Wrapped Up

Tears flow freely,
and unannounced lately.

One moment I am fine,
the next, tears are streaming
down my face and into my heart.

I capture them in tissue paper
and wrap up the memories
with bows and ribbon made of dreams.

So sorry for the delay in posts! Dead week was last week, and finals starts today! I will be done (and home) tomorrow afternoon. I plan on getting all caught up before the Christmas festivities begin!

Goodnight

I wrote you another letter,
black ink smudged on white paper,
scribbled furiously in the light of the moon.

I left all the words there;
emotions and heartache
poured out into the notepad.

And I wiped away a tear
as I placed it on the floor,
to enter a dreamless sleep.

Thankful November, IX

Thankful today for:

Lunch with a friend,
with whom I happen
to be related.

Orange chicken, fried rice,
and especially crab rangoons.

A church service with family,
and dad's quiet singing voice
as the hymn's play.

A happy dog
and a snuggly bed.

Thankful November, VII

Today, I am thankful for:

Friends and laughter,
ramen noodles and whipped cream
(best when consumed separately)

Family and cold pizza,
lazy nights at home

And blessings innumerable
that I am reminded of through song

Overwhelmed

I have fallen under a pile

of hard work and timely tasks

and I've been trying my hardest

to pull myself out,

with no luck. 

Slowly, eventually,

I will stand on top again.

Developing Story Resurfaced

I am working on a story,
that has been hiding for too long.

Words that I wrote so long ago,
characters who never really left.

Thankful November, VI

Today I am blessed with:

Good company and
delicious soup

Caring parents and
a sleepy dachshund

Heating pads and
a warm bed

The comforts of
being home

Thankful November, V

Today I am thankful for:

A good meal with
many friends

A cinnamon- hazelnut latte
and pumpkin muffins

The beauty of a fall day
in Nebraska

Laughter and singing
before (and during)
a drive home

Dancing

Windows open,

sun shining over her,

as she dances 

like no one has ever seen,

allowing every dark thought

to fall to the ground

"Shake it out

shake it out

oh woah

and it's hard to dance 

with the devil on your back,

so shake him out."

Her arms open wide,

she spins with a smile

forgetting every burden

as the music plays,

and only she can hear it.

*Quote taken from Shake it Out by Florence and the Machine*

Thankful November, IV

Thankful for:

Friends, both close
and far, in proximity
and my heart, who listen,
and talk, who care
and are always by my side, new
and old, all warming my heart.

Fireplace

Missing you tonight,

as I sit in my room

wrapped up in a blanket

Wishing the warmth

of the living room fire

could reach me this far away

Hoping to make it through

one more week

so I can come home once again.

Thankful November, III

Thankful today for:

Good books
by people I've never met.

Encouraging words
by people that I have.

Prayers said
by more people than I know.

Bustling

Christmas trees already going up,
popping up in windows
while Christmas music plays in stores.

And I wonder if people have forgotten,
that in between then and now
is a different holiday altogether.

A season of thanksgiving
in the midst of a shopping fury,
people preparing for December 25th.

Which causes me to think,
shouldn't we be thankful always,
not just in this season?

Moving Forward?

How can I possibly
string together the words
to describe each moment
perfectly?

How can I relay to you
the meaning of each meeting,
when I can't get the words
out of my throat?

How can I ever say goodbye,
if I can't explain the hellos?

Quotable

Quotes by famous authors

surround my mind 

and hold my heart

in a feeling of warmth 

that I hope to one day 

reproduce.

Their words like a blanket

hold me in a feeling 

that I can barely explain,

only to say that a smile creeps

slowly across my face.

It is these words

that I grasp to as I try 

to come up with a theme

for my own writing.

Thankful November, II

Thankful in this moment for:

Coffee brewed
by loving hands.

Old friends who are
always a phone call away.

Carefree moments
of laziness and laughter.

And brick roads in town
that stir up memories.

Thankful November, I

Thankful today for:

Sunshine and warmth,
when it should be getting cold.

Leaves that fall from the trees
in a colorful fury.

Memories that surface like
pictures in a dream.

Family and friends
who, though far away, feel close.

Unforgettable

Smile upon my face,
sun shining in my soul;
a mind at ease
in the calm of a storm.

Blessings innumerable
fill my  heart.

Think Tank

What if this
and what if that
ideas run through my head
so quickly
that I can barely hold on
and sometimes
a good idea gets stuck
and I want to write it down
and forget
so just like that it's gone
and I'm back at square one.

