Settle in and make yourself at home. And bring me a beer.
Even in Death
We fear phallic ego
Far more than the Reaper
Ladies in waiting, blades in teeth
Fighting wolves
Hungry for flesh, soulless underneath
Even in Death
They can’t be trusted
Break my bones
Singe my flesh
I’d rather be ashes
Then trust “Not All Men”
Then trust “Not All Men”
Tranquil surface, unperturbed
Screaming beneath the water
Fighting currents
That try to drag me under
Screaming beneath the water
Fighting currents
That try to drag me under
World paddles by
Fighting currents
That try to drag me under
World paddles by
Last bubble pops, no one nearby
Alive, in most regards. Breathing, clinically. Functioning, but only barely. Grasping for air, beneath the surface. Lungs are gurgling, failing miserably.
Hitching gasps, under a smile.
Wheezing at the core, seizing mental capacity. Masking terror under “I’m fine”. Hiding in plain sight. Falling further, sliding faster; no one seems to notice.
Drowning above the surface; fighting to stay alive.
Choking; air or water, what difference does it make? Ticking, slowly by, time seems to halt; struggling to stay here, focus is all but gone. How can I focus when I feel like I’m dying?
Alive…but just barely.
Head first into that rain. We may not know the strength of the storms that lay before us, but we plow on.
Rain boots, umbrellas, parkas; coping, listening, venting. Tools of the survival box. Ways to keep pushing through. Head first into that rain.
Puddles that know no depth, merging and swirling; unavoidable and growing deeper. I see it before me, but I can’t escape them. I know it’s coming for me, I hope it doesn’t drown me. Head first into that rain.
When will it end? Will I see daylight again? Will the thunder always loom in the recesses?
I can’t know for sure, just try to stay dry. Alive, another day. Eyes forward, dodging and jogging by. Always watching ahead.
But, first; head first into that rain.
“Money can’t buy you happiness”…but my bills would be happier, paid. They say it can’t solve all of your problems, but I know about a dozen that would no longer exist if I had just a smidge more excess…
Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can fill my fridge and stomach, rather than hear it grumble and “make $20 last until payday.”
Money can’t buy you happiness, but it keeps the home warm when the air is nipping at your face.
Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you peace of mind; those tires won’t slip and slide in the rain anymore, when they’re brand new and not about to give way.
Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you a ticket to see the family you haven’t seen in 15 years and half a country away.
Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can take you to a higher education; where there’s a stronger mind and more possibilities.
Money can’t buy you happiness…but I want it to at least buy me security…
Mother, may I?
May I free myself from the restraints of a man’s wandering hands?
Or do I have to bear the weight of a six second outcome I cried against?
Mother, may I?
Mother may I take the reigns over my own domain or will I face persecution?
May I stay close by or do I need a tent and supplies, for shelter…and safety?
Mother, may I?
May I be deemed a criminal for protecting my health, the doctor says I may not make it?
May I stay with you for the night, for comfort, my dearest friend?
Mother, may I?
May I have just the control of what I was given or face persecution for saying, “no”?
Mother, may I?
Mother, may I never have to ask anyone’s permission, ever again…?
Once a friend, but not always the case. An enemy in a smiling face. She is me, I am she. Never will we part, you see? Glasses are worn, but it’s still hard to see. I think I need help, keeping up to the pace. I have learned what it means to be “time-blind”; I’m always in a race.
In a rush, in a frenzy. Boy…it makes my head dizzy. Struggle to keep a list, smile and blame “quirkiness”. Wondering and puzzling, “does adulthood fix this?”
Routines in adolescence, life so easy, never knew it’s presence. Hardly did I think, “I’ve got issues”. Never really struggled didn’t need the tissues. Adulthood came with her bright and seducing freedom. Smacked me hard, underlying issues, who needs them?
Now I know; this was always there. It was pretty quiet, just waiting there. It was happy, staying in it’s lane, there was no need for it to stray. It had it all, it didn’t need to play. But take away the lines, the barriers; it runs free and I try to carry it back with me…
Oh, but don’t you see? I don’t really care for what you’ve given me. I don’t care for it at all. The tick never stops. The drip never drops. I’m here with too much..far too much to carry. This is my burden? To be extraordinary yet mundane. I’m saddled with one as a result of the other??
