Take Flight

I had just spent the day away from home, wandering about Ikea and feeling blissful about the rain. I felt light too, not a care in the world. I pressed the button shutting off the stereo, my cheeks feeling hot in the late winter night, which was odd. All the snow had been melted from a recent lucky streak of sunny days and was being replaced by large plops of rain chasing each other down my windshield. In the silence of the hum of my car, gas needle pointed to empty I felt my eyes grow wet, and create a puddle just a tiny bit at the rim. I had gotten the call from my mom. Then she casually told me my new shoes arrived in the mail as well.

I had been served a subpoena to arrive in court. My stomach immediately recoiled, and I played it off. Keeping my voice sweet. All I envisioned was the cop handing my mom the papers in the rain in the driveway of the house I grew up in. It was finally happening, and this was becoming a sturdy reality. 

In 2012 I had been involved with a heavy emotionally destructive relationship that over a few months escalated into stalking, abuse, and harassment. The State, now charging him with several felonies for the harm he cause to me and my family. Reality was in the passenger seat next to me on the freeway as I hummed through the night. For the past year or so I had felt emotionally drained, like I had forgotten who I was with all the muddle and heartache. The case did everything and more to my sense of self. I fell quiet and isolated. Even more, I pretended like nothing had ever happened. That I was fine and if I don't speak up it won't keep haunting. It kept getting harder to hold it in, because the more time went by the more I felt like it never was real.  That I was feeling so down and out for no reason. Worse off nobody asked. It was hoodoo amongst my loved ones. I could even detect distance when I mentioned the weight to friends. I couldn't blame them, because it sat just as heavy with me. 

I set my car to cruise control, slowing my speed. I didn't want to go home and see that subpeona sitting on top of my package arrived in the mail like just a normal day. It seemed to ominous, to bleak. Often enough it would feel like a dark whole I couldn't quite climb out of. How was I ever going to face this guy in court? 

Then, like a miracle out of heaven,  I thought of this conversation I had with a friend at work. Somehow the conversation landed on birds. Not many people just strike up conversations about birds with me. This was a huge deal. My whole teenage years, I had fallen into a pattern of finding feathers (quite literally) underneath my toes directly in my path. I'd pick them up, and feel their tiny hairs growing in unison against the spine. I'd be in awe, every single time  taking them home in my pocket, or lodged in my hair behind my ear. They had risen to become a sign that God was telling me I was on the right path. Nothing on earth spoke to me as clearly as those feathers did. Birds became a beacon of who I wanted to become and how God views me. I even had a blog for years labeled "Little Feather." My Grandmother instilled that in me as a kid,  as we'd received birding books as gifts and watch the Blue Jays land in her backyard to eat peanuts. An avid birder, she'd always swear that looking to the sky was a persons happiest moments. She was a lighthouse, a guardian angel I always wanted to mimic. Anyway, back to this friend. He started talking about a Peregrine falcon, this falcon becoming close to extinction and only a few occupied the earth. This birds maximum speed reaching 200+ miles per hour in flight,  would knock pelicans off balance in a single strategic motion. This sent the pelican plummeting into the sea, ready for the falcon to devour. The circle of life. To me this was more than a typical conversation. It was my message in disguise. My eye opener, my symbol, my…dare I say it…little feather falling in my path. My message.  

I realized how important it was for me to get back to myself. I felt so strongly that I needed to advocate others to speak up, and let go of being afraid. Especially women, who feel they either need to hold back or hide what has really happened to them without fear of judgment that they may be criticized further. Uniting and then expressing can help bear the burden. I truly felt that speaking openly about your life, can help another deeply, by feeling less alone. 

As I walked up my steps, opened my door, and sure enough. The subpoena lay atop the brown package and the daily mail, just how I imagined. I kicked off my shoes. I felt like a bird. This was no feather in my path, but I felt I was being restored again, after a very very long time. This was it. It was time to close this ugly chapter in my life. It is time for me to take flight. 

Writing About Tangerines

My teacher placed a small tangerine on the corner of my desk. It was the first day of class, and the tiny woman bushed past me. Her lips crinkled around the edges as she spoke, and even when she was quiet I could faintly see the fine lines of pursed lips. I initially couldn't tell if she was mean or kind, but I liked her anyway. On the sheet of paper in front of me had a list of 1-15 writing prompts that were inspired by an orange.
I felt nervous, and explosion of butterflies. It had been so long since I had written, really written.
What if I was rejected? It echoed in my brain.