Soundtrack

A song is a memory,
projected from a stereo
or speakers in a crowd.

And no matter where I am,
or who I'm with,
there are certain songs
that take me instantly back to
single moments,
or ingrained memories.

Words strung together
by someone I've never met
seem to flow through my head
like a soundtrack,
as pictures of you pass by
like slides.

So I turn the station,
or leave the room,
but the soundtrack
is on repeat in my mind,
just as it always has been.

November 1st

Moments fly by so quickly,

one blink, another day gone,

I hold on tight but can't stall

time from pushing forward.

Spooky

A movie star,

a pumpkin,

two firefighters 

and a fighting turtle,

a bunch of grapes

and much laughter,

Halloween with friends.

Night

The lamp on my nightstand

illuminates my pillow,

and the picture frames above my bed.

It fills the corners of a dark room,

hugging me with a soft glow.

And I read by it's light each night,

before flipping the switch,

a click punctuating the darkness...

and doze off to stories 

that piece together like puzzles

on the table of my 

subconscious.

Fill Me, Spirit

Take a breath,

close my eyes

allow the Spirit 

to fill a hungry heart.

The pressures 

of the day

stream down,

and I am calm.

I say a prayer,

quick and silent,

and allow the tears

to flow.

Melting

Time is dripping
like an ice cream cone
in a toddler's hand
in Nebraska summer's heat.

Untitled

Tears fall quickly,
silently,
down her tired face.

She holds her head up high,
and pretends she isn't
slipping away.

Tick, Tock, Tick

"Winter is coming,"

they remind me.

"Christmas'll be here

before you know it."

Thanks for reminding me,

I wasn't aware.

Time is slipping from my fingers,

falling like sand in an hourglass.

And life is moving forward,

taking me with it like a passenger on a train.

I hold on tentatively, 

excited to see what's over the hill

and so scared to leave the hill behind.

"Smile, Though your Heart is Aching..."

There is a smile
that interrupts my thoughts.

It creeps in slowly,
tugging at the corners of my mind.

It overtakes often,
sometimes momentarily,

other times furiously;
and it brightens my entire mood.

It took me awhile to realize,
that this smile didn't belong to you...

but it is my own,
a representation of happiness.

Changing Seasons

The leaves have started to fall,

coming down one at a time

from the tree out my window.

And time is ticking also,

moving forward as each leaf drops...

Where will I be when 

the last leaf has fallen?

Faces and Memories

The characters appear
at the least expected times,
pulling on my thoughts
like a tug of war,
between what I should be doing
and a character longing for the page.

I Am a Breath

I am not a word.

I am a soul,
made up of many words.

I am not an equation.

Two plus two
will not always equal four.

I am strong-willed,
but that does not mean
that I am not fragile.

I am a person,
breathed to life
by a creative God.

Grey

The color of the sky
has been missing lately,
washed out to a dull grey.

And I am a shade of the same hue,
moving through each day quickly,
furiously trying to hold on to everything.

But soon the sun will come out,
the sky will be blue again,
and I will be renewed.

Paper Hearts and Wedding Bells

It's the way he looks at her,
as she walks down the aisle;
the way joyful tears
flow from her eyes.

It's the way they hold hands,
when the ceremony is done;
the way laugh together
in the company of friends.

It's the way he takes her hand,
and together they dance;
the way she lays her head
on his shoulder.

That's the way they show love,
and spark my heart to hope;
the way they remind me
it's worth the wait.

Candy Dish

A blush colored dish
set atop a cabinet
in a house very distinct
in my memory
held illicit pre-dinner treats
wrapped in colorful foil
or candy coatings.

And my small fingers
learned to be quick and quiet,
while pinching the pointy lid,
to grab just one piece
while the coast was clear.

The cabinet has since moved,
but the dish remains atop it,
as I eat m&m's on this
chilly afternoon.

Moving Upstream

It's days like today,
laughter and dinner
with family and good food
that make my heart warm.

Days like today
that I'm going to miss the most,
when the new year comes
and I am sent away with it.

But it's days like today
that keep me going,
that I'll look back on
and remember who I am.

October

Nebraska in the fall
is more beautiful each year,
than I remember it being
in the past.

Maybe it's the changing world,
a world growing older every day.

Maybe it's perspective,
seeing each day with eyes that
are soon going to be circled
in new surroundings.

But more likely it's me,
growing wiser,
more appreciative...

Or maybe I'm over-thinking it all,
and autumn in Nebraska has always been
just as beautiful as it is now.

