Moving Out and Moving On

Do you
maybe only ever really
know a place
when you leave it?

A place,
sometimes a person,
or just a state of mind.
You never understand it when you have it,
see it clearly only in looking back.

Do you
maybe only ever really
know a room
when it's empty?

A room
is never truly bare,
it's haunted: by potential or memory.
What was and what could be
all contained in a single space.

Do you
maybe only ever really
know yourself
when you walk away?

Your self,
the one thing you can't escape
that you take everywhere.
If "home is where the heart is,"
you'll never leave it behind

(no matter how you try)

But I'm tired of these places I've seen,
these rooms I paced many a night.
I'm tired of people I've been within these walls.
I'm ready to try something new.
I'm itching to put up a fight.
Why did I ever let life make me small?

Here's the heart of the matter
(the weight of the world)
that I carry wherever I go:

Where the curve of the path meets the crest of the hill
and the sky arcs wide overhead
That's the only home I long for
That's the only truth I know

(On moving out of my apartment after 29 months. On to the next adventure!)

Dark Blue Nail Polish

Back in 1991 I was in Kindergarten, and my favorite days were the ones where my teacher Mrs. Moore would pull out a stack of magazines and the kid-friendly scissors and ask us to make collages matching the day's current theme. Most of these magazines were of the Better Homes and Gardens or People variety. We would thumb through their glossy pages and find pictures of interesting people, places, and animals to glue in crazy arrangements on our construction paper masterpiece.

The thing about magazines is that, of course, they're full of ads, and because of the kind of magazines we were looking at we were most often exposed to makeup ads. All these pouting models with luscious lips, thick dark eyelashes, and shiny perfect hair. And since this was 25 years ago, all the lipstick, hair dye, nail polish, etc. worn by these models tended to be in neutral or "natural" shades of pink, beige, brown. The most outlandish you might get were the fiery reds, hot pinks, or plums and purples. But there were none of the crazy neon rainbow hues you might see these days.

That was the climate I was brought up in. My father thought that girls shouldn't wear makeup until they were older, and that when they finally did it should be those same neutral shades - the ones that accentuate natural beauty but don't call attention to themselves.

Fast forward eight years. I'm 13 years old and in the 9th grade - my first year back in a traditional classroom setting. (After Kindergarten, my mom decided to home school us... which was very cool, but something to discuss in another post.) Anyway, I'm finally in high school, and here I am on a shopping trip with two of my friends from class. I end up buying some new jeans, a button down shirt that looks like something Julia Stiles wore in her most recent movie, and some nail polish.

But wait, guys. Not just nail polish. Dark blue nail polish.

Like this:

Or this:

I love this nail polish.

Love, love, love.

I saw it on the shelf and it was calling my name.

Hidden in its shimmery depths is a reflection of my very soul..... or something. (I was very emo in 9th grade. So sue me.) In fact, I can't even wait to get home. I pop open the bottle in the car and give myself a very shaky and precarious manicure on the way back to my friend Rebekah's house.

When it dries, I can't stop staring at my fingertips. I feel so grown-up. So brave and bold. In a way, I kind of feel invincible.

Looking back now, this seems silly. It doesn't seem like a big deal in an age where people regularly give themselves bubble gum pink highlights or rainbow-striped mohawks. But to me, back then, it was huge.

Buying that blue nail polish was a formative experience for me. It's maybe the first time I can remember making a decision for myself, without fear of what others might say. I knew certain authorities in my life (my parents, my school dress code) might disapprove. But I didn't care. And for Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Never-Put-A-Toe-Out-Line-In-Her-Life, this was paradigm-shifting. I made my own choice, took my own path, moved forward with no regrets.

Which is why to this day if you ever see me wearing nail polish that color, it's usually because I'm trying to remind myself of that moment and how I felt: brave, bold, invincible. Some days those feelings are hard to come by.

It's kind of nice to remember a time when I could buy them in a bottle. Who knew such things were for sale? And for only $2.99?

Here's Rey!

Guys, can we talk about this birthday card? Because I was in Target today to get a card for my coworker’s wedding shower and I saw it in the little kids birthday card section and picked it up, then realized that was a total mistake because there was no way I was leaving the aisle or the store without it. Even though I’m a “grown adult” (I’m 30, ugh) and all my friends with kids have boys and I have no idea who I’m going to give it to.

It’s just… I would have KILLED to get a card like this when I was 9, 10, 11 years old. The ones I got instead were all pink and purple and said something like, “You’re a pretty pretty princess, birthday girl!” or “Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of!” with pictures of ballerinas or makeup or cupcakes on them. Now, ballerinas and makeup and cupcakes are all awesome in their way, don’t get me wrong. But all those cards were telling me I was cool because I was cute or pretty or sweet. Now look at this card and compare.

You’re a FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH, birthday girl.

You’re cool. Why? Because you’re COURAGEOUS, SMART, and STRONG.

Ahem.

Excuse me. I have to pause for a moment and grab a sponge to mop my heart up from where it’s just melted all over my computer keyboard.

This is why I freak out about this movie, guys, and especially about Rey. Because it’s taken 20 years for me to see a birthday card like this in the girl’s section of the card aisle. (And I know, it’s pretty dumb that there are gendered sections in the card aisle anyway, but that’s for another post.) I’m just so grateful for Rey and for the change she and other characters like her are bringing to these outdated marketing systems.

Where’s Rey? Right here. And I’m so, so glad.

