relish these moments

With a baby on board, there tends to be a mountain of things to worry about. My ultrasound this past Monday set my mind at ease. Babe is growing well—a robust 2 pounds 15 oz! The lil’ one also showcased tremendous flexibility with a leg and foot right by the head. (Perhaps practicing a soccer bicycle kick???) And this tiny being had a bout with hiccups, a fascinating display captured on the monitor. Yes, babe proved to be in tip-top shape.

Mommy is enjoying her ever-changing shape too. Skirts and stretchy pants have navigated out of their hiding places in the closet to adorn my growing physique. Pregnancy feels really beautiful at this stage. I’m not overwhelmingly huge to be waddling or blind to the tips of my toes. And I’m just far enough along to surpass the “No, it’s not a beer gut. I’m actually expecting,” quips.

When folks find out a baby’s on the way for me, the abundance of positive responses is my lifejacket at times. Sometimes the doubt of whether I’ll be a good mother creeps up on me unexpectedly. But the affirmation of friends and family helps sweep those qualms under the rug.

A patient’s mother that I worked with for several days bestowed a heartfelt card to me upon leaving the hospital, saying…

Wow, where do I start. You have a heart of gold and your baby is going to be one of the luckiest people in the world! Your caring and compassion made me feel as though I wasn’t doing this on my own. Thank you my beautiful princess!

How can these words not tug at one’s heartstrings? It certainly establishes what I’m engaging in at work on a daily basis, and hopefully I can carry this home during motherhood.

Seventy-nine days to go. Plenty of time to rest, reflect, and relish these moments…

5 weeks and counting...

The countdown continues at

28 weeks and 5 days...

Side view at 35 days...

Baby's home at 201 days...

the next karate move

My soccer player has definitely arrived. GOAL!

For the past three weeks or so, my tummy has experienced jibs here and jabs there. The little one can be awfully active at times as I watch my abdomen stretch and warp with a kick. Having Hollins feel this movement is a delight too. Our smiles are instantly fused as we place our hands on my belly, waiting and eager for the next karate move.

Mmmm. This is simply magic at its best…

where is this soccer player?

Having a baby requires handfuls of patience. When will I hear the first heartbeat? When will I know whether to buy flower or football onesies? When will I notice a budding baby bump? When will I feel the first flicker of movement?

I am dealing with the latter of these questions. Where IS this soccer player? At twenty-two weeks, I thought I would have experienced a poke from the breathing-living-loving soul within me. A penalty kick here. A header there. No flitter, flutter, or goal kick yet. I have only a Doppler heartbeat at the doctor’s office to assure me that he or she is still blooming.

I've considered this to be a patient pregnancy for me thus far. Hubby and I are slowly but surely collecting ideas on what we’ll need for the babe. We aren’t aware of the little peanut’s gender, but we’re perfectly pleased with a neutral nursery scheme. I haven’t purchased maternity clothes and will continue wearing the comforts of my closet until they become uncomfortable. As much as I may try to protrude my belly, I realize that a pinch of people are quite surprised when I tell them I’m beyond the half-way point.

Alas, my patience is waning as I long to feel movement.

If you can hear me, babe, show me a sign. Just a little nudge…

my rock

There is almost a loss for words. Almost…

I, a nervous silhouette, squeezed Hollins closely this morning and prayed, “Come back home to me.”

He replied, “I will. Be safe too. Bye-bye baby,” he grinned as he rubbed my belly.

I left hastily before teardrops could escape my blinking eyes, shoving my worries behind the closed door. Once home again, I spotted a note.

“I’ll miss you,” scribbled Hollins. My heart softly smiled as I touched my fingers to the XO on the note. My hug and kiss to tide me through tomorrow’s solo celebration.

Hollins will be in Portland. I am here.

And tomorrow marks seven wedded years for us.

When I think back to that sweltering June day in Kansas, I think of our young and innocent and fresh bond with one another. No one imagined we’d almost fall so hard financially and emotionally when I landed in the hospital for five days without insurance to help. Or that we’d have such diverse opinions in our future abode to squabble over which home to buy. Or that we were never quite on the same page regarding whether to have children until a few months before we actually created our own tiny miracle.

And to all of the various tribulations sprouting from this marriage here and there, I could not imagine myself blooming and growing with anyone else. Hollins is my rock, a best friend and partner. He understands my quirks and my humor. My tears and my sensitivity. My nature and my being.

I love my sweet Hollins. He is my home sweet home…

the moment of truth

I glanced nervously at Hollins. The moment of truth. To confirm what didn’t feel quite real yet. Hollins smiled. His sparkling eyes. My own flitting heartbeat hammering beneath my chest.

And then there it was. The baby’s heartbeat. Quick-paced and strong. A whopping one-hundred sixty nine beats per minute.

The Doppler discovered the drumming rhythm right away. Relaxation cushioned my tense, weary thoughts. I couldn’t stop beaming. And Hollins’ bright eyes made my heart smile.

Our baby. I am showered with the reality of this experience. A simple heartbeat enwraps me in pure contentment.

I glanced merrily at Hollins. The moment of truth.

Gratefully revealed.

exuding patience

She thinks, “Deep down, I feel very eager.” She says, "But I am patiently waiting."

The night shift has consumed my shadowy hours for nearly a year and a half. ‘Tis perhaps a year and a half too long. In the beginning, I harbored comfort in purring dim lights, sleeping babes tucked away, and blissful silence. It felt natural, especially for a fresh nurse seeking to find her niche in an entirely new space.

Now, the novelty has dissolved and reality has settled in. Babes are sleepless through the nighttime, the quiet is habitually interrupted, and darkness reminds my weary body of its inability to cope with the midnight hours.

With only six more night shifts, my coveted day position is just around the bend. And for this, I will endure the true test of patience.

Alas, my patience is aloft on a different matter. I am waiting for confirmation of my budding motherhood. I yearn to hear the heartbeat, to know for sure that I can maintain my talkinglaughingsinging to this tiny being of hope.

In only a mere handful of days, I will experience two joys. A couple of changes. A pair of pleasures.

Exuding patience is worth the wait.

a mini explosion of fun

Caesar lies beneath the windowsill, sliver of eyes in sleep mode with a contented grin. My eyes strain against the glowing box glare, tackling verb and adjective key strokes with chilly hands. There’s nothing quite like pondering what to write, especially when the post is the first of this fresh-start New Year. A certain musing comes to mind though, polished with exhilaration and anticipation.

Last week, Hollins and I scoped out the nearby MINI dealership. Rows of chili red, racing green, and mellow yellow autos lined the lot. It looked like one, giant matchbox car set. We promptly stepped inside out of the frigid wind wave and approached the front desk. A pleasant English woman (oh yes, accent included!) greeted us and requested our DLs while filling out the necessary paperwork. Naughty me, my DL had expired. For shame! I’d been driving illegally for the past thirty-three days. I’m sure the disappointment plagued my face as I stood in a puddle of embarrassment. This entire test-driving day was for ME to decide which car I might like to own, and I couldn’t even drive the darn thing.