JD's

A storefront set on a brick road,
windows decorated to perfection.

As soon as the door is opened,
I am hit with the soothing smell
of brewing coffee.

The walls are decorated with history,
old pictures and knick-knacks,
labels and packaging.

And I walk down the aisle,
wood floor creaking under my feet,
to order a fresh cup of warmth.

At the table in the corner,
close to the door,
I uncover the voice that has been
hiding for too long.

Book Leaves

Leaves colored with the sun
basking in the light,
perched on a branch high atop a tree.
Hues so vibrant,
it's as if each leaf has been
individually dipped in paint
and allowed to dry,
before falling haphazardly
to the ground...
only to be plucked up
by quick hands
and placed carefully
between thick pages
to dry.

Unexplained Tears

"Do you cry a lot?"
he asked me, his innocent eyes
truthfully awaiting my answer.

"You know, I guess I do,"
I responded, a smile on my face.

"But...but why?"

"Oh, well, sometimes I'm sad,
and other times I'm really happy."

"That makes sense,"
he smiled, content with my answer.

And I guess it does.

Renewal

Beauty in each day
new blessings and renewal,
my heart is on fire.

Autumn Change

The days are changing
from lush green to crisp brown
and the nights are getting longer.

And my heart feels the warmth
while my skin feels the chill
of this beautiful autumn season.

The winds are blowing
and the sky is graying;
things are changing.

Waterfall

Words used to fall
from my lips into
eloquent phrases
at an alarming rate.

It was as if a waterfall
was constantly running
in my mind, overflowing
onto the paper.

Now it is as if the
falls have dried up,
stuck behind a wall
of boulders.

And I must slowly push
each rock out of the way
to let the water run
again.

Unconscious Thought

A recurring dream
of a house built strong,
and a dress white as snow
a face she's never known.

She walks up the stairs,
a case that never ends,
step after step tiring her body,
causing hell on her inmost being.

And he's still there,
standing in a black tux
at the bottom, waiting,
watching her walk away.

Late Night Woes

I found myself thinking
late one night
about the things to come
in this little life.

And I characterize it as such
because in the grand scheme of things
my life is a blip
in the eternal of things.

And I thought to myself
"Where will I be?"
"How to say goodbye..."
"Will they remember me?"

But the Lord took His hand
and laid it on my heart
"Be still, little one,
I'm playing the cards."

Country Digging

I read back through my writing

digging deeper with each piece,

finding emotions,

dried up tears

and words I'd forgotten...

piling dirt to the side.

The hole gets bigger,

and I find your memory 

every few feet,

in the words that I 

furiously wrote,

and dig through now

with no care.

And I've learned from a few 

country girls, who sing their 

hearts out in each song,

that instead of kicking

my feelings in the hole I've dug,

I should bury your memory

...then watch the flowers 

grow.

Outcomes

I can't help it but
to think that getting away
will wipe the slate clean.

Maybe walking out
on all that I have found will help
me see things better.

And maybe I will
miss this all much more than I
ever thought I could.

Thoughtful Moment

A thought can brighten
my whole day

It can make the clouds
float away

...cause breathing to
be momentarily halted

A thought can blossom
a smile on my face

It can allow a hint of
laughter to escape

...cause the butterflies
in my stomach to stir

A thought can also
bring the tears

It can start a waterfall
of salty emotions

...cause the clouds
to roll on in

But a few negatives
will always be outweighed

by the happiness that blooms
when I think of you.

Cold Blood

The ice running through my veins
is hardly due to the weather.

I woke with a chill in a dark room,
hands grasping the pillow.

And if I hadn't known any better,
I'd blame it on a ghostly nightmare...

but your face hardly counts as
ghastly.

It's as if I'm a fugitive and you're
the police.

I keep running from your memory,
but you always find me.

Surfacing in my sleep is the newest
form of torture.

The ice running through my veins
is hardly due to the weather.

Victorious

I flipped through the thin pages quickly,

waiting for something to jump out and bite me.

I long for His words, something of comfort...

something to let me know I'm okay.

And just as always,

I stop and scan a few pages,

finding the exact words I need...

as if He planned it this way.

May the Lord answer you when you are

in distress;

may the name of the God of Jacob

protect you.

May he send you help from the sanctuary

and grant you support...

May he give you the desire of your heart

and make all your plans succeed.

We will shout for joy when you are

victorious

and will lift up our banners in the name 

of our God.

And suddenly, I sleep better.

