To the group of teen girls in my shop, on an August Monday; the day school starts for the year:
I love your banter. You've long-since finished those drinks I prepared for you. And for the last ninety minutes, you've sat laughing, and recounting your day.
You excitedly trip over each other as your stories about AP History, or Kevin from homeroom, or the cafeteria drama, escalate. You throw back your heads with laughter and find every reason to garner another smile from your circle.
You sound like a bunch of chickens. But don't stop.
I hope to God you are all as confidant in the hallways of your school. That you will walk with your shoulders thrown back after graduation. I know you might not see it now, but you are careless with your laughter among the circle of friends. Your conversation is too innocent, too loud, to hold mean secrets about others. It is freeing to see.
I hope you maintain this poise, I hope acne or embarrassing social faux pas, or the words people might say to you, don't change you in a negative way.
May your conversations always be so boisterous.
May you remember these moments as you age, may you continue creating them, too.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
A lovenote
You lie suspended between the worlds of "if" and "are". A polarity between perhaps and definite tangibility. And there you sweetly rest until all the shortcomings of this physical world, of my own mortal incapabilities and every reason you cannot be here now will part ways to allow your miraculous entrance into our lives.
I will never be ready for everything you will bring with you, and at this moment I have never been more ready for you. Perhaps as time elaspes it will bring with it enough grace to further fortify my strength for you. What I do know is that surely you are coming, for how else can it be that my heart misses you with such a deep love and breathlessness, though I have never held you in this lifetime? It is as though your first lesson to your parents might be that of patience. I must believe we'll get you here in time, however long it might take. We're ready whenever you are, too. There is so much for you to see.
I will never be ready for everything you will bring with you, and at this moment I have never been more ready for you. Perhaps as time elaspes it will bring with it enough grace to further fortify my strength for you. What I do know is that surely you are coming, for how else can it be that my heart misses you with such a deep love and breathlessness, though I have never held you in this lifetime? It is as though your first lesson to your parents might be that of patience. I must believe we'll get you here in time, however long it might take. We're ready whenever you are, too. There is so much for you to see.
Monday, April 11, 2016
April 11
On the eve of our nephew born I imagine you might be scared,
thrilled,
perspiring,
anxious.
Ready.
Am I right? Are you any of these?
Exuding creativity in its ultimate form, your body made a child.
And soon I can imagine holding him, bundled.
Skin soft and hair like one thousand pieces of thread
meticulously aligned against the sweetest, smallest scalp
as the tender weight of everything that makes a human is easily held in the arms of another.
Welcome to our world, Cannon James. May you think, be loved, find peace, and astound us. My hope is for all of this and more to be yours, and perhaps in the most surprising of ways, too, should you find some luck at the turns.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
As the day awakens
What of the disappointments from this life do we reap?
May they not bring to us only sorrow (but certainly that in order to later be enamoured by joy) but also a remembrance of themselves we might carry with us. And not to dismay, but to remember. Perhaps reminders close to our hearts, maybe a string around our finger to convey of us the inevitable human fallibility but moreso, resilience. These are things unseen that we carry with us.
We carry with us these invisible tokens of our journey and choose to share at our discretion. Reminders, memories of loved ones lost, of failed attempts, of disappointments encountered. My prayer is they augment us to a deeper character. May we not become brittle and stone-faced in their wake.
And furthermore, may our unseen joys be equally as wrapped around us. At the end of our journey through life, may the rich imbalance of love and peace against strife exist.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Moxie
Tonight I toast to those of us who were invincible in our youth. Us for whom the stars glowed overhead at night, the katydids singing to us to late into evenings spent searing dreams across our hearts. We glowed with wonder at everything we could do. Our lists were as long as we were tall and no tired adult would tell us that what we wanted could not be acheived.
Tonight I want to brandish that spirit back into our thoughts and to cease its service as merely a blanket of memories keeping us warm; that we might not yet, not ever, forget the invincibility of ourselves in which we believed; that we might find a way for our then to elbow its way into our now.
May we once again be rich with wonder,
to find ourselves with the time to lay against the blades of dewey grass and be,
to forgive our pasts,
knowing that our shortcomings and our failures in this present time were always meant to be a part of us; that they have the capacity to shift our spirits and yet may we not disparage of ourselves because they exist.
Perhaps we will realize the best parts of our ethereal selves and seek not to provoke the wounds. May we realize a strength of spirit instead. And may it be there we seize life, unfeigned.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
On grief and found joy
This morning nears the end of 2015. I find myself at 7:30 with my coffee in hand, sitting in my favorite corner of the couch facing the east window. I am ready to greet the sunrise. I am ready to discover parts of my story that do not end in heartbreak and fear.
