Four of the Five Poems From Class

Poem 1:
He came to mind

I was laying in bed.
for a late afternoon nap
My eyes moistened and my throat tightened up
just as quickly as the thought
entered my wandering mind.

We did not expect you to still be alive
this Thanksgiving
or this Christmas

And some days, I can forget it all together.

But today
before I can give in to my late afternoon slumber,
I am forced to rid you from my mind
by way of the tears
running
running
running
over my left cheek,
onto the pillow

and when I awake
they will be dried up
like the thought of you possibly
remembering me.

Poem 2:
Time’s Up: Go

“Think it over, think it through, then you’ve got to let it go.
Think it over. Okay, time’s up, go. Youv’e got to let it go.”
-Castledoor

I hate packing. 
I hate leaving.
I hate getting used to something 
and then
leaving.

Doing something I’ve been doing regularly
for the last time:
one last shower,
last walk through the gate,
last afternoon coffee and cards,
last lunch at this table,
last turn off of the light.

To not say goodbye forever
I keep a receipt,
a photo, a ticket,
a napkin,
a piece of a pizza box
to

remember.

But no receipt or photo
or ticket or napkin or pizza box
can bring back a moment.
in full.

Poem 3:
I Used to Expect the Worst When My Mother Called

A good moment to hear the news:
Picnic by a lake with friends,
a cool breeze, shade.
Someone to hold me when I,
if I broke down.

A phonecall was unexpected.
I had forgotten
the way my insides trembled
when I answered
expecting the end:

Rachel, it is over.
Four years of fighting
and his body has given up,
he has passed.

Only Mum didn’t say that,
in fact, she made no mention of Dad,
but of a childhood friend
coming out of drug addiction.

Poem 5:
The Problem

She imagines:
him,
your death,
a car accident to beautiful music,
falling in love.

Would he still be cute with different hair?
I’m ready.
Not during this song.
Your southern accent doesn’t make you
a southern gentleman.

But that’s the problem.
Her imagination
and the “What if?” of it all.
Because no one can live up to
her dreams and expecations.

Today is Wednesday

I bought Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt today. I wandered around Barnes & Noble for a little while before I made my way to the biography section to find the memoir. It made me want to take only three classes next semester and read other books of my choice for the fourth “class”. Why not?

I went to Starbucks after Barnes & Noble. My grande cappuccino was almost free, but David didn’t tell the guy at the register in time. The cappuccino brought me back to other places — to the Gloria Jean’s in Edgecliff, to a cafe in Belfast. I started Angela’s Ashes with no idea what it was about and was happy to realize it was about an Irish childhood. Knowing what little I know about Irish history will make this book much more interesting and understandable.

While I was reading, the cappuccino hadn’t kicked in and I had trouble keeping my eyes open. I almost gave in and put my head down. Instead, I took out some paper and began writing to wake myself up. I used to be honest when I wrote, or just ambiguous enough so some people knew what I was talking about or others wondered if I was talking about them. I rarely meant for it to be that way, it just sort of happened. Lately, I miss the honesty that writing can handle. And I miss letting myself get carried away with words at a coffee shop. Don’t worry, it’s not about you:

Today feels big. It’s a big, important day. And it’s not about me. It’s about a man following God’s…

But that was Sunday. Today is Wednesday. Today feels smaller than Sunday, but bigger than Monday. Today I cried from the horrible pain of the cramps assocated with menstruation. It was worse than ever (I’ve rarely had problems with this sort of thing and I’d like to think I have a high pain tolerance), so I skipped class and went home after FedEx. I changed out of my skirt and got into bed. But before I could do that, I went to the barthroom. The pain was ever present despite taking medicine. I sat on the toilet, and soon enough, my head was on my knee and tears were falling down my leg. It felt terribly low, crying on a toilet.

But then I got into bed. A sad song was playing from my stereo, Sun Kil Moon’s cover of “Ocean Breathes Salty”: “You wasted life, why wouldn’t you waste death?” And my eyes, the ones I dried with my towel in the bathroom, began to water again, spreading their emotions to my pillow and sheet. And I kept crying. Why? For the pain, for my dying father, for the lack of a male friend/relative present in my life who looks out for me or offers to beat someone up just to make me feel better, for another failed attempt, another “It’s not you, it’s me.” For the sake of letting my emotions out, I cried. (I could have stopped after the pain, but once you start, sometimes you just want to get the crying over everything else out of the way too).