Within a few minutes, Mr. LaRocco met us to take us on our test drive. My face screamed, “Bummer!” to hubby as I knew my chances of sneakily test driving had just dwindled. Nevertheless, I trusted Hollins to exude practical and candid opinions regarding the auto’s handling, functionality, and likeability that I wasn’t too worried about my unforeseen veto on driving.

LaRocco drove first, stopping at the Monan to switch drivers. Hollins sped off while I twisted my head this way and that way to inspect all of the interior fixtures. We drilled LaRocco with questions as he calmly directed our driving course. By the end of our 15-minute gallivant, Hollins and I were internally giddy and eager to learn more.

For the next hour, the query factory took over and we tried to collect and absorb as much information as possible. After discovering a car on the lot similar to our wish-list, LaRocco offered us another test-drive opportunity. But this time: solo! Freedom to roam the highways by ourselves, and ahem, a chance for me to drive illegally one more time!

I LOVED it! So responsive, so speedy, so veryvery loveable! And Mr. LaRocco may have just been so kind to turn his head the other way and ignore my DL mishap so that I could experience the true adult go-kart experience. I say this with such frivolity in that this auto is actually a surprisingly sturdy and well-made vehicle. Thumbs up.

After test-driving various autos, the MINI remains atop the list. There are a myriad of factors to consider, and we’re certainly not making any hasty decisions, but I’m thrilled about the possibility.

And in a few short months, the possibility may become the real deal.

my furry fuzzball friend

This book. It’s been on my wish list of books to read for over a year. Why it’s taken so long to cozy up under the covers with these delightful pages is beyond me. And I can already tell it’s going to be a tearjerker.

I’m only on page 39, and this book is tugging on my heart strings.

Reading this book resurfaces old memories of my very first, one and only, brand new cuddly pup. Caesar is my beloved as Marley is John and Jenny’s. At three months, Caesar was just a ball of fluff and fun. My furry fuzzball friend. I adored his paws pattering down the hallway and his head hunched sideways when listening to my commands. I couldn’t resist his big brownie eyes and goofy grin when I walked through the door. His playful pouncing and limber leaping always produced a good chuckle.

I’m only on page 39, and this book holds inevitable heartbreak.

I don’t actually know the ending (and please don’t spoil), but I’m attuned to the notion that Marley will not make it to the end of the book. When that time comes, when I’m beyond page 39 and onto page 289, I just hope my golden-haired best friend is by my side... in case I need a hug.

where's waldo

labor of love

A labor of love.

This is what it must mean to intertwine my late night hours with dim lights, chirping monitors, and glazed eyes. How could someone stroll through the double doors into a workplace filled with howling babes and train wreck parents and not want to slither through the crack towards the nearest exit? I’ve asked myself time and time again. It’s not for everyone. It may not be for me. Yet I hang on. ‘Tis a bumpy rollercoaster ride indeed. But I’m trying my damnedest to stroll through the double doors with head held high. (At least until my 12 hour seat belt is unbuckled.)

Falling asleep during the sunbreak hours this morning was difficult. No, it wasn’t because slivers of sunlight masked my face through the blinds. And no, it wasn’t because goose bumps sheathed my body in an effort to attract the nearest heat wave. It wasn’t even because my knees ached from crouching down beside a saddened soul most of the night. The difficulty surfaced from this girl, a lost spirit in whose eyes I witnessed the most trembling of worry and wonder. And I couldn’t let it go.

She endures a skin condition causing her skin to blister and slough off. Open, raw, reddened areas cover her body. Confetti of peeled skin lines her bed sheets. She succumbs to steroids to ward off infection that has caused her weight to balloon. She coats her limbs with petroleum jelly to help soften and soothe. She often lies naked because even a night gown sticks to the exposed sores. And last night, she lay in a puddle of tears.

I can’t even comprehend her storm of struggles. The depression drowning her. The family neglecting her. The disease consuming her. I can’t even sit and listen without my own tears welling within.

But I do. For the labor of love fastens me in, even when the ride is done.

apples dipped in honey

Today is a holiday. A Jewish holiday, that is.

Today, and the day after, reflect Rosh Hashanah. The Jewish New Year.

L'shanah tovah tikatev v'taihatem.
May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

When the New Year I so heartily celebrate rolls around in January, I can hardly count the resolutions I want to tackle on two hands. 'Tis intriguing that right now, the Jewish community is embracing their time of introspection and promises for the future.

I’ve discovered two traditional customs of this holiday that are intriguing to me.

Eating apples dipped in honey. It is a symbol, a wish for a sweet new year.

And...

Walking to a creek or stream and emptying ones pockets. It is a symbol, a time for casting off sins.

I breathe in a Jewish neighborhood surrounded by beautiful synagogues. I sweat at a Jewish community center down the road from my home. I eye folks strolling away their Saturdays wearing yarmulkes atop their heads.

It may not be a new year for me, but it is a new month tomorrow. Perhaps I will celebrate new resolutions and delight in apples, honey, and empty pockets…

the diagnosis

The mystery is solved. My lab work was indeed not normal.

I have been diagnosed with hypothyroidism.

(Sigh.)

Add another pill to the pillbox. I am not unaccustomed to taking medication on a daily basis. Asthma has been my nemesis since childhood days, and two little pills were prescribed to fend off the lung fires that swelled during athletics and allergy season.

Unfortunately, those two little tablets cost me a trip to the emergency room and five days in the hospital. I suffered an asthma attack that was far superior than those two little tablets could fight. When the doctors relayed to me that the dosage of those pills should have been stopped when I was twelve years old, my jaw hit the floor. I was twenty-three at the time. I had ingested eleven years worth of medicine that was probably doing nil for me. What could I say? I felt disheartened and embarrassed that a trusted hometown family doctor just lost my trust.

Now I have to sustain my thyroid levels on another daily tablet. For a lifetime. There are twelve different doses available. I need drug levels drawn on a regular basis to establish my dosage efficacy.

And the good news?

There’s no way I will be taking eleven years worth of the wrong dose.

(Smile.)

the thick, crimson sweetness

Good news graced my ears this day. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting the news to be that. Good.

Tuesday morning landed me in Coest lab for blood work. Enduring an arduous night at the hospital was only the launch into an even longer morning. One of my patients was scurried away to the ICU. One of my patients whimpered intermittently due to fractures galore. And one of my beloved patients was inevitably going to succumb to hospice care. ‘Tis the joys (or woes) of nursing. On top of that, I was fasting. No apple slices, carrots sticks, and chocolate milk to soothe this belly. H2O was my pure belly teaser. It fooled no one.

To say it was a breeze to stay awake an extra two hours for blood work is putting it mildly. A glucose tolerance test was in order, amid a myriad of other labs to be collected. To have the thick, crimson sweetness gliding down an empty belly was hard enough. Having my antecubes poked thrice times was the cherry on top. And oh, how I envisioned hubby at that moment, his flitting nerves from blood draws would’ve sent him to the floor a la fainting-style.