*Verses taken from Psalm 20:1-5*

Refresh

Golden leaves floating
on a crisp autumn breeze that
takes my breath away.

Photo Display

Pictures on my nightstand
remind me of the blessings
I can't see everyday.

Coming Back

I haven't been writing as much lately,
because the words always take me... there.
And I'm not quite ready to go just yet.

So I've avoided my own words like a plague,
as if the syllables and sentences will
burn my throat, and leave me sore.

And they do, I'd be lying to say they didn't,
but that's no reason to avoid it.

For if I avoided everything that hurt,
I'd be missing out on a lot of living.

On My Own

Perhaps I've been looking at this
from the wrong direction...

Maybe I've been fooling myself,
because I subconsciously wanted to...

It's possible I'm not as scared
as I've convinced myself I am...

Because this could be a new start,
a chance to move forward...

And that's what everyone keeps telling me,
but my heart isn't ready to let go...

I guess I have to find out for myself,
figure out the equation alone...

Just Words

I'm not sure you understand
the meaning that those words have,
or the complexity with which I feel them
when you throw them about so casually.

I'm not joking when I say they scare me,
when I cower in their presence...
it isn't a joke to me,
yet you laugh so easily.

So forgive me,
when I change the subject.

Nail Polish

I have taken up a hobby,
one with which I previously...
dabbled.

It isn't very creative,
nor does it serve a great purpose,
but it takes great precision.

There's the choosing,
then the cleaning,
the shaping,
the painting,
the waiting.

...and in a few short days,
a week if you're lucky,
the chipping.

But something that once
irritated me so,
now gives me happiness.

For once the cycle ends,
it is time to begin again.

Grandpa

A squirrel darted in front of my car today;

I pushed on the brakes to spare it's life.

As I watched it cross to the other side,

a memory hit me...

of a sweet smile and a happy laugh,

tanned, aging skin and a chaise lounge.

And I couldn't help but smile. 

Dear Daughter

Another Dear Daughter post, inspired by wonderful women in my life.

Dear Daughter,
Fitgerald said, "Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."

Right now, I'm hoping and praying that's true. In a way, I guess I already know it is. So, what I'm really trying to say is, keep holding on. Maybe life is difficult right now; maybe it feels like a struggle. But everything will get better. This is one moment in your life... one blip in the much bigger picture.

A close friend and I were chatting, and she reminded me that we only see this one part of our life. We see the immediate, the right now. We see the past, and where we've come from. But God can see the whole picture. He holds our lives in His strong hands. That is one place where we will always be safe.

Fall is coming.
Winter is coming.
Spring is coming.
Summer is coming.

Each new season brings new life in a unique way. Remember that, and keep going.
Always.

Some things are too beautiful for words.
Samantha's Baptism is one of those things.

Time Flies By

One day passes,
then suddenly three
and next thing I know,
it's been a week
a month
a year

And I am changing every day,
so are you.

But minutes become hours
and hours become days,
that become weeks

and suddenly it will be
December,
then May
and August
then December all over again.

And we will be completely different,
but just the same.

Canvas Hands

Hand prints of gratitude
placed on a blank canvas
in colors bright as the
personalities of each student.

A beautiful piece of artwork
to be given to dear friends,
mentors and beloved volunteers,
created by thankful hearts.

The Question of Who

It is not with age
or with experience,
not with emotion
or with lessons learned.

It is not the time,
or the lack thereof,
not with smiles
or with tears.

It is life:

a combination of
happy and sad,
dark and light,
friends and acquaintances;

family and love,
hardship and struggle,
smiles and tears,
accomplishment and gratitude...

that makes us who we are.

Home Sweet Home

It's only been a week or two,
and already I miss it.

The green exterior
and coordinating front door,
welcome all who enter.

And the warmth that hugs me,
from the steps as I walk into
the family room.

But the warmth of the house
is nothing, compared to those
who dwell within.

The thought of home
and the memories makes
everything else seem cold.

Autumn: A Haiku

Red rimmed autumn leaf

Laying sadly on the ground

blow away with wind

Snowy Thoughts

I wrote out my feelings last night.
I scrawled them furiously across
a blank page.

Messy thoughts and angry words,
sentences, both full and broken,
glare at me from the page.

As I read through what I'd written,
fresh tears started to flow again,
running down my cheek.

So I picked up the page hastily,
and wiped away my tears,
then watched the evidence
float away on the wind like snow.

In Flight: A Poem in Haiku

I am not a bird.
Because you are not a bird.
Can't we please be birds?