Soon, after a few songs, I felt exhausted from all of the hushed crying. So I slept. For at least eight minutes I was out. then my sister called and a text from Casey came in while her phonecall was still ringing. I didn’t answer the phone or respond to the text. I wanted to go back to sleep. But the suspiciously nauseas (I never really get nauseas and I don’t know what it’s like, I wasn’t sure what my body was doing) feeling was gone. I was hungry and I needed vitamins. before I took care of that I called my sister back, morning voice at 2:15pm. Then I responded to Casey, lazily still lying down — though managing to send a longer than necessary text as usual.

I got out of bed. It was inevitable. A life half asleep in bed is not the life I want to live. It’s not the life I want to write about or remember in ten years.
I wiped my face with my hands. I looked into the miror, wiping my eyes, hoping to erase the last hour of life from my physical appearance.
It’s hard to erase those emotions (as unnecessary and random as they may have come on) so quickly. Your eyes won’t have it. They need time to readjust. Your brain too.

Motivation and Moving

I was thinking about motivation today. Casey was talking to me recently about motivation and how he finds it interesting to know what motivates people. How different everyone’s motivation is.

At the beginning of the service on Sunday we were told to ask “What moves you?” to someone we didn’t know. I had no answer. I awkwardly stood there after the other girl answered. I know what makes me cry. But what moves me?

Motivation and moving.
I’m thinking about both today.
Maybe, I could have said, “I am moved by seeing people who were once so insecure and fearful learn to love themselves. And to then see that person able to freely love others, and so importantly, accept other’s love in different ways.” I guess I could have said, “I am moved by love.” But maybe, that’s just in this moment or that’s just a good answer. But if I think about it, like I have done since Sunday, then I admit that it is a true answer.
Why are we afraid to say what we think or feel just because it may be a cliche and common answer?

Motivation? I’m still thinking about that.

“The motive is love. Love of God and of my fellow man.”
-Don Miller

I used to write a lot.
I used to love more.
I used to reflect on life and love and relationships more.

I read over a few things I had written in the past two years and I wondered where that girl went. Where’s the girl who wrote about the Creator of Love and the idea of loving herself first and therefore loving others better? Where’s the girl who chose to speak with intentionality? Where’s the girl who made friends with fellow coffee shop regulars? Where’s the girl who could have one conversation with someone and make it meaningful? Where’s the girl who fell in love with herself? The girl who found the differences in us all beautiful?

I miss that girl. Perhaps most of that girl was in my head, maybe on paper, but rarely lived out. Perhaps she was trying to get out, learning how to live. Perhaps I gave up too soon.

I want to find the traces of that girl that remain somewhere buried beneath my cynicism and laziness. Beneath the condescending tone there is beauty (in us all).

I know I’m far off. But aren’t we all at some point?
I guess that’s my motivation.

ThursdayFullday

Today I felt sleepy. As though at any moment, a blink could turn into a nap.

At work I felt productive: 30 boxes labeled, packed, and ready to go out. That’s a lot of lifting when you don’t feel awake yet.

After work, the afternoon was comprised of moments of “I can’t do this” or “I’m not up for this.” I should have chosen a better writing exercise for my part of the Boys Town writing workshop. And I should have prepared better for the Spanish in class composition.

Sometimes encouragement comes from unexpected people at unexpected times.

Social situations, from the latter part of last night through to early evening, have been comprised of mostly nodding and laughing. My mind has been in many places, past and future but lacking in the present. And the pitty conversation is something I don’t have time to entertain in order to make you feel good.

“Live in the depth of the moment.”

Every once in awhile, I need a good cry. Generally, I can think about this past year- about the family drama or about my father in general, I can think about childhood friends. One of those can set me off and usually in the end, I find myself still crying because I think about Dad. Which is silly, in a way, because you’d think I would have drained that part of my emotions at least a year or two ago. It’s nothing new, it’s nothing I want or need sympathy for. It just is. And I’ve become okay with that. But sometimes people need to cry.

Life! It’s exhausting. And exciting.

I have finished my tea, which for tonight means I’m going to sleep.

Because You’re with me, I will not fear.

Recurring Feeling

And I remember this feeling.

2006.
2007.
2008.
2009…

It returns less and less. Soon it will be only a feeling I remember feeling.

Or will it ever?

The feeling of being so little and yet so huge, disgusting and yet no different than this morning.

How did we get so screwed up in the perception of ourselves?

For a lonely soul you’re having such a nice time-

But then. . .