Nevertheless, I survived. I made it home without crashing due to sleep deprivation and a growling tummy. And I enjoyed the biggest bowl of cereal known to mankind.

I expected the worst. The worst is leaving me alone today. I am not insulin resistant. My lab work is normal.

Yet, something is not right. Yet. And I will just have to wait…

a cataclysmic day

My nerves are teetering a bit. Today marks the anniversary of a cataclysmic day that truly fragmented the world. Today, we remember 9.11. The lives lost. The memories shattered. The city distorted.

My nerves are jittery because my hubby is flying to N.Y.C. this day. Perhaps the superstitious fairy is whispering too close to my ear, but nonetheless, the thought of him flying to that city on this day makes me ill at ease.

Visiting New York City used to be a daily reverie for me as an adolescent. Maybe my small-town bubble was about to burst. Or maybe it was the cityscape adorning my bedroom wall. Something inside craved to see this luminescent metropolis situated miles upon miles from where my reality guarded me.

I remember looking at photos, wondering how it would feel to stand between the twin towers. I thought I would have the chance, to stand among the ever imposing architecture that soared into the skies above. But now the skyline is amputated. I didn’t have the chance then. I don’t have the chance now. But I will make it there someday.

For now, I will pray that Hollins makes it there too.

And then back home again.

long live the games

How can someone I don’t even know do this to me? I find my palms sweating, eyes pulsing, teeth gritted. It’s as if my heart will bleed with one more awkward bounce or offbeat drop. The lines are blurred, the net shaken. Two dancers on the square are skittering here and lunging there. And I cannot look away for fear that I will mess up the rhythm, the focus, the drive ensuing.

So, how can someone I don’t even know do this to me?

Have you guessed? Who it is? It’s Rafa. But it’s not just him.

This ardor and zeal for professional sports(wo)men is intoxicating. An obsession, if you will. I don’t know if this innate craze is all my own or whether, quite possibly, my father has polished me with this all-consuming mania. I remember his boisterous energy swallowing up a room on game days. I recall the fuzzy flooring taking a hand slap or two during a last second play. And I can’t forget the booming howl wafting from downstairs when the last second play was ill-fated.

And now it’s me. An intense, scrupulous adherence to Rafa, to Phelps, to May and Walsh. Their victory is my victory, and their loss, my own. I watch these competitors as if it’s my own racquet whizzing the yellow fury across the net. My own limbs propelling me through the aqua channel. My own hand spanking the leather sphere into the white sands.

Maybe that’s what it means to be an athlete. I’ll never lose the edge, the fiery challenger ensconced within me. So, put it to good use, right? Coaching? Nah. Playing Dutch Blitz with my husband? Can’t do it. And why? My investment into competition, sports, athletes, and the emotion runs deeper than I know. Or understand.

For now, I’ll continually engrave my allegiance to the fine athletes that award zest to my beloved sports.

From one dedicated fan to the next, long live the games.

with unripe eyes

twisted body now
for valor carves it way through.
a memory disgorged,
with stiff eyes,
with lucidity lasting
and immaculate.

take a bow
for wisdom falls unblemished on words.
a past unleashed,
with unripe eyes,
with innocence curled,
and sheltered away.

this is how
for tenderness is creased within.
a fleeting time,
with blissful eyes,
with witness here,
and to behold.

i am done.

his day

"I have the audacity to believe that people everywhere can have three meals a day for their tired bodies, education and culture for their spirits. I believe that what self-centered men have torn down, men other-centered can build up. I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed, and non-violent redemptive goodwill will proclaim the rule of the land 'and the lion and the lamb shall lie down together and every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid.' I still believe that we shall overcome."--Martin Luther King, Jr.

An unbelievable soul always...

lay z

Since the semester ended for me on Friday, I have been soaking in my lazy days. It's amazing that I could actually become, dare I say it, bored. School was keeping my cog-wheel of a mind rolling, and now my mind is mush. I've thought about reading for fun, at last, but I almost don't want to because then that would feel like school. And as one can tell, I'm trying to remove myself from academia as much as possible.

I should say that the weather is pleasant, and I could take a stroll outside with the pup. Better yet, we could run alongside each other until our legs turn to mush too. However, I better let my eggnog and sugar cookie tummy rest before turning to any sort of moderate exercise.

Which takes me back to square one. Being lazy. I suppose the fact that I'm writing is worth an ounce of productivity.

At least I've accomplished something today...

oh, joy!

I feel like a stranger here. I can't turn away though because it's been too long. For writing I've missed. For musing I've fallen behind. It's taken me time to find my way back, but I couldn't be happier to let the words flow in this time and space.

My elation draws on the distance, the miles I've covered. I've awaited the news of my future for days upon days. The hours seemed endless. The minutes were elongated. And I waited...

I am quite joyful to say that I made it into nursing school. An elite school, at that. For just the moment, my heart leapt from my body and my soul flew high above. 'Twas the news I had been waiting for that made my smile widen and my eyes to squeeze out tears of relief.

It was a moment. My moment.

that familiar voice

There's something about hearing that familiar voice on the other end of the receiver. There's something about the lovely intonation, the unmistakable tone, the recognizable pitch in voice. I found such deep comfort in laughing throughout our conversing that I realized how absolutely natural the moment transpired.

You see, I spoke with my childhood friend this evening. A friend that played make-believe with me and one who dreamed big like me. 'Twas in the time spent talking between us that I realized what a gem my dearest friend is. To my heart. My soul.

There's just something about hearing that familiar voice...

really?!

Overheard on the bus this evening from a 30-something male-

"Hearing a woman say 'I can't cook' is essentially a way of her saying 'I am stupid.'"

Anyone agree to disagree?

summer's end

Nerves a twittering. I am feeling a scooting buzz in my stomach. A twisted knot coiling itself around and around.

And it truly seems utterly childish to be feeling this way.

I am starting school tomorrow, and I haven’t felt this jittery since I presented my senior thesis to “wrap up” my college career three years ago. Or so I thought.

Here I am, back in college among undergraduates once again. Perhaps I would’ve felt more self-respect if I were entering a graduate program, but no, silly me. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do when I was actually in college the first time around. And so the story goes…

On the other hand, the pressure is so intense this time. Being eligible AND qualified for nursing programs now is extremely competitive. Admission is strictly based on grades. And grades alone! It’s a sheer pity to not factor in experience and referrals. What if someone is socially inept but smart as the dickens? Does that qualify them to be a creditable nurse?

I just don’t see the admission process taking into account the diverse assets of a person aside from an outstanding GPA. That’s where the pressure dives in. I know I’m capable of meeting the requirements, but will the apprehension curb my efforts?

When friends, and even strangers, exude comments that I’ll make an incredible nurse, what does it matter if no one considers my personality and work ethic?

What if I’m just “B” caliber?

caesar

Caesar. Lounging at home.

And I cannot take my eyes off him. His robust manner of grooming himself. Licking in broad strokes. Gnawing at his golden waves of fur. Peering at me behind big, chocolate eyes. Opening his mouth and showcasing a goofy grin. How could one not fall in love with his face?

