Valentine's Day

February 14, 2020

I have never regretted the love I gave away to anyone...not to the ones who loved me back, not to the ones who didn't, not to the ones who suddenly stopped, and not to the ones who faded away slowly, imperceptibly.  I have not regretted giving away love romantically, passionately, familially, or platonically. Put love out into the world, my friends. Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. ❤️❤️❤️

Once

February 9, 2020
It's strange
and sometimes somewhat
unsettling
to think that there used to be
places, events, moments, things
that used to be ours
and now they're
yours
or mine
or even yours and mine
separately.
It's even more strange and
unsettling sometimes
to remember
to realize
that we are okay with this.
You are,
and I am,
separately, on our own.

Found Poetry, Book Title Edition #3

February 9, 2020

Here today,
Dreamland, under the
never sky...the spectacular now.
No time for goodbye.

In twenty years,
what was mine, gone.
Too far.
Waiting for normal.

Found Poetry, Book Title Edition

February 3, 2020

In twenty years,
where or when you reach me
...an invisible thread, written
   on the body--
the distance between
lost and
found.

Reflection

January 31, 2020

This body, too big, too soft to warrant notice,

has been molded, shaped, designed

by lovingly guarding and caring for
the parts of you you could not face

the parts of you you could not hold

and still see the you you wanted to see in the mirror.

I tucked them away, holding them for you while growing heavy
with the weight I took from you.

You hid them where you knew they would be safe
from disdain or scorn--

loved, and understood.  Comforted and caressed.

And I grew with the weight of it all,
satisfied that the softness and the size of me

was your oasis

Until

One day, you looked at the shape of me

and could only see your reflection, and all that you wished 

to turn away from.

Found Poetry, Book Title Edition

January 24, 2020

One moment...incendiary.
Catalyst.
Everything, everything-
things not seen, big little lies.
After the game,
emotionally weird.
Vanishing acts...

Diving Right In

January 2, 2020

I bought a plecostomus for my fish tank today--you know, the algae eaters that help keep the tank clean.  My little betta fish (Swim Shady) might enjoy the company after a few months of solitude, I'm thinking.  One of the things I remember from having a fish tank growing up is that you need to float a new fish in the tank in its own baggie of water for a time so the fish can acclimate to the temperature of the environment before releasing him into the 'wild'.  So I tried that--floating the fish.   Turns out, every time I tried to situate the baggie, the little sucker (see what I did there?) shimmied his way up to the part of the baggie without water and sort of beached himself there.  Now, I don't know off the top of my head how long you're supposed to acclimate a fish, but I'm thinking it's longer than the amount of time a fish can survive without water.  And that little guy was stubbornly refusing to stay wet!  So I decided this fish is a 'jump in with both fins' sort of a fish.

Sometimes in life you need a slow tip-toe into the pool, and sometimes it makes more sense to dive right in.  The trick is knowing which is which.  So we ever really know?  I suppose we'll find out tomorrow if my new friend's daredevilry paid off.

Rise and Shine

January 1, 2020

Last year a friend talked about the idea of choosing a meaningful word that would serve as a mantra and an ideal to which one could aspire all year long.  I love that idea.  Last year I chose the word RISE to guide me.  Many of you know that last year didn't start off well.  I was in utter turmoil, trying to figure out all of the hows, whys, and what-ifs of a relationship in crisis.  My self-esteem, not exactly my strong suit to begin with, took a complete nose-dive while I grappled with that 'not enough' feeling that many of us struggle with.  Crisis in a relationship only highlights and amplifies those voices in our heads that so many of us try to stifle on a daily basis.

So, there I was, trying to figure out what my future was going to look like and how to let go of the promise of a life-long path we had envisioned together.  I spent a lot of time crying, and a lot more time feeling like if I acknowledged what was clearly going to end, I would be giving up.  Failing.  I was holding my breath on the far-off, remote possibility that the path would right itself, when in reality I knew it would not.  The future I had envisioned, the growing old together in laughter, love, and comfort of a soul I thought I knew so well, had dissipated.  It was a future I had trusted in, and that trust was gone.  I was clinging to a hazy myth, a story that had ended.

