The struggle will mix in with the joy and finally I will be able to see what I saw back then- love, but also suffering. Misunderstanding, difference like a gorge without a bridge to cross. There was a reason for this mutual break up after all, a crevice that could not be overcome. Eventually, it will come to pass that I will stand and walk forward once again. But for now I will continue to sit and wait and revel in my sadness. This honeymoon will pass, as they all do, and the real world will begin anew.

Transitions

I take great pleasure in the alignment of small details. Shoes, neatly stacked by the door. A alphabetically organized accordion file. Inbox zero. A well managed refrigerator.

I have not always been this way. There are stories, fables, legends really, about the filth accumulated in my college dorm room. However, those days are long past, and as I blossomed into adulthood, as did my penchant for order. Like any good Myers Briggs J, I rejoice in finding things in their proper place. I revel in a To-Do list completed. I honor efficiency, the noblest of traits.

In order there is freedom. I mean this not in a pathological or diabolical way. I do not fear OCD tendencies nor do I demand unflinching order from others. I just mean to say that when my life is in order, so is my mental state. When all is where it should and as it should be, I am finally able to relax.

Unfortunately for me and my J brethren, life is anything but orderly. Which is likely why I find myself back here again, putting words on the page, trying to make order out of chaos.

Perhaps chaos is a strong word. My friend Rob (a Myers Briggs P) says I am in “transition” and “transitions” are, by their nature, uncomfortable. While I agree with both statements, I would like to take it one step further and say that “transition” just took a five bag pound of rice and dumped it all over my well managed refrigerator, alphabetically organized accordion file and neatly stacked shoes. “Transition” laughed all the while, then rolled around in a mud puddle and fell asleep in my spotless bathtub.

I cannot relax. What’s more, I cannot be efficient, as the mess before me is large and I cannot fathom where to start. And so I sit here and try to get words on a page in hope they will guide me forward.

To begin, maybe I will make a t-shirt. It will say DO NOT ASK WHERE I SEE MYSELF IN 5 YEARS. No one, NO ONE enjoys this question, least of all me. Do I have plans? No, I don’t, I’ll take it as it comes. Am I okay? Sure. I have way, WAY too many good things going for me not to be. How am I feeling? That’s a nice, non-committal question. I am sad. I miss things that were that are no longer. It hurts me deeply, to look back as to look forward. There are things that now will not come to pass that I think hurt more than the things that are no longer. I am not scared, but I am anxious. Remember I said before I have a lot going for me? Those things keep me from being scared, but the future is uncertain, and that calls for some trepidation. Here’s another question: what do I want? Want. That’s a loaded word. Let’s try another. What do I need? ::takes reflective pause::

I need order. Stability. But I also need freedom and a little wilderness and a few unexpected problems to solve. I need hugs. All of the hugs. I need to snuggle small animals against their will. Sometimes I need to talk out my feelings, which usually involves me saying the same thing 14 different ways but I still need you to listen and smile reassuringly and give me a hug when I’m finally talked out. You know what I need more of? Belly laughs. Also impromptu 10pm runs to the store for candy and beer and maybe that imported bag of chips that costs $7.

Okay, words on paper. I get it. If I start taking care of my needs, I may get what I want. And if I take care of my wants and needs, I might starting working through the mess transition has made in my life. Maybe, just maybe, I can be okay with finding rice grains in my refrigerator for a while. After all, sometimes it’s the small details that remind you of the transitions you’ve lived through and, of course, overcome. 

The End of an Era

Why is it always the end of an era? We never hear that the era began, or that the era carried on. 

Do eras always end? 

At the end of the era, is there a bang? A whimper? A glimmer of what could have been?

At the end, there must be fond memories, a sense of pride for what was. 

Perhaps, a bit a of nostalgia. A sweet hint of melancholy, because, apparently

All good things must come to an end. 

Why must they, though? Why all these ends of eras and good things ending?

Can't the good go on and the eras carrying on carrying on? 

Asking for a friend, standing now at the end of an era, watching

The good things come to an end. 

My friend, she's feeling pretty nostalgic. Hell, I'd say she's even pretty sad.

She wished (so hard she wished) that the good could keep on going. 

She prayed (Lord, she did pray) that the era would have no end. 

Yet, the end came. The good, it ended. 

She stands now on the divide. The space between what was and the dark unknown

Of What Is Going To Be.

She's feeling pretty sad, and yes, a little scared. 

No one ever talks about what happens after the end of an era, or what comes next 

When all good things come to an end. 

So now she wants to know- needs to know. 

Is it a bang? A whimper? A glimmer?

Again, asking for my friend, whose there, standing at the end.

I hope, for her sake, that when the era ends something good will begin.