We’ve become buddies, the two of us. I have seized the all-important role of leader in this relationship because, well, he’s just a born follower. I simply can’t sneak off to a quiet corner of the house without him being two steps behind.

But I lovelovelove it. Just to glance behind me as he pauses, staring with head cocked, wondering what my next move will be. Now and again, I get the distinct feeling that he’s sending me a silent message. Hurry to the cupboard, reach up to the top shelf, draw out the jar of peanut butter, and just award me a spoonful. It’s my weakness that I cave in.

As I said before, those puppy eyes can say so much.

Rub me here. Pat me there. Scratch me. Pet me. Love me now.

And day after day, I do…

shed my cocoon

What a magnifico evening spent in the artsy heart of the city. Hollins and I embrace that fact that NOW we have friendly folk in our midst. A dozen or so college friendships have weaved their way down to the exact same city. Not to say that we didn’t have friends up in our former bustling city of the North. However, being the shybugs that we are, newer friendships found the soil rocky and hard to bloom forthright. In other words, we were each other’s best friends. Pity, I know.

I love Hollins dearly, but time after time, I ached for female companionship. I never quite fully extended myself to others. My closest females were co-workers at the medical center, and although I meshed with everyone exceptionally well, I didn’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t engage my more personal, softer side. It was always goofiness and playful banter between the ladies. I didn’t even always unveil my inner thoughts with Hollins. In this respect, I probably denied myself more than once that I was lonely.

In a Northern city of more than 2 million people, I felt alone.

Do you ever feel that way? Are there times when you couldn’t be happier in, what seems, all aspects of life except that there is this deep void that penetrates under the radar? Is it you too or just me?

It used to be me. That’s hard to imagine somewhat, especially now with close(r) friends nearby. It’s as if I shed my cocoon, the shell I’d been hiding in.

Wow—all of this has been magnified with one simple outing tonight. It simply felt nice to be in the company of other couples in the same boat that Hollins and I are. We’re 23-26 year olds fixated on school, careers, and our respective dogs. They [dogs] do make for good child rearing practice, and we can’t stop talking about them as if they WERE our children. (And dear J-boy, I wouldn’t forget you in your single hood, and the fact that you so willingly partook in dinner with 3 feisty couples. You’re one of the bravest bachelors I know.)

In essence, I’m making a home here that I like. That’s being molded around my life.

And that’s leaving room for more friends to come…

the bus

Yesterday. ‘Twas a sultry day smoldering upon my shoulders as I sat on a wooden bench. At the bus stop. My eyebrows glistened with sweat beads. My wet fingertips autographed each page of my novel. What a day to wait for the bus.

And have it be ten minutes late.

Ah yes, the bus will be my transport of choice for the upcoming school year.

Oy.

No, no. I have no choice.

Hubby Hollins gets to gallop along in our fine auto to work and hence, I am left to sprint across 6 lanes of traffic to wait for a bus that is generally late. (Fortunately, there happens to be a median in the middle or I would surely be risking death.)

The bus ride itself is bearable. I find myself scoping the crowds entering and exiting the bus. Eyeing where people choose to sit. Will they read a newspaper or peer out the window? Will they chitchat with the driver? Will they ride to the end point?

Random questions seem to bubble inside my head on bus rides. Perhaps I should just bury my nose in a book.

But that’s what bookmarks are for and besides, asking 20 questions keeps my curious mind chug chug chugging along.

moonlighter

I’ve become a night owl. It doesn’t work well since I’m also an early bird. Notice I am two different things. Or perhaps an owl is considered a bird. And she thinks, This is why I should be sleeping right now. Senseless dribble, I tell you.

I just start to wonder how I, someone who tucked myself into bed by ten o’clock months ago, have become a moonlighter. How I’ve come to secretly take pleasure in going to bed after my husband since, for two years prior, he was King of late night. How I’ve managed to keep my eyes open long enough to read twenty more pages in my just-got-to-read-one-more novel. How I’ve succumb to reruns on Nick at Nite.

But alas, here I am, typing away as if it’s no big thing that it’s nearing midnight. That I have a tape of ‘The Amazing Race’, which I will indeed watch later tonight. That I have a munchies pang, but will not surrender to it.

That I will inevitably scold myself tomorrow for being so sleepy come mid-afternoon…

the silent yearning

Invisible sighs. Quiet thoughts. With head tilted towards the ceiling, I cannot help but inhale a deep, long breath.

I am finally home. Here.

It seems oddly strange that more than a year has passed. I’ve become a stranger to the writer’s world. I’m hesitant of resurfacing again yet my heart flutters just thinking about being back. My stories, my poems.

They outlined my being many moons ago, and it was as if my shadow left me when I stopped the writing. The stories, the poems. How can I push my hand to write again? How can I bring my mind to craft again? I’ve never felt so foreign as I do right now. Like a scared puss afraid to open its eyes upon a woolly beast.

I’m not in the same place that I once was in the secular world. I’ve left the emerald, plush city where I strolled the neighborhoods tirelessly only to arrive in a city that is not the least bit pedestrian friendly. This must seem mundane to the normal eye, but perhaps it leaves me with the silent yearning for where I came from.

And yes, I’m not in the same place that I once was in the writing world. I’ve lost touch with the philosophers and poets. I can’t say I know the dreamers either. Shame, truly.

But I am home. Here.

It’s a start…

i missed this place

Well, back to the ‘ol drawing board. It still feels a bit foreign to be writing once again. I feel an inner encouragement to pick it up, but to do so where I left off will take some time. I missed this place…dear, sweet writings and collections of intriguing thoughts. In the past two days, I’ve felt awfully disconnected from the writing world. It’s as if my former passion hardly ceases to exist. Lack of inspiration just drills the void deeper, but perhaps this spew of sentence scribbles will mend the hole.

I think I’m mostly searching for an outlet…a silent retreat to my inner thought weavings. I crave to let my emotion seep from the drip of my pen or the hum of my fingers. Sometimes, you just have to release onto paper, onto a keyboard, rather than into a friend’s ear. I can’t explain it or whether it makes sense, but I do it. And it feels good. And wholesome. And very therapeutic.

So, what’s been painting a smile on my face these days? My family coming to visit. My in-laws cushion me with a sense of security. It’s yet another idea I can’t fully explain, but the feeling is there. And real.

This kinship and love surpasses my expectations. Love beyond expectation. What a concoction to marvel at. It makes me feel as if love can be the most spontaneous act in the world. To have love without expectations feels pure and unselfish. I could bathe in the feeling I’m having right now. Because. Well, because I feel as if a love like this can feel so innocent and yet totally be overlooked. Or unappreciated.

Hmph. I don’t think I’m making sense. Maybe it’s a good thing that it’s time for me to workout, brush off some energy, and give these ponderings a rest… .

folks!

Thunder rattled our windowpanes late last night. I woke up this morning, spotting puddles and sporadic raindrops. I worried that a cloud would unleash a rainstorm as I biked to work. Hence, I playfully poked my husband out of bed. He so kindly dropped me off at work via auto. What a beautiful soul to allow me disturb his sleeping-in slumber.