When I saw that one-word challenge, then, I decided I would choose a word I WANTED to be my mindset, even if I didn't feel it right then.  I wanted to rise above my current state; I wanted to rise above the very loud and insistent voices in my head that threatened--and often did in those early 2019 months--to drag me under and leave me gasping for breath.  I wanted to rise to a place where I could learn to see a different but still beautiful and positive road ahead of me.  I wanted to rise up to the challenge of putting one step in front of the other, one day at a time, knowing that if I could concentrate on moving forward, I'd be okay.  I wanted to be the Phoenix and RISE, brilliant and beautiful, regenerating a new life out of the ashes of the old.  And though it was a long process, and I didn't always feel like I was living up to my mantra, rise I did, closing out the year in a much stronger and healthier place.

I don't know if that word helped me, or just accompanied me on the road to reclaiming me, but I do know that sometimes when I was hiding in the dark spaces in my mind, I would hear a voice whisper "rise", quiet, but firm.  It's like I planted a little seed and it grew even when I forgot it was there.  Like a talisman, I'll take it on faith that it protected me and warmed me when I needed it.  So this year, I believe I'll take on another mantra to guide me into these next twelve months.  Last year I needed to rise, simply to regain my equilibrium--to not sink.  This year, however, I have decided my word is SHINE.  As I have risen to meet my new life already, the focus this year will be on making that new life one of joy and happiness.  Not just seeing a new road ahead, but embracing it fully, eager to see and experience all that lies ahead on the adventure.  Last year was about surviving; this year is about making that survival shine.

The Shape of Me

November 19, 2019

I was reminded the other day--not for the first time--that I don't look like I did 15 years ago, as if this were an indictment, something about which to be embarrassed.  Trust me, I know I don't look the same.  I own a mirror, and I can see that I'm 52, and not 37.  Now, 52 looks different on a lot of people, but like many of us, my body shape has changed over the years.  My weight has changed too.  It's not easy for someone who has always struggled with body image (like 98% of the women I know) to maintain a healthy relationship with myself.  Having someone remind me that it's a pretty good reason to negate the other fabulous things I bring to the table can sometimes put me right back into the tailspin of teen angst and insecurity.  Not everyone deals with weight gain as we age, but a great many of us do, and it's just not easy.

Now I certainly don't mean that I have let myself go; I still love to get up and make myself feel presentable for myself every single day.  I like to wear clothes that are flattering, buy cute and charming booties and heels in every imaginable style, and I like to wear a little make-up to bring out the sparkle in my eye and a touch of color in my lips.  I try to work out and watch what I eat.  But yes, as I was reminded, I do not look like I did 15 years ago.  Few do.  So I started thinking about the ways I look different today--a little personal assessment, if you will.

With the passing of the last 15 years, here are just a few of the ways I look different:

--I look like a woman who beams with pride at having raised three pretty incredible humans into adulthood.

--I look like a woman whose world view has expanded through travel to other countries and interactions with other cultures.

--I look like a woman who carries herself with the professional confidence borne of experience and longevity in a work environment in which she thrives.

--I look like a woman who bears worry lines on her forehead and in her heart for all the young lives she cares about in her classroom each year.

--I look like a woman who fought to keep her family afloat during times of financial difficulty when resources were scarce.

--I look like a woman who has smile lines on her face, marking the laughter she has shared with loved ones--friends, students, and family--both the natural-born family and the ones she's chosen as family.

--I look like a woman who has a twinkle in her eye--sometimes mischievous and playful and some times plain joyful--as she looks with love at those who have joined her on her journey of life.

--I look like a woman whose scars tell the story of her triumph over breast cancer.

--I look like a woman who stands tall, having achieved her goal of attaining her Master's degree later in life.

--I look like a woman whose plumper body is evidence of lots of shared meals with loved ones, talking and laughing and dancing together well into late night hours.

--I look like a woman whose heart has grown far more in size than her body ever could by living in love and optimism.