Can’t you split them? Don’t I have a choice? Is there any rhyme or reason? The gray makes the rules. I know, somehow, I’m still sane. Yet here I am, day to day. Trying to handle my mundane. Handle it with grace; handle it with skill. Handle it with a poise? Oh, I never will.
There is no choice for split. I’ve been given this gift; but I can re-wrap it. Make it easier to carry. Bear the weight of her; saddle it and make it less scary. Take control of my cards. Be the one to finally make choices, to the furthest possible extent.
There’s no rule book. There is no exchange. There is no receipt, for this gift that no one desires. But we take it, smile, and do our best. This gift isn’t great, she’s not shiny, she isn’t terribly useful. But we are who we are, despite her. We can be shiny and exuberant, even with a blemish, a spot, a dent we didn’t intend.
Can you see me? I try to do what I’m supposed to do but it’s never *quite* right. I mess up, miss a step, take the path you didn’t choose. I aim for the shot, usually bounce and miss. From time to time, I hit the mark, but the clock sped by. I set my sights for the destination, focus, step by step. I’ll make it there, soon.
Though, you never wished for the tortoise; you begged for the hare. Get to the destination! It’s right there! You can literally see it, you remind me. Tell me my every wrong turn. Tell me of all of your victories, and how I have none. Slyly, a whiff of breath; a joke of Freudian slip.
I’m running, and running; I’ll get there soon. Not every pothole is planned, not every misstep is against you. For shame, I shall not have, when I’ve fought this far. The shot is mine, the speed is fine. I’ve already won. Can you see me; can you see what I’ve done?
A wave, I see her coming, just off the shore. She’s going to have her moment, and then several more. She’ll do lots of damage, she’ll give me sunshine then grey. She’ll make me wish for high tide then beg for days. She makes me want to float down her river of carnage, motionless, and yielding.
Wondering when she’ll subside, slowly ease away. Some days she comes without warning, no storm can be blamed. There is no oceanic disturbance. No reason for the change.
Her initial shock felt by a town of only one. Sometimes her pain can be felt in neighboring countries, usually unaware. They extend their support, but can’t help the damage being done by her swift waters.
They wish to help. They, too, have known her strength. Her tidal waves of plenty. They’ve seen the destruction in their own wakes. Rebuilt their own cities.
What does it mean to be hungry? We all know the traditional hunger of forgetting to eat our lunch and feeling ravenous by the end of the day. That is something we’ve all felt at least once. No, I wonder what other ways we can be hungry.
There is the hunger that longs to be known and understood. Your desire to express yourself and not be casually dismissed. To know that your passions are not mere coffee table musings for the ones we hold dear. To be seen, truly seen when we bare our souls to another, in what makes our hearts sing the loudest. It cuts with the blade of a serrated edge to proudly exclaim that this is me and what I love and to be told, simply, meh. Or worse.
There is the hunger for a soul of mutual musing. A soul that hugs before you even touch. You long for them, on every level. The soul knows first, the nervous system, the subconscious mind. They long; they growl and demand what they want most. To be fed, have its needs met. Meet the other piece that we crave most.
There is hunger for knowledge, growth, and self-discovery. The brain is so very intense, complex, and intriguing. And despite every human having one and many years of study, we still know so little about the crown jewel of the cranium. We constantly wish to improve ourselves; it’s human. We wish to grow in every way, including the knowledge bases we each have, individually. But we seek to grow that which we hardly even know about, and that itself is a hunger in which we don’t even fully understand it’s very roots.
Several of many; many ways we could be ravenously hungry for…more. Many ways, many sub-categories. Broad and universal, individual and personal.
What other ways can we be hungry? What motivates this hunger? What first human sat down and said..I want, something…more? More than what I thought possible. I want more, I crave it. Now, to find my food…
Very rarely during my childhood was I the girl that wanted Barbies and makeup (not that that is inherently bad-I just knew I was different). I wanted so much more; I wanted to chase tornadoes. I grew up adoring the meteorologists on the various news stations. Absorbing every bit of weather jargon they could give me. They didn’t know it, but they were teaching a generation of young women about a love for a different kind of science.