Exactly a year ago I was pregnant with our first baby. We told our families on Christmas. I miscarried on January 3, 2015. For those of us who have experienced this, we know miscarriage is more than only physical; it is mindful and spiritual as well. Whether someone tells you that or not, the simple truth is, you are not prepared for its complexity. And you cannot be prepared for its longevity.
Gruesome details are not necessary here. What I am concerned about is the mother left behind after the bleeding and cramping and hormonal surges cease. Back in January I thought I was strong enough to rebound from it quickly. But in reality I quickly realized after our second miscarriage in February that grief changes a person and that our losses are now a permanent fixture of who I am. The question is not whether I will forget, it has become a question of how the experience will shape me as a person.
And so, with desperation, I wrote.
I was given a pregnancy journal for Christmas last year, and although its contents are dismal compared to its intention, the journal became my security. Because what I discovered is that my perfectly supportive friends and family could only bear so much of the repetition I fed them; the frustration of another period instead of a positive test, the feelings of worthlessness, the bitter taste of mixed grief and joy at the announcement of each friend’s new baby. How can conversations possibly subsist on just these thoughts? They cannot, and they shouldn’t. But, these thoughts and emotions have become my constant companion. They may emerge out of thin air with any given trigger. Or perhaps I awake one day to realize they will muddle within me throughout the day until I find myself crying on the bed at night mourning failure, despising myself.
I have come to learn a few things this year. First of all, there exists a thing labeled the “Stages of Grief”, and I have walked through them. And secondly, there exists grief, the bastard of loss. And I have learned that walking through the mess it leaves you with is infinitely easier with friends and family around you. But I have also learned I am the only one who can walk it. These truths are no one’s but my own. How isolating and comforting and thought-provoking.
And so it has been a full year now. Like the song sings, “So this is Christmas. And what have you done? Another year over, a new one just begun.” And this year, I can truthfully say I have done the entirely unexpectedly and unwelcome work of walking through true grief and loss. I have held a baby within me, twice. And I have experienced losing them both. And I am still working at it, but I am accepting myself more and hating myself much, much less.
The other night as I prepared dinner for my husband and I, as I played on the floor with our dogs, and I saw the lights on our stoop outside reflect in glass, I was at peace. And that feeling has lasted beyond those five minutes, but it was a defining moment that said to me, “You have arrived here. Enjoy it.” And rather suddenly I realized that at some point very recently, pregnant women are a symbol of hope instead of a reminder of personal loss. Perhaps it is the stories of others I have learned from being open and honest about my own. Because at this very moment, I personally know three pregnant women who have either tried for years, or experienced many miscarriages, or never thought they would get to this point in their lives at all. And my jealousy and hurt is somehow redefined as joy and hope. I think of them and remind myself to rest in this moment, for our time will come. And it is well.
But then again, it took me a year of walking through the innermost heartache to arrive at this better, happier place. And the tears still come easily at times, and the lump in my throat still exists all-too-suddenly. But I am content, I am so very content and ready to love the people who are my family here and now. After the seemingly endless subsequent months of a deadened spirit, this newfound peace rejuvenates me.
At the beginning of the year I wrote a quote in my pregnancy journal that reads, “The biggest happiness is when at the end of the year you feel better than at the beginning.” -Henry David Thoreau. When I wrote that on January 20, 2015 I was convinced we would be expecting by the year’s end. But today as I write this I realize how much more depth that statement has as I sit here, accepting what is with not only contentment, but a hope that has not died.
Exactly a year ago I was pregnant with our first baby. We told our families on Christmas. I miscarried on January 3, 2015. For those of us who have experienced this, we know miscarriage is more than only physical; it is mindful and spiritual as well. Whether someone tells you that or not, the simple truth is, you are not prepared for its complexity. And you cannot be prepared for its longevity.
Gruesome details are not necessary here. What I am concerned about is the mother left behind after the bleeding and cramping and hormonal surges cease. Back in January I thought I was strong enough to rebound from it quickly. But in reality I quickly realized after our second miscarriage in February that grief changes a person and that our losses are now a permanent fixture of who I am. The question is not whether I will forget, it has become a question of how the experience will shape me as a person.
And so, with desperation, I wrote.
I was given a pregnancy journal for Christmas last year, and although its contents are dismal compared to its intention, the journal became my security. Because what I discovered is that my perfectly supportive friends and family could only bear so much of the repetition I fed them; the frustration of another period instead of a positive test, the feelings of worthlessness, the bitter taste of mixed grief and joy at the announcement of each friend’s new baby. How can conversations possibly subsist on just these thoughts? They cannot, and they shouldn’t. But, these thoughts and emotions have become my constant companion. They may emerge out of thin air with any given trigger. Or perhaps I awake one day to realize they will muddle within me throughout the day until I find myself crying on the bed at night mourning failure, despising myself.