Nor am I a tree.
Because you are not a tree.
Wouldn't it be nice?

I am not the sky.
It's because you cannot fly.
But I have strong wings.

I shall fly away.
For I want to be a bird.
High above the trees.

Blackout Poetry

I found a new style of poetry today that falls under the creative destruction category: blackout poetry. So I picked up a few $1 vintage hardbacks at Et Cetera Thrift in Seward and went to it (It's hard to read, but I want to show you the beauty of it on the page):

Go On

"I've got to confront the past alone, without

you.

I'll get my head on straight.

In the meantime,

let happiness consume

that spectral darkness at the edges

and

In that instant,

I'm okay.

I'm happy.

I really am.

I 

go on."

When do the Wells Dry Up?

With shaking fingers,
she put her hands on the wheel

She turned the music up
a little louder and let the words
carry her out of her own mind

She belted along and harmonized
and drove down a road under
a darkening sky

And for awhile it kept the demons
at bay

Until the words of a song were
so close to her heart
that tears streamed down her face
without her permission

And silent sobs escaped between
stanzas, as the sun continued to set
and the road stretched before her

What would it be like in three months
when the road went much farther
and the space between escalated?

Platonic Heart

Plato teaches that there are
three aspects to each human being:
the mind
the heart
and the will

And he goes on to say that
the heart and the will
aren't so reliable;
they are ever-changing,
and therefore you can't count on them

But the mind, he says, when well trained,
is the most reliable thing with which we are gifted

I'm not so sure I believe Plato,
because my mind may be reliable
but what good will it do me
if my heart refuses to listen?

Air Behavior

The Nebraska air
is just as indecisive
as you.

One day he decides
to be chilly all day,
while others he
chooses to be stifling.

And we could have
a day of clouds,
then wake up to
a shining sun.

So I never know,
from one day to another,
how you or the air
will behave.

September

A hazy blue sky
covered haphazardly in clouds
as the trees sway in a
slight September breeze

And the bird outside my window
tweets a sweet melody
interlaced with memories of
hotter days and the bright sunsine
of summer

But the days grow shorter
and the nights stretch farther,
a crisp chill in the air reminds me
that winter is just around the corner...

Places

This is where my heart and my writing took me this week. In all honesty, I would go back tomorrow if I could. I know I’ve said it before, but here I go saying it again, I don’t think Europe is done with me just yet

September 11th

A moment of silence
for those on the plane

For those in the buildings

For those who went in
without hesitation

For those who stopped one

For those who lost one

For those who remember
where they were and
what they were doing

A moment of silence
to remember

Butterfly Memories

Sometimes the memories hurt

they wrap themselves around my throat

and make it momentarily hard to breathe.

Tears flow freely, as I remind myself

that it’s okay to cry. And it’s okay to feel.

Sometimes I forget that.

For it is the emotion that reminds us:

We’re Alive.

And in this moment, in this memory,

I am very alive

...because my heart is pounding

and the butterflies in my stomach

are flying as if there’s no tomorrow.

Fall Festival

Laughter rings out

and kids run around

as music plays and

my heart sings.

Notebook

Memories stuffed and taped
on thick white pages
in an evergreen notebook

Words scrawled and
verses dictated,
slowly filling the space
with personal thoughts
and encouraging words
from God above

And leaves from pathways,
parking lots and playgrounds,
some even taken from a tree itself,
preserved in between pages of words
pressed and taped...

Memories that I will remember,
long after I’ve forgotten.

Character Development

The story is inside me

I can feel the characters

tugging at my mind

All it takes is a tiny moment of silence, 

or a good song in the car, 

and I see the unwritten smile

of a character 

just begging to be let out

This One's for You

I wrote you a letter
one you'll never see
I sealed it up and
put it in my handbag
hidden under layers of
debris.

I had every intention
of giving it to you that night
but my hands were shaking
and my mind was racing
so I left it where it was

And the words I said that night
were not the words that
I'd written down with such care
they were stuttered and stammered
and laced with awkward laughter

But the words came out just the same
and I threw that letter away.

Sunflower

Field full of sunflowers,
wild as the wind
and free like birds in the sky

Yellow, deep and dark
like a September sunset
in fields full of tall green grass
and dusty, drought crops
set against an eye-blue sky.

Waiting

Maybe the words
have been inside
all along

Waiting patiently,
more patiently than I

And one day they'll pour out,
when the idea clicks and
the pieces fall together
like a pile of leaves
from an autumn tree

Wish Upon a Star

I wish
every once in a blue moon
that I could go back

Back to an easier time
somewhere called the past
with the knowledge I have now

And things would be different,
I would be the same...
the person I am today that
I never knew back then

I wish that I could
change the future,
the future that has already
past.