Rot

There’s a bit of rot been clinging to my soul

And I should really take up that rag and wipe it clean

I should surely start now before the stain sets in

(I’m not sure anymore if living’s the price or the goal)

I should really take up that rag and scrub it good

I should start right now before the pain sets in

(I’m not sure anymore what to try or how to begin)

Decay is as much a part of me as blood

I should do it right now before it starts to grow

(I’m not sure anymore who to trust and what to believe)

Decay is as much a part of me as grief

And a mildewed spirit is the only thing I know

I’m not sure anymore if living’s the price or the goal

Decay is as much a part of me as fear

But I’ve a mildewed spirit and a rag to wipe it clear.

And I’m here. That’s something. Alive, if not quite whole.

Keep Writing

There's this thing that's been happening for nearly a year now. It started shortly after my Kickstarter campaign in September. It's been building since then. Well, maybe "building" is the wrong word for it. It's like silence. A silent room can't technically get more silent than it was before, but it can certainly feel that way, like the quiet is thickening, like it's becoming more tangible somehow. Which, come to think of it is an apt metaphor...

I stopped writing.

Well, that's not fair. I'll pick at things here or there. I say I'm working on this short story, or that bigger project, or whatever. I'm researching. Story-mapping. Figuring things out.

Bullshit.

It's what I tell the people at my writing group, or any friends who bother to ask how my art is going. (Yes, I have the kind of really cool friends who ask stuff like that. I'm blessed.) But the truth is somehow, somewhere along the way I stopped believing I can do this. I stopped believing that any of it mattered, or that anything I do or say could mean anything. Ray Bradbury once said, "You fail only if you stop writing."

Well, Ray. I've failed.

Even this blog. I didn't want to get on here and admit any of this. It feels very much like an exercise is pointlessness. Pointlessness seems to be the theme of everything I say or do or think or am these days. And when you say stuff like that, even if it's true - well, you're just a whiner. Nobody wants to listen to that pathetic wallowing existential angst shit. Get it together, woman! You're an adult. Grab the reins to your own damn life.

I don't want to climb Everest. I'm not searching for Atlantis. I'll never leave footprints in the red sands of Mars.

But I'm tired of being so afraid, and I just want to tell you a story.

(I'm going to get it wrong. I'm going to mess it up so bad. I'm a sad, stunted, small person. This story is so much bigger and more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. How can I expect anything beautiful or worthwhile to come out of the likes of me?)

So if I do this it isn't for my writing group or my friends or family or for an agent or publisher or some imaginary adoring public. If I do this, if I try this, if I'm serious about this, then it's just for me. I don't have to show it to anybody, or talk to anybody about it.

I just have to tell the best, most true, most beautiful story I can. I have to move forward despite my imperfections. I can't let the silence win.

I have to keep writing.

Mountaintop

You will find my bones on the mountaintop
Or buried in the depths of the sea
Maybe trapped like treasure in the tomb of a king
- no ordinary resting place for me!

They will scatter my ashes in the vacuum of space
Or toss them to the heart of a storm
I'll be lost to the shifting desert sands
- dead and gone, beyond hope or harm.

[Too long, too long
  I've played it safe
  Bound here like one enchanted
  But the quiet life
  Is not for me
  I'm a soul that withers when planted...]

My bones you can claim, this body, this dust
Once my time in this world is past
But my heart belongs forever with that mountaintop
- so that's where I'm headed at last.

On Pain

I burned my mouth very badly this week. Worse than anything I’ve done to it before. This wasn’t a “hot slice of pizza scalds the roof of your mouth” thing. This was closer to a chemical burn, and has meant that for the past several days I haven’t been able to eat solid food because anything firmer than mushy ramen noodles makes my gums and the roof of my mouth bleed.

Gross, I know. It’s getting better, but these last couple days it’s kind of consumed all of my attention. I’ve allowed the pain I carried everywhere with me to become my whole world. When not at work, I stayed in binge-watching TV shows and dolefully avoiding my pantry door.

Coming out of my internet-free bubble and getting back to society, I’ve been hearing a lot of bad news. I’ve heard from people I know and some I don’t about the difficult life situations they’re facing: battling depression, saying goodbye to a dying friend, facing the recurrence of a serious disease they thought they were rid of, losing their dream job with no backup plan and no savings. I’ve been reading the coverage about Charleston, and realizing that there are families not too far away from where I sit tonight that are carrying their own pain around with them everywhere now, a pain far worse than any I’ve ever had to bear.

Over the last several months there have been so many discussions and so many viewpoints scrolling across my social media feeds: race in America, discrimination, distrust of police, support for police, gun control, transgender rights, gay marriage, and other complex issues boiled down to internet memes and 140-character barbs. I wish in each of those cases that instead of passing along snarky blog posts and articles brimming with yellow journalism we could instead just see the people. That’s what all those issues are about, after all: people. People different than us, perhaps, but the same in all the ways that count. People who have also faced their share of pain.

It is very easy to do what I did this past week, and allow pain to consume you. To think only of your problems, your feelings and your needs, and to forget that you are one in a world of many. But it is a better and far braver person who is able to embrace pain as a lens through which to view others. People like the family members of the Charleston shooting victims, who came face to face with the killer in court today and chose to extend forgiveness instead of more hatred.

I don’t have the “right” answer in any of the debates of our current age. You may notice I don't often weigh in when people bring up difficult subjects. Most of the time I don’t know what to say. But I want to take this as an opportunity to try to be better, to try to remember other people. Because even though there is no cure-all for the problem of pain, I think probably the closest thing we'll ever have to an answer is just to love one another.

Something that simple, and that hard.