A love that unlike several relationships I’ve been apart of, has never failed me. It gave me courage, passion, and encouragement. It nourished a mind that hungered for the knowledge sixth grade science class would give me. Yearned for more as I met real storm chasers at a gas station in rural Oklahoma. And fueled a special kind of crazy that would push a 10 year old me to dash to the end of our street when I saw a funnel cloud forming, just so I could watch it up close.
I do not crave the destruction that I know weather can bring. I’d rather get people the knowledge they need to make safe, informed decisions. I know destruction is usually imminent and I prepare for that. What I do crave is the thrill. The sheer beauty that does come with that destructive power. Pure, unadulterated power. I learned and acknowledged early on that Mother Nature is the boss. She calls the shots and we stand back and admire it, like Bob Ross viewers.
It is a common trait amongst us to share that passion; that drive to learn more. The desire to be in the moment, forecasting by the seat of your pants, watching something unfold that only mere hours ago, didn’t even exist.
This love is a fierce one. It has beckoned me for 20 years and will call me for 40 more (or until I die). If my childhood was were the seeds took root, my adulthood is where it continues to grow.
An empty field lays before me and I take stock in its simplicity. Vivid green interspersed with patches of brown (a sign that autumn is slowly starting to take affect) on small, rolling hills. A place I come to to not only think and get my thoughts in order but to also *not* think. To just simply…be.
A place my dog (who is no small beast) loves to walk by my side, along its tree-lined edge. Together, inhaling the sweet southern staple of honeysuckle, carried by the breeze. As inviting as homemade sweet tea and apple pie, made from tender hands that slowly worked their love into its crust.
The fields themselves are plain, to the eyes, but beautiful for simplicity alone. Like a calm ocean horizon; uniform in its depiction but deeper in meaning than its surface will show. It’s knee length grass swaying, a gentle natural hula.
It doesn’t have flowers adorning it. It’s not special, it’s not conventionally attractive to passers by. But it offers its own blank canvas. A place to simply breathe. As I breathe in, I try match her rhythm. Meet her hula. Not be more than what I am. Be beautiful for my own simplicity. Swaying with her, in the breeze.
As I lay in my navy blue and red hammock and stare up the trees above me, I wonder about life. My life, in particular. Less of an existential crisis, more of a general young adult, stress-induced panic. You know the one.
The one where you are struggling to make enough money to pay bills, let alone go back to school to finish the degree you long for. You don’t give up hope and keep working to reach that goal. You worry and stress as the days tick by and sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever make it but your hope and grit fuel you. On you press.
The one where your anxiety (that you’ve had your whole life and combat almost daily) tells you that your family and friends don’t really love you and that they are doing so much better at this “adulting” thing than you ever hope to. But…you know they’re just as stressed and overworked as you are. Quite possibly dealing with the same social anxieties you face daily. You take comfort in knowing that they love you, even if that love shows up in texts that say, “drive safe” and “did you make it home okay?”. On you press.
The one where dating these days is a (unwanted) blur and you’d rather not swipe left or right to figure out who to talk to next. The one where you’d rather not be judged by a few pixels on the internet and more for your passion for sushi and love of nature. You know you’ll find your love one day and organically is the route you’d prefer most, anyways. On you press.
The one where the world (and it’s future) freak you out. You strive to be heard but the many voices are deafening and hurl insults like confetti. You know you have a voice to offer the world but you’d rather observe and learn from all that you can before you make a debut. On you press.
The one where a hobby that you have invested so much of yourself in -heart, soul, time, and money- and you still feel like an imposter. You *know* that has all paid off as you see your skills getting a little better everyday, but you still look at yourself in the mirror and know that your family doesn’t take you and your love for your hobby seriously. You begin to feel as though they are right. But you look to your coach, hear his words of encouragement, and know that your journey is still a long one. You have come far but more is still to come. On you press.
Eventually, your panic begins to fade. You may still be worried, but things fall into place (even if it takes a while to do so). You calm the noise that lays between your ears and do as I do; listen to the crickets from my hammock as the twilight takes place.
Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
Shoes Off at the Door 