I was (and maybe still am a tiny bit) so scared of being rejected for my creative efforts.

It didn't take me long to realize that many people feel this way. That somewhere in someones head they create this image of themselves and how they can be. It also doesn't take long for you to be criticized for that effort. I felt it quick.

The first thing I wrote for that class was an elaborate poem, in a sort of format and context that was incredibly abstract.

The tiny teacher hated it.

All I could think of was all the abstract paintings hanging for millions of dollars all around the world, and lyrics, for heaven's sake lyrics! They never make sense, but they felt right. The musician knew what it meant, and left it up to interpretation.

From that point on I realized that anything we do can be left up for interpretation. There is no one in this world who can understand exactly the way you want to portray yourself. And the ways you choose to do it. And that is okay.

It has taken me years to understand that it is okay to not be understood.

Fear ends up ruling us to the point where we don't want to produce anymore, maybe because that lack of understanding is so immense or that fear you will be rejected because what you are doing isn't up to par with someone else opinion.  I had fallen into that trap, several times and for long bouts of time where the idea would come to me, but I would stop myself before getting humiliated in the creative process.

Everyone feels this, and everyone knows what it is like to be rejected. So I wasn't so alone in my paralyzing fear of creation.

It has taken me so long to let go, and untangle my thoughts about myself. It is amazing, the feeling when you are on the verge of breaking those bonds to be free.

And more importantly to be exactly who you want to be.

Bring on those tangerines, I'm ready to write.

Duplicate Atoms

Mothers stomach was swollen with children;

stretched skin pulled tight against a sacred saline. 

Ying-yanged in a slosh, beginning as little fish. 

With hairpin bones that were fragile and cloned. 

Eyelashes sprouting like dandelions; 

soon to be belly buttons.

Facing each other, mirrored, hovering.

Defying what predated us. 

Mothers eyes were gleaming beams, 

mid-dinner we felt the pull of gravity.

Setting down her silverware, 

red meat on her plate pulsating.

Tiny wet fingers coincided with my xeroxed sidekick.

In secret dialect we chirped, "Don't let us come December,

please let us come sooner."

Eternity shifted as my heart hurt, began to quiver.

Hospital halls were undoubtably pale, patients huddled,

the three of us swung by atop a stiff gurney. 

Mothers eyes closed, viewing pink. 

Doctors pulled out their marble hands 

embellished with chrome,

tore flesh to find flesh. 

Did mother see our faces painted Halloween

green in the basement bathroom,

as a witch, a zombie!

Two infant babies now being rushed

withinn opaque rubber glove hands

to an incubator made of plastic

Three pound bodies, we yawned

and felt syringes like fiberglass

itch on immaculate thin lining.

Purple skin, yellow skin, pink skin.

Should I be born? Wrinkled, raised

out of a warm bath, 

entertained by complete tranquility?

Gasping for air, thick mucus congealed.

While white ghosts whispered

us gently out of mist, out of paper. 

It was though on that gurney,

inside incubators pumped with air,

I visioned this mud dust 

my life with a duplicate, as heaven, as clouds.

Where identical feet would feel pavement,

know scrub oak and rooftops.

Chilling heartaches or summertime among stars

Aged to twenty-two find great tears fall

from wild blue yonder; 

we had once belonged there. 

Mothers eyes closed

As ours stayed open; same eyes, Pacific oceans.

Our existing red-blonde, a video tape ongoing.

Pinned at the seam, 

music chattered our teeth 

in the mid-night

after kissing boys 

with rose petal eyes. 

Quietly born out of velvet blood

accompanied in the womb.

Aside vibrating impatient atoms

filled with lives terror,

equally knowing blissful bewitchment.

Blurry suckling eyes,

wide with pristine day dreams,

Under humming yellow

fluorescents.

My Second Memory

Sometimes all this life I have lived feels like too much. Writing feels like letting out, and never forgetting it. The past few days I have been sick in bed, sitting heavy like a rock in my big white comforter. I have been challanging my writing in a way that seems to be spooking me a bit. Remembering my memories in a new light. Letting the odd things come out and look awkward and silent in front of who I am now. The peculiar little lies I may have made up, or the things that seemed right back then, and wrong now. My innocence is what kills me. How could I have not understood those itty details? And how can I get back there, to feel that ounce of innocence towards life? 

