Holding On

 

I used to sneak into your room

while you slept

your chubby little arms up over your head

in relaxed tiny fists

the dimples on your cheeks

matched the ones on your hands

 

no matter how big you grew

no matter how distant your infancy started to feel

I would foolishly measure your little-ness

by those hand dimples

 

innocent, soft, milky white hands

with sweet short fingers, neatly trimmed nails

tiny peekaboo dimples over each knuckle

assuring me of what still remained:

your baby-ness and mushy-ness and delicious-ness

 

as long as I could still see those tiny hand dimples

I could believe you were still a baby

My baby

they filled in a while ago

along with your face and shoulders and arms

you are truly living up to your nickname now

The Gentle Giant

your shoulders almost as broad as your daddy’s

your muscles almost as strong

 

when I hug you

I have to get on my tippy toes

your arms surround me and make me question

who

at this point

is protecting who

 

those tiny, boyish, dimply hands are now

nearly the largest in the house

they open jars and lift heavy things

and can now hold me back with ease

when I try to tickle or wrestle with you

like we used to

 

the sweetness and softness are still there

when you humor me and still let me

hold your hand in the car while I drive

but now my hand is enveloped

swallowed by yours

they are grown-man-hands

but still feel like my baby’s hands

 

I snuck into your room last night

your now chiseled face was nearly hidden

by your Jurassic Park comforter

your body so big that

one foot nearly touched the wall at the end of the bed

it made my heart sing and ache to see that

your hand was curled around

an orange stuffed dinosaur

but as I leaned in to steal a silent kiss

I most definitely did not see

any

hand dimples

Returning to my writing and my self

After taking another hiatus from my writing, I realized (yet again) that I simply cannot not write. As it so often happens with The Universe, something perfectly timed landed in my lap (or my inbox, really), and I jumped back in. After completing the writing course with The Herstories Project, I decided to go down the memory lane of this blog and found this poem, which I wrote--how appropriately--after another one of my writing "breaks." I don't even remember writing it, but I thought: what a fitting way to come back here, to this space, and put my voice back out there.

