I don't know who you are, but I have witnessed how you manifest in people, and for your presence I am sincerely grateful.
Lately, my family has experienced a few crises, and because of you, we have been able to keep moving past them.
I hope I can pass this love on, and share the light that you fill me with when I blatantly ignore the brightness of the heartbeats of my loved ones, or when I struggle to rise from the grime of self pity and fear. Please know that I am filled with life and a sense of humor and am a brick potty house to boot. I am all these things because of the people who have taken your light and passed it on to me. We are keeping this thing called faith alive - this wildly powerful belief that a higher power exists and strings us together with an invisible line made visible with love and trust and positivity.
We are the toughest house of cards. We fall. We grow.
I never know when you will appear, and I'm most always unprepared, and the gratitude I express is never enough, but I am here whenever needed.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
a gift mumbled between black lips
Two goth kids said good morning to me today. After I said good morning to them, they
stared blankly at me for a moment and then begrudgingly mumbled a
response. I was this crazy bat on a
bike, dressed like a Christmas tree, with flashing lights and various layers of
bright clothing that adorned me like homemade ornaments. I embodied everything
they were fighting not to be. As I
passed, I slowed and threw all my positive energy toward them. They represented my younger self, a self that
ached for acknowledgement, a self that eventually grew without the
acknowledgement from others. It could
have been easier for me. But it
wasn’t. And because it was hard for me,
I am filled with a desire to make it easier for others whose reaching hands
have been slapped.
When I said hello this morning, I expected nothing. Instead I was given a gift mumbled between
black lips as their pierced faces scowled for a moment, before radiating tiny
sparks of light.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
I can stand staunchly
I have taken the leap, and have started doing hot yoga once
a week. Hot yoga is a series of poses
done in a room heated to 105 degrees. A
lot of emphasis is placed on breathing and balance. Although I have done hot yoga before, today
is my first day of making it a solid part of my life.
These are two different pieces about hot yoga from my journal:
***
These are two different pieces about hot yoga from my journal:
***
I get to the class early to acclimate to the heat. As everyone arrives I watch as they find
their special places. One gentleman touches
several nail clusters on the floor with his feet until he locates his
spot. Then he carefully lines up his mat
along the nails.
***
***
When I sweat I feel like I add layers to myself, to the home
that is me. My worldly possessions live
within my cells. I am a place, and the place
is alive, and it holds all of me. Sweating
adds strength to a home that I don’t always acknowledge. While I live on a quaint but unremarkable
street in a little city in Kansas, it is not my true home. It houses me, sure, but it does not contain
me. My body is my true house, the
structure that holds and orchestrates my pulse. Because my home is my body I am
not strewn about in different places, living outside myself in a pseudo
hearth. Also, if I allow my true home to
be a physical landmark I will be perpetually exposed, my strength pocked with
the foul weather of people’s unhappiness. Because my body is my home, I have
constant shelter, and each time I sweat I am building a stronger place to hold
me, so that whenever an intrusion occurs – a dirty look, obtrusive noises, the
wild winds of indifference, I can stand staunchly and sustain minimal damage.
This is why hot yoga has become a constant. I am guaranteed a little bit of sweat. Not to mention a stillness inspired by
motion.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
tamales from a can
Today I talked to a 90 year old retired opera singer. He had an accent that could have been the trees exchanging wind.
A man asked if we had a Ted Kooser book. I am reading Ted Kooser at the moment (Winter Morning Walks), and startled the poor gentleman with my sudden enthusiasm.
I found Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake on the shelf and put it on my Staff Picks.
I discovered a book of stamps in a Cheever book before checking it in and called the patron. He was thankful.
One tub of books smelled like cigarette smoke and tamales from a can and it made me think of dad, and I was briefly overwhelmed with missing him.
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