Work. I swear a handful of patients had their fingers glued to the call lights. Every time I turned around another orange flash. Another increasingly rhythmic chime. Another plea for help. If it weren’t my duty to oblige their almost every need, I’d be scurrying for the nearest exit. But my heart feels heavy when I cannot concede to their beckoning calls. When I only have two hands when I should have ten. Perhaps I should continue recycling the phrase, tossed over to me a thousand times. “You can only do so much.” True. I can only do so much, folks.

My love picked me up after work to my delightful surprise. No rain. A little befuddled was I since the newspaper clearly stated heavy thunderstorms throughout the day. Funny how I feel better by looking out the window now. The skies have turned a dusty gray, shadowing the evening much earlier than usual. In this case, I am sure that a storm is on the way. Not that I particularly desire to have the all too familiar pitter-patter. It just makes me more confident in our weather(wo)man. I don’t want to be stuck inside all day on the account of a false weather report. Let’s get it right, folks.

Ha! I’ve used the word ‘folks’ twice as much as I ever have. It’s the hospital, I tell you, that does this to me.

not without my umbrella

The vines of falling leaves trickle down the stucco wall. Outside the window, there is a cascade of gliding raindrops. Clouds, heavy and pregnant with fresh droplets. Plunging down to the Earth’s sidewalks, its pavement and plains. Waxing the Earth’s floor with a shiny splash. I’m caught inside looking out. I can’t get out.

Not in this torrential downpour. Not with the fear of a lightning strike. Not without my umbrella.

I used to listen to a song. Keedy’s Lazy Day. It was the perfect song for a day inside, trapped by the whirling rain outside. That cassette tape is buried somewhere in my hometown home. Stuffed in a shoebox. In my cluttered closet. It’s not within my grasp, just when I need it.

Instead, the aromatic melodies of Bjork bounce around this space. She stares, hynotized, on the cover of the cd case. I can hardly read her eyes. Her icy gaze. She is the brilliant musician with transient eyes. The hypnosis is on me. The rain and the music is luring me into a dreamscape. A magnificent wandering from my cave-like manner. My reclusive existence. My fear of the outside.

And I jump into a colorful playground. Of soft swings and high rise slides. The never-ending playground, where I can still be a child always.

You see, it’s my day off. I don’t have to go to work. The only work I have to do is to use my imagination. As you can see, it’s running away with me.

Far, far away with me.

the little daredevil

A fly-by week. Life is zipping by at the speed of lightning. I suppose I have my own busy-bee tactics to blame for that. It just never dawned on me that certain aspects of my life would suffer because of my Oh, I can get to it later or I don’t have time for that now attitude.

Dear, dear journal writing. I’ve put you on hold many a time. Surfacing priorities are simply taking more of the weight. It’s nothing against you, writing, but I can’t commit to you in full-fashion at this place in time. You have to take a second seat.

Oy. What a saddening mindset. If I could make sacred moments to just write about my day, a 24-hour period would be near perfect. Instead, I’m seeking sacred moment to just live my day. Eat, sleep, breathe. And live.

A previous entry of anguish over the weather is fizzling. The days blow 60-degree weather right into my face. My bike has provided a zippier cruise to work. I love riding this beautiful bike. My love and I even coasted through a 3 hour ride (and oodles of miles) with the new silverado this past weekend. The ol’ derriere has seen better days, but the suspension seat is definitely a keeper. My tush can take a little soreness for cross-city riding anyday.

Another activity hubby and I engaged in manifested pure delight. We’ve been looking into a new auto. At the VW dealership, we test drove a mobile with a fun 1.8L turbo engine. It. Flew. We took after a particular German family I know, navigating at Autobaun speeds. ‘Twas certainly a challenge to realize how fast we were driving since the acceleration boasted a smooth quickness. What a sporty drive!

I think I’m all about the ‘ride’ these days. The bike, the car.

The little daredevil in me is having a little too much fun.

rain => snow = #@*%!!!

A day off. Kicked my feet up. Sipped on a piping hot cuppa tea. Spritzed the living room with a sweet vanilla fragrance. And fell asleep on the sofa to raindrops licking the windowpane.

When I awoke, my fuzzy eyes cleared into focus. Upon snowflakes. Since when did rain turn into snow—just as April is around the corner??? The sibilant sound of the passing winds creaked the ol’ walls. And I just sat there. Staring.

Hours later and I am still stunned that it is snowing. Wasn’t it just in the mid-60s this past week?

Oy.

Now is not the time for snow, and here’s why. On Tuesday, much to my giddy, schoolgirl delight, I purchased my very own...

sparkling,
shiny,
silver,
Specialized

bicycle!

My rusted shite of a bike, from earlier years, has been adopted by a friend back in college town. She didn’t care about its decaying spine or tattered wheels. So, I sold it. But I will always remember it. That bike carried me through many years (not to forget the occasional splat!). But I knew I couldn’t bring it along to our new home. And I knew, in good time, I’d fancy a new bike. Hopefully to last me another ten years.

So, as I was saying, how in the dickens can it be snowing now? I’m positive the ”silverado” (as I like to call it) doesn’t appreciate being loved and adored the past two days only to succumb so soon to the dark, lonely laundry room in our building.

{{Sigh.}} Sometimes Mother Nature just isn’t fair.

reality sets in

I knew this would happen.

I knew that throwing myself into a new job would create less and less time. For this and that. That being writing. I haven’t even sat in front of my glowing box, tapping my fingers on the button board this week. I haven’t even thought about erecting a poem or two. About scripting a day’s prose. About fancying a gander through my beloved reads. It’s either about having less time or making less time. To this, I have to wonder.

Am I really going to feel so self-absorbed that I can’t even take a penny for my own thoughts?

And I sit here, now, feeling much relieved to be here. To not further the exacerbation of my loss. To just regain my composure and start again. To write.

This past week has been a whirlwind for me. Starting a new job. Tackling my workout goals. And so on and so on.

I feel like I’ve cried inside so much this week. Nothing surfacing on the outside, only an inner turmoil festering inside. It makes absolutely no sense. I find this job to be a gratifying, noble, body-inducing experience. I seek thrill from its challenges and ornate systems of operation. It’s what I’ve been holding onto during my first weeks of orientation. And then reality sets in.

I checked in on a patient last week. Her face was pale and dappled with beads of sweat. She could barely crack open her eyes. I collected her vital signs, noticing how low her temperature ran. I notified others. I myself wondered. Then, just an hour later, she coded. She stopped breathing. Her wristband declared to not resuscitate. I think those words caused my heart to stop. For a moment.

And when I was bathing a patient last week, she shared wisdom with me from her younger days. She snatched a smile from somewhere and stuck it right on my face. That very evening, after my shift had ended, she died. She passed in her sleep. She just walked away from the pain.
This is what I face. People with debilitating illnesses. Sometimes 3-4 day struggles. Sometimes lifetime struggles. And when you lose people that you’ve had contact with, even if only for a mere moment, it shatters something. Inside. Confusion grows within, sprouting seeds of doubt and blooming into a mystery.