I kept thinking September 19th was a significant date

I’m doing what I should have done when I woke up 3 hours ago. I didn’t wake up and make a delicious fresh half pot of coffee and I didn’t enjoy some Fiber One Caramel squares with soy milk and a small cup OJ in there somewhere.

I woke up and faught with the modem and router, I called Brighthouse. I ate junk for breakfast and a horrible cup of coffee I couldn’t finish. I watched Grey’s Anatomy… for 10 seconds, then it’d load, then ten more seconds… But then I got annoyed with internet again and caught up on blogs, which were easier for the awful connection to download.

But that’s where I found the turn-around. I read and I felt refreshed. I swept the floors (not the most complete sweep, but something is better than nothing).

I read this on a delightful blog I hadn’t read in awhile:

In relation to two diseases this generation is afflicted by: “The sense that nothing that we actually posses tastes as good as the things we dream of.”

I brewed some coffee and decided to write. Just a little.
I slept for nine hours last night. I don’t remember ever waking up, or maybe I did around 7 to pee, which I didn’t bother getting up to do. Needless to say, I was bursting by 9. I went to sleep before midnight on a weekend, after a friend had driven here at 10:30 to watch a movie, which didn’t happen.

By 8:45am yesterday I was driving through familar streets of a town next to my hometown. There were new strip malls and chain gyms. Honda in Deland was still the same, of course.

I spent yesterday morning at the coffeeshop where it all began: Boston Gourmet in Deland. A couple cups of coffee, a lot of reading, a longer than necessary service learning entry, my favorite egg bagel.

I spent time with a childhood best friend. It’s a strange but wonderful feeling to get together with an old friend and look back at good times.

I love when old friends get to meet new friends, which is what happen when two of the most fantastic people I know decided to come to Deland. Back to Boston we went, a delicious lunch this time.

I’ve had a desire to go fishing. Every time I see someone walk along the sidewalk in front of my house with a fishing pole, I say I want to go. Yestearday, Morgan mentioned fishing and after lunch all four of us went to my parents’ house. Two fishing poles and a hot dog. Like old times of fishing off of my dock, we caught nothing. But that may be more to do with the hot dog we used for bait. The grass had been recently mowed and the breeze by the lake was lovely.

After Deland I went on to Lake Mary for dinner with another best friend, friend, and their mum (who made a freaking DELICIOUS dinner). Youtube videos, a cute dog, smelly Italian bacon, and a lot of laughter. Also, have you see The Jane Austen Book Club? You should, it’s fantastic.

And finally, I made my way back home to Orlando. Home to a welcoming porch, home to a soccer field across the street, home to the city skyline glowing.

I realized, the 100 or so miles of driving was very similar to my driving habbits of 2007. I drove to Deland, then to Lake Mary, and then back to Orlando. In 2007, when I still lived in Deland, I would drive to Lake Mary for school, then onto Orlando for work, then back to Lake Mary for Coffee Cafe until they closed or later, then back home to Deland to sleep. Two years on, it feels good to live in this city.

Also, just had a little girl look at a movie and tell me “Oh, it’s R. R movies are bad”. Oh Christian kids…

Time to really get off the couch.

Childhood: Now

I met her when I was two years old. My mother and sister were walking one way with me in a stroller while her mother and brother were walking the other way with her in a stroller.

Or so I’ve been told.

I don’t remember meeting her. I don’t remember the birthday parties of each other that we attended as young children. But we were friends. From that moment walking along Lakeside Drive on.

We were friends when her parents divorced. We were friends when my Dad yelled at her and her brother about saying hello to the head of the household when entering. We were friends when her mum got remarried.

As mean and selfish of a child as I was. As much of a brat as she could be.

We were friends.

As time and change would have it, she went to a different school and met different people. I stayed at my school and met different people who didn’t go to either of our schools.

But, we were still friends. Never as close as that road trip circa 2003 which we can relive moments of, particularly The Phantom Divingboard, on video.

But,

how did we end up here? How do a group of friends turn out so completely different by age 20 (-21)?

I stress out when I almost run out of money for school, rent, etc. I stress out when big shipments pile up at work or when my service learning isn’t worked out by the time it should be.

But,

I’m not overdosing on pain killers or almost dying in the hospital. I’m not sitting in my room all day playing video games and smoking pot. I’m not worried about finding a job. I’m not mournig the loss of a girlfriend who wrongly died in jail. I’m not stuck in the town I grew up in.

I’m not. But,

they are.