I have come to learn a few things this year. First of all, there exists a thing labeled the “Stages of Grief”, and I have walked through them. And secondly, there exists grief, the bastard of loss. And I have learned that walking through the mess it leaves you with is infinitely easier with friends and family around you. But I have also learned I am the only one who can walk it. These truths are no one’s but my own. How isolating and comforting and thought-provoking.
And so it has been a full year now. Like the song sings, “So this is Christmas. And what have you done? Another year over, a new one just begun.” And this year, I can truthfully say I have done the entirely unexpectedly and unwelcome work of walking through true grief and loss. I have held a baby within me, twice. And I have experienced losing them both. And I am still working at it, but I am accepting myself more and hating myself much, much less.
The other night as I prepared dinner for my husband and I, as I played on the floor with our dogs, and I saw the lights on our stoop outside reflect in glass, I was at peace. And that feeling has lasted beyond those five minutes, but it was a defining moment that said to me, “You have arrived here. Enjoy it.” And rather suddenly I realized that at some point very recently, pregnant women are a symbol of hope instead of a reminder of personal loss. Perhaps it is the stories of others I have learned from being open and honest about my own. Because at this very moment, I personally know three pregnant women who have either tried for years, or experienced many miscarriages, or never thought they would get to this point in their lives at all. And my jealousy and hurt is somehow redefined as joy and hope. I think of them and remind myself to rest in this moment, for our time will come. And it is well.
But then again, it took me a year of walking through the innermost heartache to arrive at this better, happier place. And the tears still come easily at times, and the lump in my throat still exists all-too-suddenly. But I am content, I am so very content and ready to love the people who are my family here and now. After the seemingly endless subsequent months of a deadened spirit, this newfound peace rejuvenates me.
At the beginning of the year I wrote a quote in my pregnancy journal that reads, “The biggest happiness is when at the end of the year you feel better than at the beginning.” -Henry David Thoreau. When I wrote that on January 20, 2015 I was convinced we would be expecting by the year’s end. But today as I write this I realize how much more depth that statement has as I sit here, accepting what is with not only contentment, but a hope that has not died.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Egg washed
Sitting here on the floor at the last of our miniature kitchen renovation (purging the cabinets and then painting them from a hard, dark pine with knots to a soft eggy yellow) with a small cardboard box. Feeling sick from all the deep cleaning supplies in my airways, so I decided to sort through this box of mostly outdated allergy medicine.
2011, 2013, 2010.
Medicine we bought our first year of marriage. We used it in the one-bedroom condo in West Ashley, kept the CVS-brand Benedryl all these years and towed it with us from apartment to house to here; the first we bought together.
It is a small little place that needs more monetary love and updates than we can give it. So we do our best with the little time we have and turn a mostly blind eye to the formica countertops in the kitchen and bathroom, the haphazardly painted trimwork or unfinished ceiling paint. We are as proud as we can be of what we have accomplished in our time here; rewiring the electric and installing a new HVAC being our two biggest (and mostly only) accomplishments. But then again, there was this spring when we discovered how beautifully the azaela bushes bloom, or how tall and wide the banana leaves are on the tree outside the sunroom windows in the summer.
I throw away the expired medicine and I keep the notes from old friends I found stashed away in the box. Notes from five or more years ago, simple hellos left for us by a neighbor, or a thank you for dinner. Perhaps a birthday wish. Missing these people makes it difficult to read any of them, but the comfort in knowing they are nearby is enough. I put the stack back in with the oversized container of Vitamin C supplement and stowe the box in its corner under the sink.
2011, 2013, 2010.
Medicine we bought our first year of marriage. We used it in the one-bedroom condo in West Ashley, kept the CVS-brand Benedryl all these years and towed it with us from apartment to house to here; the first we bought together.
It is a small little place that needs more monetary love and updates than we can give it. So we do our best with the little time we have and turn a mostly blind eye to the formica countertops in the kitchen and bathroom, the haphazardly painted trimwork or unfinished ceiling paint. We are as proud as we can be of what we have accomplished in our time here; rewiring the electric and installing a new HVAC being our two biggest (and mostly only) accomplishments. But then again, there was this spring when we discovered how beautifully the azaela bushes bloom, or how tall and wide the banana leaves are on the tree outside the sunroom windows in the summer.
I throw away the expired medicine and I keep the notes from old friends I found stashed away in the box. Notes from five or more years ago, simple hellos left for us by a neighbor, or a thank you for dinner. Perhaps a birthday wish. Missing these people makes it difficult to read any of them, but the comfort in knowing they are nearby is enough. I put the stack back in with the oversized container of Vitamin C supplement and stowe the box in its corner under the sink.
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