No matter how much I value my job, what happens when it’s too much? What can I do when I connect with a patient only to find they’re gone the next day?

I. Am. Lost. In this respect, it only paints an even more elegiac picture of how I’m coated in sensitivity.

Perhaps too much for this job.
Perhaps too much for my own good.

clutch

I am waiting for the shuttle. This day. Suddenly, I hear a scratching. A ruthless scratching no more than ten feet away. Where I look to my right, there he is. The squirrel.

The bugger is lowering himself into a trash can, clawing onto the edge with his hind feet. Then the scratching begins. A rustle here. A crackle there. And up he comes, clutching a tasty treasure.

This day. I watched a squirrel gobble down four french fries. Oops, I’m sorry. I mean freedom fries. {Rolling eyes.}

My new job is terrific. Of course it carries a bit of frustration, but it’s merely because I’m trying to learn everything too quickly. It’s thrown me a few curve balls as well, and my preceptor has graciously informed me how to dodge those. The finicky patient demanding a washing here. The hormone-driven patient tossing out a sexual joke there. I know there is much pain looming over these patients. Right now. And they deal with it in a myriad of ways. The scope of my learning is how to deal with it. Quickly. Efficiently. Kindly. That alone is a test.

But I am loving it. The thrill of absorbing information. In a different field. In a different setting. With different outcomes. There is a wealth of possibilities for me here.

And all I have to do is clutch these opportunities with passion like the squirrel clutches his beloved fry.

win peace

Hollins and I strolled about this evening, under tiny snowflakes sliding down from the dusky sky. The street lamps buzzed along the sidewalks. Our crunching footsteps left a trail behind us. With newspapers and Don Quixote in hand, we made our way to the warmth of the corner coffee shop.

Upon entering, we eyed the crowded haven. Many a student sat immersed in paperwork. With their noses in books. One person at a two-person table. Two people at a four-person table. We could’ve invited ourselves over to the vacant seats, as any right European would do, but reluctantly, we slithered over to the tall, bar seats. The counter seats. And while it initially felt cramped, it also felt nice to be squished on such a chilly evening. With a cuppa hot joe.

I carefully cracked open my newspaper, careful not to bump into the fella sandwiched beside me. I scanned headlines. Flipped pages. Brushed newspaper stains off of the coffee mug.
And what caught my eye?

No. 18 Villanova upset No. 1 Connecticut in women’s basketball. UConn’s winning streak ended at 70. (Shite!)

Ikea to open in [my city] in summer of 2004. (Clapping hands!)

A dialogue indicating that ‘for this war, America needs the world’s permission.’ I too had shocked ears when President Bush declared that: “When it comes to our security, we really don’t need anybody’s permission.” (Throwing my hands up in exasperation!)

Yes, it’s utterly amazing what is in the newspaper these days. I can hardly stand to read all the forums about Iraq. The war. The wage against violence. I think of Bush’s words, resonating with the uneasiest of feelings. He just doesn’t get it.

We don’t need other countries to help us win the war. We need them to help us win peace.

for crying out loud

I have made a conscientious decision. To walk. To work.

People nowadays refrain from this, it appears. It’s a pity, but understandable. Mine is a city spanning 2 million people towards the suburbs. Surely, the percentage of people that would be within walking distance to their job is minute. Minuscule.

My walk is not particularly close either. With a swift pace, it is thirty minutes to the university campus. I hop on a shuttle, and am then whisked away to the riverside campus. At the end of the day, I trek another thirty minutes plus any delays because of traffic obstruction. That’s an hour tacked onto a full 8-hour day on my feet already. And to me? That’s fabulous.

I’m excited to be using my body more. I’m excited to have the streets (nearly) to myself in the early morning hours. I’m excited to have my blood pumping a little harder by the time I clock in.
And I’m excited to take after the Europeans I’ve known who wouldn’t think twice about walking to work. While in Deutschland, Hollins’ host father rode a bike to work. In his suit, for crying out loud.

That, that, my friends, is fabulous.

crossing and uncrossing my legs

The new employee welcome nearly collapsed me with drowsiness. It was quite interesting, truly, but my bum falling numb sent signals for my eyes to feel droopy. I’m not used to sitting for eight hours straight. Granted, we had a dabble of breaks, but for someone who’s been working on their feet for the past two years, sitting still isn’t easy. I feel like a child, squirming and fidgeting. Crossing and uncrossing my legs. Leaning forward then slouching back. Cheek resting on hand to arms folded in front. I must’ve burned twice as many calories than if I had been stiff as a rock.

During this orientation, I sat surrounded by nurses. A bit intimidating. And for no apparent reason. If this is the profession I want to go into, I better get used to it. Because I’ll be there one day. One day. I have to believe.

After groggily stepping into my auto at the conclusion of the lecture-inducing sedation, I sped just a little too fast to get home. And when I opened the door, the most extraordinary of smells drifted straight to my nose. Mmmm, mmmm. Hollins had cranked out the crockpot and had a bowl of ‘black bean and corn soup’ simmering warmly. With fresh cornbread in the oven. Thank you, my love, for having the best therapy available for a glazed-eyed soul.

Or perhaps I’m saving the best therapy for later.
In the bedroom…

all brunette, thank you

…Morning thoughts surfacing…

.What a stale mouth. What acerbic breath. I wonder why, when you brush your teeth at night, the following morning leaves your mouth with a feeling as if it hasn’t been brushed for a week.

.I’ve been working out religiously for quite a bit now, but have recently picked up the pace. I still hold fast to running. But I’m stumped. Whenever I start to lose weight, my breasts are the first to look, well, different. Not the case now. While my legs are toning and my arms are feeling sculpted, my breasts are still enormous. Wretched buggers. Why can’t you be perky and pretty? It’d be much easier to run without you bouncing up to my nose.

.My hair is looking rather lovely these days. I’m not one to toss out compliments to myself so it’s a surprise that I’m actually reveling in my head of thick hair. It’s quite right in length, now that’s it’s surpassed the Dorothy Hamilton cut, which I nearly cried about. The coloring is back to natural too. All brunette, thank you.

.I love, love, love cereal. I could eat it morning, noon, and night. What is it about a bowl of cereal splashed with milk? Why is it practically orgasmic for me?

.Hollins and I long for a puppy. As strange as it sounds, I’ve nearly vomited because I’m aching for one so badly. A little golden retriever to lick my face, jump into my lap, and warm my feet in bed. And Hollins. He is yearning for one it almost makes him sick to his stomach. Why is that something incredibly adorable and beautiful could make us feel ill?

.John. I spotted him again this day as Hollins and I cruised to a stop at the red light. He, with a plastic bag stuffed through a slash in his jacket, just strolled along the crosswalk. My heart felt heavy to see him walking in sandals, especially with three inches of snow dumped on the city just yesterday. Oh, John. If only you knew that every time I see you, my breath stops. For a moment.