Wish You Were Here

if you come back

to your words

your space

after a very long time

if you come back

does it matter

if anyone missed you

or only if

you missed yourself

if you come back

do you have to explain

to yourself

or anyone else

why you were gone

*originally posted here on October 4, 2014

20 years ago

I walked away

from a life I thought I was supposed to want

from the plans I made because I thought I was supposed to

from the picket fence dream that was someone else's

from the expectations everyone had for me

and the ones I forced on myself

I walked away

from always feeling out of breath

restricted

trapped

my voice was always too loud

my clothes were always too bright

my ideas were always too outlandish

I thought what I wanted was not what I was supposed to want

I thought who I was was not who I was supposed to be

I thought I was not strong enough

I walked away

20 years ago

a lifetime ago

just yesterday

and walked into a life I never thought possible

a life I thought I was greedy for wanting

a life I thought existed only in movies or books or my dreams

I was strong enough to walk away

to refuse everyone's opinions

to trust my own

to trust you

I walked away from a life that was never mine

and walked into ours

I am still in awe

and although you still take my breath away

now I can breathe

I am a writer

I am a writer

always have been

I remember

when I was little

I did not covet

my sister's clothes

so much

it was 

her typewriter

I could not

get to it

fast

enough

Sometimes

it lies dormant

for whatever the reason

I can not

tend to it

and I think

Oh

It is done

I am good

that part of me

I've had enough

I've done enough

I'm good

Then

it comes back

it gnaws at me

I ignore it

push it away

scoff

ignore

eye roll

wait

it will recede

that feeling

but then the feeling

becomes a need

and I am

simultaneously

irritated and relieved

it's there

it won't go away

dammit

I have to write again

I am a writer

always have been

and so

I am back

begrudgingly

here I am 

unavoidable

you can only ignore

who you are

for so long

Why your soulmate has got to be yourself - Throwback Thursday

When I got divorced at the ripe old age of 25 and moved into my first-ever apartment of my own, I put up a poem on the back of my bedroom door. That door eventually morphed into a sort of inspiration board. I taped torn out quotes and pictures and images that were meant to inspire me. What they did at the time, actually, was help me get through a really rough, disorienting stage of my life. Sixteen years and 3 different homes later, my messy back-of-a-door pseudo board is now a real bulletin board with completely different clippings and quotes and even purpose. Luckily, my board now just makes me happy and reminds me of moments and thoughts and a little bit of who I am. The only thing that remains is still that poem.

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

~Derek Walcott


Now, it's more of a reminder of the stranger I was to myself, and the "elation" and gratitude I feel still today at being able to "feast on" on my own life. But back then, here's the story behind the poem:


Why Your Soulmate Has Got To Be Yourself
*Originally posted here on April 12, 2013

I tore that poem out of the back of an Oprah magazine so many years ago, that I can barely remember. I laminated it and taped it up to my bedroom door, right next to my full length mirror. I didn't particularly reread it often; it just kinda stuck there. Every once in a while, I would read the lines: "The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door...". 

When I moved out of that little apartment, the only place I ever lived in by myself, during the most difficult time in my life, I carefully peeled back the tape's edges, packed it up along with some race numbers and quotes that had joined it on what had become my Inspiration Door (if you will), and took it with me.

The poem, once again, was carefully taped back up in my new home: the starter home I was now sharing with The Love of My Life. I was happy. I was fulfilled. Yet, the poem went back up. I didn't read those lines so often anymore, but I couldn't part with them. They needed to be there.

After a few years, one child, more joy, I untaped the laminated page once again, and packed it up to my Corner Lot Home in Suburbia (how the hell did that happen?!?) with my  Still Love of My Life, and up the poem went.

Those words, with me, for so long.

I barely remember the girl who needed the reminder...the girl who I used to be.

So very long ago, I would not have greeted myself at the door. I certainly would not have invited myself to sit and eat and drink.  I'm not really sure why. I just know that I couldn't own up to who I was. I couldn't really be proud of myself because I was too busy worrying about who other people thought I should be.

At some point, when the shit started hitting the fan inside my head, when I could stand the self-imposed repression no longer, I started to break out, little by little. Eventually, my little acts of rebellion turned into full-fledged metaphorical kicking and screaming and clawing. I needed out of that cage. I needed to fly.

I'd love to say that when that moment came, I simply went. But I didn't. I was hesitant and unsure and unsteady. In general, I was a fucking mess. The few people who I was blessed enough to have at my side suffered right along with me. They stood by me. They listened. They advised. They nodded their heads. And, when necessary, they'd shove me out of the cage I would occasionally fly back into to cower.

As rough and tenuous and unstable as that time was, I remember I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Those were the days when I'd read those lines: "The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door" and I actually believed it. I  knew the time would come. I just wasn't there yet. So I'd hang onto that when I felt frustrated or low or dark or worthless.

What happens in our lives that we start to feel that way about ourselves? What combination of events have to happen that some of us get to the point where we do not smile at our reflection in the mirror...that we would rather sit and have wine and bread with anyone else but ourselves...that we look to someone else--a spouse, a boyfriend, a child--to fulfill us, to make us feel whole and worthwhile? We depend on someone else's acceptance because we can't find it for ourselves.

The poem is still there, but I almost never even notice it anymore. It's just one more slip of paper on my closet wall. And certainly, there are days that I don't like myself so much. That I question whether I did the right thing or said the right thing or looked the right way. I second-guess myself. For a moment, I wish I could be more like (fill-in-the-blank-here) or a little less like myself. But on most days, I am able to invite myself in, open a bottle of wine, and feast on my own life. 