 Yes, I have changed in the past 15 years.  But if you choose to see me through the lens of one who can see only the outline of my shape and determine that's the most important definition of who I am and how I've changed, then my goodness, perhaps it's your lenses that need a little cleaning.  Have I changed? I have.  In ways both grand and microscopic.  My heart, however, and my spirit--those remain the same.  That includes the ability and desire to see the good in others, and the optimism that the best is always around the corner.  I'd rather be loved and supported by those who are able to see through lenses that illuminate that shape ahead of any other.  That is the true shape of me, and I'm damn proud of it.

Just Like Riding a Bike

October 3, 2019

There’s an old adage that talks about riding a bike as something that becomes second nature once you learn how—a muscle memory that you never really forget, even if you haven’t done it for awhile.  Here’s the thing, though.  They never really talk about what happens if you actually want to forget how to ride that bike.  Let’s say you’re riding along on your favorite bike.  It’s blue with little flecks of glitter in the paint, because, you know, that’s your favorite color and you love sparkly things.  It’s probably got those little ribbons attached to the handlebars that flutter satisfyingly in the wind.  It might have a few scuffs or dings, but you love that bike all the same, because each of those unique marks represents an adventure you enjoyed.  You couldn’t have wished for a better day to go out riding, so you’re out with a song in your heart and a wide expanse of beautiful road in front of you as far as the eye can see.  You’ve never been on this road before, but it’s promising, inviting.  Almost magical.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, BAM!  You not only crash spectacularly, but your crash is caused by being forcefully shoved off that bike with no warning sign. You fly through the air, landing with the kind of painful thud that reverberates in your ears and knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping for air.  You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to breathe normally again.  You can’t even remember what it’s like to breathe normally, to not have to remind yourself to take in air and let it go again, despite the pain. You lie in the dirt, limbs akimbo, dirt and gravel embedded in the tender layers of skin that tried valiantly to cushion the fall.  On the other side of the road, the bike.  It’s crumpled, irreparable.  It will never look the same again.  It will never be the same, you think.

Why on earth would you want to ride again?  A battered and bruised figure might well think walking to be a safer bet.  A longer path, perhaps, and maybe not quite as exhilarating, but one in which it is less likely for you to get knocked back down into the dirt, leaving you struggling to regain your composure, your confidence, your self.  And so you set off down another path, gingerly placing each foot one after the other on the new path.  It’s slow going, of course; every path now seems fraught with the possibility of an unexpected pitfall.  You want to be prepared.  You want to brace yourself.  You want to ward off the possibility of being taken unaware again.

It’s not possible, though, you know.  And as you make your way down this path, the one you had no intention of traveling, and certainly not on foot, you begin to hear a little voice from within.  “It’s not possible.  You can’t avoid the possibility of pain.  You just can’t.  And in trying to avoid it, by being afraid, you also cheat yourself out of something that brought you such joy.”  You realize that little voice inside you is right; you don’t want to give up the possibility of finding that joy again.  And so you go back.  You walk back slowly, almost timidly, to the place where your bike sits, bedraggled and damaged.  On closer inspection, however, you realize it’s not beyond repair.  With a little care, with a little time, you reshape the frame and dust off the dirt.  You polish it again until you see the glint of the glitter start to shine through.  Carefully, you slide one leg over, just to test the weight, the balance.  An easy spin of the pedals propels you slowly forward and you turn onto a side road you hadn’t noticed before.  It’s not well traveled, but there are flowers edging the path and charming trees dotting the landscape.  It’s worth exploring what’s ahead.  As you pick up speed, you feel the wind caress your cheeks and tousle your hair gently.  You feel the kiss of the sun on your forehead and you find yourself daring to breathe again. To look forward again.  To find promise in the path of the unexpected, unplanned.  You are going to take it slow for awhile, and you might stop and get off every now and again to regain your footing for a bit.  But ride again you will. And you realize that perhaps they were right all along.  Maybe you really never forget to learn how to ride a bike.  Perhaps you don’t ever want to forget.