I decided to conjure up, and write my first memory. Okay, I lied it is my second memory. 

We had just moved into our new house. At the time I didn't realize the discomfort that would follow living there. The childlike innocence that kept your eyes clear of any impurities of the situation that has befallen you. (What I was to find out later on in my life was that this home was meant to be temporary. We ended up here for almost 17 years.) As a kid you were just grateful and happy to be somewhere that sheltered your head. Never did I realize the doom and gloom.  I must have been four just turning five. It was October 25th 1995. There is a side window on our two story duplex home that looks over the sidewalk which winds up to the doorway (This doorway in my teenage years was painted the most wonderful deep red, which I hated back then).  There wasn't any furniture obstructing my view. I stood maybe a head and a half above the window seal. I remember the trees hadn't grown tall, and you could capture the neighbors house in plain sight only feet from ours. The land around us looked so different back then. The garden full of wild flowers, and trees just starting to sprout. I stood there looking and waiting. In this moment I am not sure if I was actually waiting for what was coming or just looking. My hair was cut just to the bottom of my jawbone. Dusty blonde, with a colorful plastic clip holding some straggling strands away from my eyes. I wore a pink cotton dress with colorful patterns. My twin sister right next to me wearing the same thing with slight variation. All of the sudden I see my Grandma Clark waltzing up the sidewalk. He hair short in a fluff of curls, her glasses pressed right up to the bridge of her nose. She walked unaware of my gaze. She was carrying gift boxes covered in bright birthday wrapping paper. From this memory I hadn't realized that just by looking at the box I knew what it was. A box in the perfect shape of a Barbie Doll. This didn't seem weird to me that I already knew. It may have been just a lucky guess or a premature premonition of the contents. Or even I just wanted a Barbie Doll so badly that I used my five year old mind powers to bring me one. I also don't remember feeling bad that I already knew. Just excited to get a birthday gift. Grandma walked inside, hollering a "Yoo-hoo!" To make all known that she had arrived. My sister and I left the window and ran to greet her with little hugs. We opened the gifts with gratitude and played to our hearts content. 

It is amazing what we choose to remember from our lives, and what we seem to forget. What we remember is so powerful and can contain may unearthed metaphors for what we may or may not realize in this existence  Metephors that I don't dare spill here, for they are all transitory and fragile to those who simply don't understand your life and the details that surpass it. Although I will say...that in this 5 year old memory I had so much hope. And even so much instinct that I want to maintain in my daily life now. 

As we grow, it is amazing to find all the things that still are carried with you. Refelcting on these things can either dampen your spirit or let it move forward.

After all when I start writing about my life and the things in it, it doesn't seem quite real. Some things feel very intriquing because I don't understand. Other things feel more like an elaborate hoax.


MLC

In A Day: One

Thick brownish liquid dumped carefully into a tall clear glass. 

I drank, trying to keep my eyes open. 

The shades were drawn but I could still feel the loom of the clouds out.

I silently hoped for rain. And lots of it. 

Rain is the perfect weather for poetry. 

...

My legs moved quickly covered by sheer blue fabric. 

My shoes too small struggling to stay on my feet. 

The clouds still showed no chance of rain but I still glanced up with hope.

Gradually growing more sleepy under the sky. 

My hair seemed to bother me as I raced to the library steps.

 I felt rushed but didn't mind. My thoughts pacing back to being a five year old in this building.

 I longed for children to take here, to fill bags of books to read on days like these. 

When the air was warm and wet.

 I resisted the temptation to push my scraggly blonde bangs to the side. 

...

Metal chairs caressed my backbone. Sugar coated my insides with blue food coloring. 

Lola tugging at her leash.

 My cheeks flush as she uses the bright flower bed as a restroom. 

...

"Do you ever think about them?" She asked. 

I nodded.

 We walked, and felt a few drops on our noses. 

Lola's claws digging into my arm. I shifted her, uneasily.  

"They haunt me. Like ghosts, they are always like ghosts."

"Who? Which ones?"

"All of them." I replied carelessly. 

...

We laughed as the blonde Russian waitress walked away.

 She had kind eyes and brought us purple drinks made from sweet corn. 

I heard my sisters voice carry Spanish words eloquently.

 My stomach aching, I shoveled food into my now silenced mouth that had earlier been chatting and laughing. 