Little Miss Understood

Drawing credit: artprojectsforkids.org

sometimes I wonder

if

being misunderstood

often

and chronically

is actually a good thing

a sign

that you are

different

headstrong

passionate

your own person

that it really does not

occur to you

that what you

said

did

or how you chose

to live your life

was not

The Way You Were Supposed To

if perhaps

instead of it

being a curse

or a burden

it is

in actuality

a

beam

of light

that dances inside of you

all the time

you were born with it

and it is that light

that sometimes

blinds

confuses

frightens

Everyone Else

but that beam

is a lighthouse

it signals to the others

that are not Other

but

just

like

you

Recognition.

and it lights the way

as you stumble

second guessing

doubting

trying to

fit in

be more this

less that

definitely always much less that

that dancing guiding light

it is there

even when

you have to squint

because

no matter

how inconvenient

it is

to be

misunderstood

by so many

so often

it

is actually a good thing

This poem was inspired by a little fairy who walks around with a light so big inside of her, it's most definitely blinding (in the good way); but it's really about myself and everyone else who is just a little different and often misunderstood.

We.

no one

is as happy

as We.

we have

grown

together

Somehow

we are always

on the same

page

wanting

the same things

rearranging

the same priorities

at the end of the day

it is always

each other

at

the

top

of

the

list

amidst all the bullshit

that comes

with

every day

We.

A Routine Life: A (Poetic) Throwback

Routine. For me, it brings on

.

Dread and Calm. Resentment and Certainty.

Routine allows for Life to be

Still. Easy. Expected. Smooth. Contained. Controlled.

But along with routine, comes the

Boredom. Restlessness. Tedium. Complacency. Stagnancy. Depression.

Routine has become almost a requirement.

Without it, the day to day

Becomes unmanageable. I lose my grip.

And so, Life becomes a series

Of rushed timelines, deadlines, and bedtimes.

Within these tight constraints of Life

I've realized the necessity, the power

Of veering away. Defying the restrictions.

A spontaneous night with wine, conversation

Becomes almost like a rebellion against

What Life has required of Us.

An occasional alarm clock ignored becomes

A snub at responsibility and reality.

The routine, I've realized, is only

Effective when I'm willing to bend.

Break away, every now and then,

And remember what my Life is

And who I am without routine.

This poem was originally posted here on December 3, 2010

You are ten

I remember

that quiet solitary moment in the hospital

when everyone had left

I was left

with you

in my arms

your eyes were open

you were looking at me

and I didn't really understand

but I knew there was one thing

I could tell you

for sure:

that you were a lucky baby

that you had the coolest father

the best dad

of that

only

I was sure

you had this smell

I still remember it

I have no idea what it was

why you had it

but your brother never did

and I have never smelled it since

it was not baby cologne

or baby powder

it was

simply

you

it smelled like being born

purity

clean

earth

this smell

we still talk about it

remember it

your daddy and I

it has been ten years

ten

you came into our lives

some crazy psychic once said

you were a special soul

you drive us crazy

often

and

intensely

but there is

this special bond

an awareness

that there is something

different

about

you

you

single-handedly

changed me, him

us

one decade

The baby

the one who had waited

to come when it was time

the only one who could have

filled the space

that we were not sure

even needed

filling

and I am still

not sure

we could even come close

to being worthy

of being chosen

by you

Dreams: Non-Transferable but Exchangeable

Our last house was The House. Our son, who was 2 when we bought it, called it "Da Beeg House." He wasn't wrong; it was big. At least by our standards. We had 4 rooms, a 2 car garage, a pool, a huge family room and a living and dining. The master bathroom had a sliding glass door wall in the shower and double sinks and a door that led out to the pool. My friend referred to it as "the spa." And of course, it sat on a corner lot in a perfectly manicured and highly desirable neighborhood. Even at the great price we snagged it, we had to scramble often to manage it financially. We decided, then, that it was what we wanted. We gave up a lot to have it, but we had other things: granite counters, a fancy kitchen faucet, a house that held parties of over 50 people with no problems. We had a plan, too: stay in The House until the boys grew up and left.