.Cyberspace writers exhibit the most creative of thoughts. The most intuitiveness of scripts. The most dramatic of lives. My joy throbs in visiting many each day. Fondling their words. Poking inside what their mind walls may seclude. If ever I feel lonely, even briefly, I settle among you poets, you authors, and I suddenly feel warm. And cozy.

the shyest person you'll ever meet

I’ve been secluded somewhat. Separated from friendships woven with countless threads of late-night laughs and witty conversings. It’s one thing to voice to one another through cyberspace. It’s quite another to chatter with one another face to face.

Living in the city has created obstacles in creating new friendships. I’m not pitying myself because I have had the opportunity to unshadow myself. To emerge from shy waters. Dripping with a friendly greeting and introduction.

Hi. I’m Rachel, and I’m probably the shyest person you’ll ever meet. (Whew.) Time for a drink, yes?

Oy! The above is absolutely out of my character though. Yes, I fail to make first moves. I falter upon a shielded, guarded demeanor. I flaunt a demureness as if that’s how I truly am. And it all leads me to ask, “What have I become now?”

Hollins has always said I have this ‘life’ come about me when I’m with old friends. Like I pick up where we left off. I am myself. Truly. I am the extrovert I’ve always sought after.

Somewhere during my late-teens, I lost my extrovert nature. Introverted aspects of life started sneaking into my space. My space, my aura. My aura, my blood. I lost something that has been one of the biggest struggles to attain once again. I lost it to a slipping self-esteem. To a doubt in my abilities. To an emotionally-threatening body image. And I hate to admit that it’s taken half a decade to do just that.

Admit it.

I was happy before. Then unhappy. Now, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. It’s in cherishing the little things that has spun the web of my existence into a beautiful, maturing woman. I am missing relationships with old friends and frozen to relationships with new friends. But in time, due time, I am positive that a sprinkling of warm friendships will break the ice of me.

Until then, cheers to the ladies I love.

the hills of fresh blooms

A beautiful, soft flower. Emitting blossoms of sweet perfume. I adore these pedal droplets, brushing smooth fuchsias and crimsons against my nose. Flowers truly have an overlooked power of creating a breath of tranquillity. To create a sight for sore eyes.

I, the wayfarer, have passed along many a garden in our neighborhood. Sprouting stout, small. Thin, tall. Swaying against the wind in whimsical fashion. I’ve watched a delicate bloom provide a bee’s humble hum or a butterfly’s free-falling flutter. I’ve eyed a bruised petal, a leaf crumpled and browning when fall’s sun fades and winter sets in.

So spring, do come out and play. I am nearly ready for the melting snow and breeze chills to cascade away. Away behind the hills of fresh blooms. For vain flowers alike to give birth once again.

green paper and golden coins

I never thought I’d say this. Ever. But I love living on a budget. Truly. Money is a precious commodity now when before, I used to frivolously toss it around without a second thought. This love of a budget is coming from a full-fledged shopaholic, one whose money burns a hole in her pocket.

I just never thought I’d say this. Ever.

When I landed in the hospital last July, it couldn’t even dawn on me how expenses were skyrocketing. Sick and miserable, the hospital bill was the last thing on my mind. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that the bomb dropped. Since Hollins and I had just moved, with little time to change health insurance companies, my insurance provided only a scraping of help. We were left to shell out pockets of money, dipping into savings that were intended for the future.

And all I could plead was, “Not now… . Not now.”

We will be paying off the last of the hospital bill this week. Sigh. We haven’t had the leisure to splurge our money. But it’s been one of the most pleasing times thus far. To survive and be content nonetheless.

Things will be changing soon. My new job at the medical center will provide sufficient income. And more. It’s comforting, but at the same time, spending becomes easier. I don’t know why, but having the limits, the need for “second-thoughts”, and cautious care for green paper and golden coins makes me feel less selfish. In control.

I never thought I’d say this. But I hope our budget stays strict. That we save and save, one day creating a pot of gold.

03.03.03

Three. Three. Three.

I circled this day in my date book. I did so perhaps a month ago because I have no recollection of doing so recently. It makes me chuckle to see the pen swirl around the day because I know, I know, I did it for a reason. For changes. For the evolution of newness, waiting to sprout from my core.

I am not one to make resolutions at the beginning of a new year because oy!, I have never been one to stick with them, no matter how much I dig my nails into them. They are within my reach for a few weeks, at best, but I slowly loosen my grip on them to the point that any shred of resolution becomes far from reach.

I circled this day in my date book because I’ve had a handful of resolutions, waiting to be grasped. I dare not disclose what they are because I’m a bit superstitious, worrying that they may not happen just as a wish may not come true if revealed. How silly is that? Plain silly albeit comfortable silly.

The secret is I’m just adding a little bit of fun to this ‘tres trio’ day.

an angel

A man sauntered into the bakery one morning, dripping of a sour smell and looking ragged and chilled. I caught his eye standing there. He dipped his head, staring back at me with sunken eyes. A most beautiful pair of eyes hidden behind stringy hair and dirt stains tattooing his face and hands. I caught his eyes, and he peered at me, his body heavy with the burden of life without a home. Of life, perhaps, without shelter. Of life, possibly, without love.

His name is John. He slipped in every morning, still drenched in a filthy stench. But I started looking forward to seeing him each day. Just to know that he survived another day. Another hour. Another breath.

He ordered the exact same thing each day. A small French Roast. Coffee. With free refills, I replenished his cup at least two more times before he would disappear again.

Before long, I spoke with John. I said hello, and offered him a free cup of coffee. He shook his head and counted his change, penny for penny. I immediately felt horrible, realizing I may have infringed on his pride. He never wanted pity. He never asked for my worry. All he wanted was a corner table in the warmth of our establishment where he could sip hot java, read a leftover newspaper, and whistle to tunes drifting from the ceiling speakers. All he wanted was his pride.

John stopped coming in after the Thanksgiving holiday. I wondered about him. His journeys. His whereabouts.

Then, John’s father dropped by the bakery one day, looking for him. His eyes cried panic. A wonderful man looking for his lost 30-something son. All I could say to comfort him was that whenever John ordered his coffee, taking it into his hands like a delicate jewel, he looked happy. He looked as if I’d done the greatest thing in the world for him.

Months have passed, and John has never returned. I thought the worst until my fortune of seeing him diminished all worries. Hollins and I were strolling along the busy University avenue, and I stopped mid-step. A hundred feet away stood John, clutching his plastic bag and stroking his beard. I nearly lost my breath. I nearly cried because all I could do was smile and whisper, “There you are.”

Though John does not cross paths with the bakery anymore, I am thankful for catching a glimpse of him. When his father returned not too long ago, I spilled my good news. His father grinned, thanking me profusely. He shook my hand and exited.

Dear John. I never thought a homeless man would be an angel. But you are.

You are beauty unseen.

from a scrap of paper

People, both distinguished and plain, have been portraying words of wisdom.

From the dawn of civilization. To now.

And it is what separates us from all other life on this planet.

It is a comfort to know that there are a myriad of voices, speaking to issues that we face throughout our lives. There is essence in simplicity. But. It is elusive. It comes to those who experience life with eyes open and ears pricked. It enters a mind only if it is attuned to its surroundings.