The Coke Bottle Of Change

Budgets. Canceling unnecessary memberships. Eating at home. Not going to coffee shops. Paying with quarters. Etc.

Besides the latter, it is all good.

However, tomorrow I’m probably going to breakdown and go find a Starbucks or Panera or somewhere with free internet where they won’t care that I don’t buy anything. I miss the atmosphere.

This is a very different lifestyle than a couple of months ago.
Soon, it will stay this way because I have to (and may want to).
Or, perhaps it will go back to normal (if possible) and I want to.

Four classes. A bit of work. Some service learning. A lot of reading and writing. Doing whatever I can to just pass Spanish 2. Making pasta, broc, carrots, etc for lunch for the week. Good dinners. Tuesday nights with friends. Making stuff happen with the wonderful volnteer staff. Eating plums. Listening to calypso. Driving with the windows down. No toll roads. Looking forward to paychecks. Neue Resources never ends. Dentists appointments. Cute house. Aching head. Wanting to write but not writing enough. Missing people who shouldn’t have moved up north. Sleepy. Never going to drink one cup instead of two cups in the morning. Low on the cash flow. Fruit and peanut butter wraps. “The Furious Longing of God”. Long hair. Coffee. Tense left shoulder. Nostalgia. Wishing more men wore cologne, but not too much and not all the time. Washing my hair less and less. Wilfred the cat. Bike rides. Puppy chow.

Some things change so much.
Other things only change a little.
But things always change.

From Whirlwind

I just watched the new Nooma (Whirlwind) which I grabbed from work yesterday as it’s in the new kit. I watched it twice because earlier this evening something begun or was restarted and now I am back to thinking about it… As I sweep and as I shower and as I read. Thinking of what to say and how to say it, of what is the next step or what I should respond with. Many things in life I don’t understand and you don’t understand. This particular area of life is something I only recently sometimes embrace for what it has added to my perspective, to my relatability with similar stories, to who it’s made me and is making me. But then there are days when I don’t get it. And there are days when I replay November’s happenings and it doesn’t make sense. And everyone’s response doesn’t make sense. And you leaving with him didn’t make sense. And the hate and threats and the brokenness doesn’t make sense.

On we go. I’ll stop putting off what you ended up getting to first and I’ll respond. I want to ask you questions. But what do you know? We’ve all wanted answers and gotten none. I wondered what emotions or words this would bring up for months. I still don’t know, but my time is up and now I must address it… To you.

I am unworthy—how can I reply to You?
I put my hand over my mouth.
I spoke once, but I have no answer—
twice, but I will say no more.
Job 40:4&5

“But true wisdom, the kind we find here with Job, the kind that endures, the kind that sustains a person through suffering, that kind of wisdom knows when to speak and when to be silent. Because your story is not over. The last word has not been spoken. And there may be way more going on here than any of us realize. So may you be released from always having to understand why everything happens the way that it does. May this freedom open you up to all sorts of new perspectives. And may you have the wisdom to know when to say ‘I spoke once, but now I will say no more.’”

Momentary

Twenty minutes after my first alarm went off, 11 minutes after my second, I got out of bed. I didn’t want to. If today was going to be like yesterday or the day before that or anything like those days towards the end of waking up in my family’s home, I didn’t want the day to go on. Plus, I was really tired.

But I wasn’t about to let today be like any of those. Because I once said “here’s to recognizing and redeeming those days and moments”. And so, listening to sad songs or watching a sad movie so that I can sulk in my own sadness was not an option this morning. Plus, I had to go to work.

Really, what do I have to be sad about? Okay, a few things, let’s not erase the fact that there is sadness in the world, there is sadness in our friends’ lives, strangers’ lives, and our own lives. Things break, people break, friendships break, hearts break and there is no doubt about how real the hurt and sadness of it all is.

But let’s also remember that a few days ago, while driving in the car, I almost wept tears of joy.

Tears…
of joy.

And so, I recognize the bad. And sometimes, sometimes I sulk and I listen to a sad song or five and I cry while driving to or from. Sometimes I remember what’s going on in the very home I grew up in and it makes me want to scream and weep and never hope again. But it’s so important to recognize the good and redeem the bad, the sad, the lost moments. And yet I have to write similar things to remind myself every few weeks or months.

Redeem.

Because, He came and knows the sadness and the brokeness and the good. He knows sometimes you think about it and it makes you cry so hard you shake and you bend so far forward to hold it all in that all of the tears fall up your forehead and you’re a momentary mess.

A momentary mess.

We can’t give up, it’s only momentary.