And then, only four years later, I found myself posting this:

"Exchange"

we had always had a plan

so sure of what we wanted

to live life, together, out loud

be as free as commitment allowed

untethered to the things Everyone Else

used to measure their grand arrival

at the finish line of life

keep it small and live simply

so we could live Life large

travel, dance, laugh, sleep at night

without the stresses Everyone Else chose:

a lawn man, the corner lot

we planned life with bare feet

spontaneity, experiences, whimsy, free of cares

we were so sure back then

until something shifted, wishes got swapped

and we suddenly found ourselves dreaming

of a grown up life, settled

a home that was spacious enough

to welcome Just One More baby

(and a lawn man to cut

the grass on the corner lot)

we swapped one dream for another

found ourselves with a new life

new joys, different desires, wishes granted

but with it all sometimes comes

the subtle, quiet unease of wonder:

was this the life we intended

one we will look back on

with satisfaction of a life fulfilled

or a life exchanged for one

that is just like Everyone Else's?

That poem haunted me. Even  now, as I reread it, I don't really remember writing it. It was one of those "writer's moments" where stuff just comes out of you and you don't even recognize it afterwards. But it was perfect. Somehow, I was able to put into words the unease I was feeling; the unease of which I wasn't even fully aware at the time. I just knew something was gnawing at me: I wasn't sure this is what I had really signed up for. Did we sell out? And why don't I feel fully realized, if I had, supposedly, everything I wanted?

Of course, it wasn't just about the size and cost of the house. I had some sort of discomfort with Suburbia. And yet, when the time came to move, I was probably most concerned with leaving the 39 chain restaurant options I had nearby. Because, I learned, that with Suburbia comes not only perfectly landscaped lawns, but also ease, availability, and the masses. The longing for a different day-to-day routine, however, won out--thanks to some gentle prodding from Hubby the Risk-Taker--and I gave up the corner Starbucks (multiple ones on multiple corners) for some eccentric local joints that have been discovered by trial and error and neighborly assurances. 

We are having our first party in the new house today; I only picked the date because it was practical. I had no idea until just yesterday that it was the exact one year anniversary from our closing date. One year ago today, we left our lawyer's office with the key, bought a six pack of Heineken at the gas station, and toasted our new house as we took a million pictures of what we knew would be "The Before's." The months that followed were exhausting and exhilarating: we lived with my parents and then in our RV in the backyard as we completely remodeled the inside ourselves.

When we were finished, we had swapped 2300 square feet for 1600, a 2-car garage for a small room used for storage, and a "spa" bathroom for one with a counter that is so small I literally can not place more than one bottle on it without something falling into the sink. When I went grocery shopping the other day, I found myself standing in line behind an incredibly wealthy-looking and fit older couple buying mainly organic food and fancy wine, and standing in front of a homeless-looking man buying a 6-pack of Budweiser. Suburbia, it is not.

We ride our bikes to the beach, the boys shirtless and in flip flops, Hubby with skim boards attached to the back of his bike with a MacGyver-like contraption, and I with a backpack with the SPF and towels. When we need to clean the house, it takes less than half the time it used to. When we have to pay the bills, we have enough left over to afford the longed-for RV that used to be a dream and the house in Hawaii we have already rented for Summer 2016.

I do not miss the granite or even (gasp) the chandelier hanging in my former walk-in closet (although I definitely have to figure something out about the bathroom counter). Eight years ago, we took a chance on a dream we thought was ours. Fortunately, we were smart enough to listen to each other--and our instincts--and take an even bigger chance. It wasn't easy. I had many, many moments of doubt and even panic. But today, as we welcome our friends into our home, I'll know we did the right thing for our family, and I'll be celebrating another exchanging of dreams.

One year ago today...
Happy One Year Anniversary to our Hale Ma 'Alahi