I was in a Peruvian restaurant eating Chinese food with a Russian waitress and an American family. 

By now the clouds had let out all their emotions behind my back. 

...

I shuffled my sneakers across the cement, making sure to pay attention to the crosswalk signs.

 I had changed my shoes. Old Converse, with flames drawn on the toe.

 Being 15 caught up to me. I didn't care too much that it had. 

Worry kept creeping through me. It would start at the bottom of my stomach.

 My eyes panicked trying to keep up with Lola's quick legs.

 Her sound didn't exist against the walkway. Her body so small.

 I felt a turn inside me. Worried.

 Tomorrow she'd be in another persons care, sedated and sick. I couldn't help but think of the masked faces that would hang over her tiny animal body.

 I picked her up and kissed her soft smooth head. It haunted me, but the five of us kept walking. 

We walked back and forth. Block after block came passing abandoned businesses and brand new ones. My father, storytelling. His daughters, smiling with occasional tears in their eyes.

 The sweetness of them was too great to utter. 

...

Pulling into the driveway there was feeling of missing.

 Darkness fell around the house we grew up in, no music playing through the static stereo.

 I felt my spirit pushing with passion, confessing regrets and promising a new world with room for direct words and doing more. 

My sister sat, spoke strongly and we felt completed some how.

 We had both been feeling the same.

 My face felt dirty with the passing of the day

. I could only think of scrubbing my toes in warm water. 

The sprinklers exactly at ten hitting her tires, car now silent from running too and fro.

Everything was silent, except our slightly tired voices.

 Inspiration ignited. Half an hour past as our feet wandered inside.

 I felt wrapped in comfort and knew I was there for a purpose. 

Still here for something. 

MLC

Carmel Dog

(WRITTEN JUNE 24TH 2013)

The chlorine salted my softened skin. While the crinkled scratchy towel safely fell around me. 

I stepped out under the stars as the world welcomed me with sweet air, warm enough for comfort. Stable enough to dance.

A glow, a tiny sigh. A spirit sprung into action with a few dainty inspired words.

My thoughts seemed to be everywhere. I thought of my turning stomach, and the ache of loneliness.

I also felt whole, and unfolded like a poem once discarded. 

Was it possible to feel these two things at once? I thought so. I still feel so.

Walking into the night air felt like a haven.

I was decorated with palm trees, a luau of intoxicating memories swung around my empty hip bones. 

The air (sweet) air I mentioned before lacked a sent and was fearful of belonging, so it just drifted contently. 

These memories laced back into the earlier day. Of Walter the dog, a carmel candy Cocker Spaniel racing on the floor. His soft paw fluffed up onto my arm.

His girth, chunky and happy.

I enjoyed him jumping so high. As he did so my soul jumped.

I couldn't help thinking…"Any dog that lands a spot in this place is set; in no way lacking love."

I imagined his doggie dreams, of running on the freeway with scissors attached  while his Mama herded him safely.

A better place now. 

I longed for the words that fit his rapture. 

None could place it. 

What would it take in life to be like Walter?

From fallen, to King? 

Agile carmel racing to feel, not to win. 

A graduation into loving old ringed fingers and eggs for breakfast. 

My heart set back to the water in front of me. I had forgotten how to write, and forced it often.

But it didn't feel like it when today came, or even the emptiness of the day before.

Mind in a fog, and face set to splinter.

It all made sense when the world felt so innocent.

Now, tiny bit wiser and the sense of forgiving.

Forgive you, forgive God, forgive the the anger residing.

I scratched my orange nails on my legs, through my white hair.

Slowly but surely I am always remembering who I am, and why I am.

It has always felt like discovery, a beginning.

Over and over again.

Constant forgiving.

I slid myself into the pool illuminated and calm, the same temperature of the air.

It wrapped itself around my lonely hipbones. 

I suddenly saw myself where I had always wanted to be.

To start doing, be direct.

Remind you to remind me.

My toes waterlogged, rough against plaster.

Raised and complete.

Forgiving, forgiven.

Present, and current.

The stars my dear friends, sending their quiet blessings deep down within me.

The moon in hiding, and counting the days til it can shine again. 

It is all a good memory, there is still a lot of fight.

And here I am again, remembering and correcting.

A part of me still back there, but a lot back in town. 

And why should we just stop, forget and let go?

No, no. 

Forgive, and be happy. Thats all there is to it. 

MLC