Filed under: Uncategorized
There are moments in life when time becomes terribly tangible. I say terribly, because instead of being able to savor it, juggle it, cradle it gently and gingerly between loving ringed fingers- it slides inexplicably and inevitably through the cracks. You can almost see it, thin and whispy and glittering with the past and present and future all at once. Memories and wine glasses and carved ducks that suddenly mean more than ever. What if’s and regrets and unopened e mails that leave you with a regret so strong and willful it lives in your gut- pulsing and squirming and making you unable to eat the delicious ham and cheese plate the beautiful neighbors brought over because suddenly all you can taste is words that never quite made it out into the world until it was too late.
But the beautiful thing, the delicious thing, the magical wonderful strange and enchanted thing about these moments, is that somehow- it’s never too late. This is something people say. Something pretty. Something comforting. Something that the weary cling to because they so desperately need some verbal savior to ease the pain and restore a hint of what was lost. But it’s more than that.
At least, it is to me now.
I used to have a half faith. I used to have a fairy tale faith. A folly faith. A frightened faith. I believed inspite of the fact that I had never truly been challenged. Let me tell you- I have been challenged.
His face. His raspy breath. His beautiful white hair. His wedding ring, pressed gingerly over mine in those last hours of his life. And hers, over his. Those fingers- those soft, gentle, loving fingers of the man and woman who had introduced me to pistachios, and taught me how to sit up strait, and encouraged me to purse my dreams, and read amazing books, and find a love that was so much more than I believed this reality TV show world could offer. Those fingers in the dim light of their South Carolina study. The ones that have taught me what sort of love to refuse to give up on- 51 years and still I have watched them slow dance in the dark of their home to songs that take me back to a time I wish I knew. I have watched them bicker beautifully- because that’s the way REAL love works. I’ve watched them love not in SPITE of their flaws, but BECAUSE of them. With a respect so true and real I felt that I could reach out and touch it.
I watched her- beautiful, soft, makeupless and undeniably graceful even in the dusky midnight of a humid summer. Even in her grief, even in her loss, I saw her. The wife. The mother. The grandmother. And I admired her.
I have a full faith now. The half that was missing?
It’s been filled up.
It’s been filled by the gorgeous way the universe works even in times of terrible tragedy. The love that bubbles up and opens your eyes to questions that perhaps were too terrifying to ask before. I never knew how soft my grandmothers hands were. Never realized how swiftly, softly, sweetly my mothers words could help to heal a grieving heart. Or how sometimes- even if I shouldn’t- the sweet smelling cigarette smoke on my step dads shirt can calm my senses, just because I know he’s there.
I have a full faith because I sat beside the man who helped me become the woman who will walk down the aisle someday and commit her life to the man of her dreams, and I held his hand, and he held mine, and I promise him that he didn’t need to be afraid. That there was something waiting. That he created a life so beautiful, and a family so strong, that we will take care of each other because HE taught us how to.
And I believed it.
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What is this insatiable need.
This constant hunger.
I am a prostitute to paranoia.
A self proclaimed Browns fan.
A blonde haired blue eyed tornado who smells like tea tree oil at night and cares far too much what people think of her.
When the hell did that start?
When the hell will it end?
I am blessed beyond measure. A it’s not just the fact that I have a boyfriend who will surprise me with snowy trips to bed and breakfasts and laugh even when I’m not sure I’m being funny and let me be the lovely, unfinished wreck that I undeniably am.
Or that I live in a house where the walls are covered with sweet smelling memories. Where we can make Jamaican snowmen and Easter Island heads. Where a shaggy puppy named Sadie greets us everytime we come home, and a shaggier puppy mourns us every time we leave.
It’s not even that I have the world at my fingertips, even if, occassionally, those fingertips are so covered in glitter and chocolate they aren’t sure how to hold the world without making a beautiful, tasty mess of it.
No, I am blessed because under this roof, beside this boy, with the world in my hands, I KNOW my hands.
I know my flaws. My need for attention. My unsightly insecurity. My habit of hoarding. My pretty procrastination. My constant need to be loved because there are times when I cannot muster the strength to love myself for reasons that words may not do any justice.
Sometimes words. really. aren’t. enough.
But, usually, they are.
And that’s why I turn to words. I am verbally investigating this woman that is Me. I am picking her apart and testing hypothesis’ and creating theories about how I became so needing of love. So wanting of affirmation. So tragically prone to lust for the approval of others that I forget that even WITHOUT that approval-
I. AM. STILL. ME.
I still have this boy. I still have these pictures. I still have the world woven messily around my fingers.
I still have my voice. I still have those who DO adore me.
And they are worth far more than the disdain of a thousand people.
is my final conclusion.
The end of my experiment.
For now, anyways :)
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: affirmation, beauty, belief, boyfriend, brain, childhood, exploration, girl, growth, hands, innocence, love, masterpiece, party, play, poem, poetry, self doubt, sonnets, touch
My brain is connected to my hands.
It says write this
So I do.
It said hold him
So I did.
It said make something beautiful.
-and I hesitated.
Because somewhere along the line
My hands forgot how to play.
How to reach out for the unnattainable
How to hold constellations in the small cracks between my fingers
I let my hands grow up
Painted those nails a fierce, hard red
Stopped believing that sonnets and songs and miracles could explode from my fingertips
But my brain,
My brain knows better than my silly hands.
Filed under: addiction, beauty, beliefs, deception, girl me life love future insomnia, living my life, love, poetry, realizing reality, self image, strength
I am so tired of comparing myself to myself.
My eighteen year old abs to my twenty four year old softness.
My 16 year old size 0 to the yoga pants in my closet.