Every glimpse of wisdom that I catch shapes a view. It inspires self-reflection. Meditation. Travel on my own path of imagination.

In the beginning of this journal, I crafted thoughts and prose about single words. Words leading into introspection. Unique flutters of the heart that floated right in front of me. And I turn to this form of sanctuary again, returning from a long hiatus in which I proposed to collect myself. I allowed myself to resonate with wise words.

It isn’t until now that I discovered the jewel of myself. In a week, I will be starting a new job that I have been pursuing ferociously for the past three months. At long last, I am seeking out my intended identity to run with it. Explore it. Squeeze the life out of it. Only so the mirror image of me can reflect a smile.

Without haste, I bring a collection of visionaries, painting grand pictures with a single phrase. It seems appropriate that on this day, the first of March, I return renewed.

And deeply inspired.

another sunday night

Another Sunday night. Another evening to cozy up beneath our new, pine-scented Christmas tree. Lights dazzle. Décor sparkles. It’s a fabulous sight to behold.

Perhaps I never knew how much I value the Holidays. Not until I’m miles away from all family. Not until I sit in the sanctuary and listen to persons share of family illness and personal crisis alike. My kin are healthy and that joys me to no end.

I don’t feel so alone then. Nor so far away.

And I’ll be home for Christmas. Soon.

i can only hope

Good news is floating around me. It radiates my face. Increases the latitude of my smile. And I cannot help but enjoy my day off even more.

My cousin in New York City gave birth to a lovely baby girl. Lucia Marie. She came into the world just one day shy of my birth day 24 years ago. I can only hope she grows up to be just as fabulous as her mother.

My in-laws left for China this day. They are visiting my brother-in-law, who has been living there for the past three months. My husband’s former mentor has also joined the caravan. What a fantastic opportunity to see a treasured culture and vivid lands. I can only hope they experience to their heart’s content in the next ten days.

My Self. I gifted myself for my birthday. Heading out to the shopping plaza around noonish, my feet strolled past boutique and shoppe alike. Until my eyes fell on beautiful Dupioni silk. Sapphire blue glowing. I spotted a duo of pillows, filled with down.

Happy birthday to me.

I have had such a wonderful time spicing up our apartment in a sophisticated, modernistic vibe. It’s homey. And I love it. I can only hope my head will sink into the pillows as I settle in for my pre-evening sofa nap.

twenty four

‘Tis been a lovely day. My birthday. I’ve enjoyed a quiet celebration at home this day, particularly because the hustle and bustle of post-Thanksgiving frenzy occurred the previous two days. Nothing like a holiday to bring us out of our regular cycle. Eyeing three films on screen in a span of 48 hours. Gorging on a fancy turkey buffet at a neighbor’s home thirty miles away. Schmoozing with Carrie and her other fabulous 30-somethings in the Third Season. Yes, ‘twas a fabulous weekend overall and a fine birthday for me today.

I am. Twenty four. I find it utterly unexciting. I anticipate more on my next birthday. I’m not sure why, but perhaps turning twenty five will create a few sparks.

I telephoned my friend yesterday. A best friend through childhood and on. We giggled just like in the old days, but in the same tone, I can tell we’ve both matured. We’re newlyweds, making ends meet as best possible. And yet, I still feel like a little school girl sometimes when I talk with her. Like we’ve matured, but we’re not quite grown up.

On that note, I need to go play with my husband. Because that’s what twenty-four year old kids do.

step right up

People are exhibiting the strangest faces these days. At work, I run into everything from a puzzled and contorted face with wrinkled eyebrows to a cheery and optimistic face with bright eyes. Obviously, each facial expression dawns a different feeling, evoking either an “Oooh, could you just hurry through the line?” to “I would love to help you. Step right up.”

Of course, I have to exude the latter feeling either way. No need to let disgruntled faces turn me into the Wicked Witch of the West.

Working at the bakery is rather cumbersome, and I am eagerly anticipating my activity in the nursing field soon. I know I will run into the same facial expressions, perhaps the same people.
But wait. That would be odd, I think. They’d probably give me the puzzled and contorted face, questioning, “Didn’t you used to work at the bakery across the street?”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” I’d nod. Shame, shame.

But seriously. I graduated nearly a year and a half ago with all sorts of studies. A la Sociology. And InterCultural Studies. And Religion. But no, that’s just not good enough. Now, I want to pursue Nursing.

And it all makes me chuckle because I never knew what I wanted to do when I entered into the good ol’ collegiate studies. Now that I know exactly what I want to do, I have to go through yet another program. Unrelated. All new.

Oy.

I wish I could’ve made up my mind faster.

cut loose the crooked joints

I have been meaning to compose for some time now, but the words are sticky, glued to my throat.

There is an aching festering within my entire body. The fatigue of parallel work weeks is drawing from my energy resources.

What happened to the spirit? The funk?

Because all I yearn to do is sink into my bed, curl beneath the covers, and drown out the world with soft, sweet slumber.

I also just want to kick my fatigue to the curb. Hence, trolling away to my bed is not the answer.

A swift workout is in order for this late day. Run off steam. Cut loose the crooked joints. Breeze through the fresh day of sunshine and sailing clouds. This is the medicine that works best.

Tonight, I feel a good film would be worth viewing. Or perhaps a board-game, say Trivial Pursuit, to bite the brain cells of knowledge. My love is so splendid at this game that I positively feel weak against him. However, I can play a mean game of Yahtzee, and perhaps that challenge is mine to offer.

A night on the town could be intoxicatingly soothing as well. To stroll beneath a sprinkling of stars. To wander over the shadows of the river. To gaze upon glowing brilliancy of skyscrapers against black midnight.

Whatever may be, this fatigue will not tie me down.

everything matters

There’s a time when everything matters. This time is now.

I wake up in the middle of the night to roll over, and there he is. I look at him, sleeping peacefully with soft gurgles sneaking from his lips ajar. I close my smiling eyes, taking in a deep breath of the midnight air. I blow him a kiss. Because he means the world to me.

I sit before the glowing box, my dancing fingers strumming the keyboard in synchronized rhythm. The faint light creeps slowly up. Then slowly down. The scan is complete, and I quickly trim, crop, and size-down the pictures to perfection. As I thumb through the pictures, snapped at my girlfriend’s wedding, I feel the nostalgia craftily weaseling its way into my thoughts. But I don’t mind. Because she means the world to me.

I sift through old letters and cards. Each one phrases details of life, of love, of labor. My family envelops me in a circle of relationships and companionship. Showing me the ways outside the bubble of my home. Supporting me into my role of big-city woman from small-town girl. I just look at the photographs and writings surrounding me, and there are threads of their souls woven into each one. And these adorn my walls, accent my frames, and nestle cozily in my shoebox. Because they mean the world to me.

When I feel washed up and wilted, I simply remember the walls, the photographs, and the shoebox in the closet. I remember the lover beside me.

Because I don’t ever want to forget that they all have I love you written all over them.