My teenie, tiny body I see in photo after photo and lust after when deep down I know that that sunny, skinny blonde wasn’t anywhere near as happy as the woman whose fingers are pounding on this keyboard tonight.
Why do I do this to myself? My mind creates memories that were never a reality. Our version of “health” becomes distorted, and we use “nutrition” as a cover for our neverending quest to achieve perfection. Beauty. Someone to be ooed and ahhd over.
I am realizing that I do not need those “oohs” and “ahhs”, at least not as much as I used to.
There was a time, not long ago, when my life depended on them.
And while it sounds silly and petty to say, at least I can admit it to myself and to the world.
I needed the sweet taste of validation on my overly glossy lips. every day.
I craved it with the same hunger an alcoholic craves a scotch on the rocks.
A cutter craves a blade.
A druggie needs their fix.
I needed my fix.
But now- I am trying to fix myself.
I get a fix from the look on my professors face when I ask a question that catches her off gaurd.
I get a fix from seeing my siblings respond to the words I have written and feeling close to them accross all of these thousands of miles for the first time in months.
I get a fix from knowing that the most amazing man I have ever loved loves. me. back.
Enough to build me an adirondack chair for our front porch with a matching table for my wine.
Enough to tolerate me putting empty peanut butter containers back in the refrigerator.
Enough to hold me when my world continually shatters and instill within this shaken girl the strength, confidence, and endurance to face it with my head held high.
I get a fix from the life I am creating away from the ones who tried to drag me down.
I get a fix from knowing, I may not be that girl anymore-
Because I have grown into a woman.
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It’s a strange thing, to watch a boy become a man.
To see the same mop of blonde hair that once tumbled effortlessly into blue eyes identical to mine take shape. To watch my tiny brother grow until I have to strain my neck to look up at him. To see his hands placed firmly upon the wheel of a sports car as if he had been driving for an eternity. As if just yesterday he hadn’t been shooting Hot Wheels accross the kitchen floor, grinning ear to ear with ketchup still staining his upper lip.
The grin, though- the grin is the same. No amount of years could age or damper the beautiful lopsided smile that belongs to my baby brother. That goofy, God-given grin. Sometimes I will catch a glimpse of it now, out of the corner of my eye. While I drive my messy car and fiddle with the radio. While he struggles to fit his long legs in the passenger seat. I look over and with a trick of the light I am sitting next to a seven year old again. Watching that same easy, contagious smile creep accross his face. Trapped somewhere between boyhood and the land of adults that we all yearn for until we enter it and then desperatly try to retrace our steps.
Find our way back.
Reclaim what we were.
I do not worry about you losing that magic, blonde haired brother of mine.
It has always lived so deep down in you- no circumstance or heartache or minor loss of faith could ever steal that sparkle of innocence away from your laugh. Life cannot steal your goodness, you have always been the purest soul I’ve ever known. Please don’t forget that.
Don’t forget the forts we made or the worlds we created together. Don’t forget the songs and the midnight snacks. Don’t forget the nights the three of us would cling to eachother because being in eachothers arms meant we were home. Even if we didn’t know what home meant.
Don’t forget our accents, our TV shows. Don’t forget our fights- because those imperfections are what make us family, after all.
What I want for you, my big little brother, is to see the world. Break some hearts. Soar like the seagull you got tattooed on your back. Grow but hold onto that little one inside of you. Be reckless, but not with your own heart. Learn and teach and sing rock n roll as loud as you possibly can.
you have a better voice than me. Please don’t lose it.
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I miss our morning walks. Your round belly growing each and every day that we quickly scampered down hot black pavement. Talking about the miracle in your perfect porcelain stomach. Planning his first word. His eye color. The future beauty queen who would break his heart.
I miss our two AM’s together. Waking up and watching you be a mother. Holding him with the same fingers you held your Bitty Babies with a million years ago. Tenderly rubbing his back, whispering in his ear, reducing his cries to whimpers. Motherhood flows out of you effortlessly and endlessly. You are a waterfall of a woman, my little sister.
I miss smoothies, even in the winter. Sucking them down until we had brain freezes and craved overpriced coffee. Promising eachother to workout later and going to Target instead. Buying clothes we knew would end up in the others’ closet one of these days.
I miss your taunts. Yes, it’s hard to believe. But I do. Your sarcastic punch lines and sideways humor. The way you somehow made me laugh even when I wanted to hit you on your perfect Marilyn Monroe beauty mark.
I miss secrets. And sorrows. And sins we only shared with eachother.
I miss sisterhood. That sacred, sweet safety of having you within my grasp. A five minute drive away. My best friend right around the corner. Waiting with a baby in her hands and an insult on her lips and a hug in her heart.
I’m not quite sure those Arizona skies deserve your Midwestern Beauty.
But I’ll be saving that hug until I see you again. <3
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: adult, adventure, boyfriend, dream, journal, life, nightmares, realizations
Restless nightmares beneath sweat stained sheets.
Grey IKEA starch fabric pasted to your cheek as your fingers flail frantically
Looking for a familiar face to cling to
Desperatly grasping for some affirmation of reality
A three AM reassurance that the black licorice flavored darkness in your nightmare was a sick twist of the moon
That those demons don’t belong in your waking world.
Everything looks so pretty in the morning
WHen the squirrels perform their acrobatic dance outside your paneled white window
Scampering accross their trapeeze
Defying gravity upon a telephone line
Starring in their own unspoken spectacle
Morning, when the hazy, golden sun streams in on his face and I watch the subtle flutter of his long blonde eyelashes
Thanking the universe he’s mine
Morning, when that curly haired pup breaths his adorable sickening breath on my neck and finds solace in the small space between the two of us
These are the mornings that give me the strength to face my nightmares
Because when the alarm clock sounds
And a new day breaks