For even the star
upon which I could wish
has already changed.

But if I did,
if I could,
would I truly be me?

"Why wish upon a star 
when you can pray
to the One who created them?"

(Quote by Anonymous)

September Sunset

A pink poppy sits on the horizon,
bursting around a late afternoon sun,
early September in Nebraska.

And the grass, which has been neglected
by the elements this season,
seems so green against the cloud adorned
blue sky that is slowly fading to gray.

I am slowly fading too,
listening to country music
with the wind blowing
in the window and through
my hair.

Coffee House

Coffee house tucked away
in a line of stores on a busy street

with characters straight out of a book
that hasn't yet been written

that make a statement with
ink and piercings, dreadlocks
ratted perfectly on more than one

and the only thing speaking louder
than the bumper stickers on more than one
Prius in the parking lot,

are the books they hold like shields
and build up around themselves
on the almost clean tables

Two Year Old

A giggling girl runs with a smile
across a room littered with toys.

Through a group of happy two's,
she fights her way to the door,
with arms raised in my direction.

And I scoop her up,
as if time hasn't been passing,
and hold her tight as I can.

But time passes too quickly,
and once again I'm gone,
tears streaming down my face
as they cascade down hers.

Details

I never understood
how writing can be draining

until I truly opened up on the page.

My notebooks,
even this computer screen,
have seen more raw emotion
than even my best friend...

and she's seen a lot.

Writing is a relationship,
it is my heart on the page,
and often times,
no one gets to see that page
but me.

Maybe that seems strange:
it's my heart.
Shouldn't I already know
it's deepest secrets
and greatest fears?

Shouldn't I be aware of
where my heart lies?

Sometimes, I don't even know
until a picture surfaces in my writing...
as if my heart is letting me in
on my own life,
by showing up in a character
or a poem.

It's difficult,
but I wouldn't know
who I am
without writing.

Give Me Strength

Tear roll down my cheek,
lay yourself to rest.
Close your eyes,
wait for sleep;
leave out all the rest.

Lips curl up to form a smile,
words I could never say.
Paint it on,
laugh awhile;
emotions run astray.

Help me Lord, that's all I ask;
the only One I seek.
Heal my heart,
crush defeat;
make this sinner clean.

Momentum

Momentum

We move on, we keep going;

we have to.

It’s about survival,

sanity;

being strong in the face of insecurity and fear.

So we pick ourselves up,

dust ourselves off

and march forward with aplomb.

The Ultimate

The Ultimate

Turn to His word,

always to Him.

It comes back to

The Ultimate;

He was laying tracks

before all of us,

through His men,

David and Paul,

rhyming

and hitting it hard,

before we were even

a speck on the map.

The Ultimate,

that’s what He is.

Throwing His words at us

for centuries.

And we think we’re the artists?

Les Mis

(Written after seeing Les Miserables in London at The Queen's Theatre. I can't wait for the movie to come out this winter!)

“Do you hear the people sing?”
From the corners of the stage,
actors honing their craft in the
historic Queen’s Theatre.

Plush seats in a rounded ‘U’
one balcony above the action.
I take it in from my seat,
alone two rows up
in a crowd of people with
accents that role from their lips
as intermission ends...
and a hush falls over the crowd.

The set, the lights,
the costumes;
everything done so perfectly,
voices ringing out beautifully.
I hold my breathe as Eponine
reaches notes high above the treble clef.

The magic of the theatre covers my skin
with goosebumps,
and fills my soul with hope.

Jack Jack: Character Sketch

(Another character sketch from study tour: this time set in London.)

He holds his father’s hand and jumps across the gap, with the grace and excitement only a child could possess. Hurrying to an empty bench seat, he plops down on the blue and green upholstery.

“It’s five more stops, Jack,” his father says as he sits down next to him. He places the cloth shopping bags he’d been carrying between his feet on the floor as the train takes off.

“I can count that!” Jack says with gusto, a smile on his face.

“Right, you can son. Let me help you with your hood,” Jack’s father says, helping him pull the knitted hood away from his curly blond hair. He then pulls his own knitted hood, both handmade by his wife, away from his own pale, white face. Thomas puts his arm around his son, watching him as he looks about the train car with glee. He recognizes his wife’s eyes staring back up at him as the car pulls to it’s first stop.

“That’s one,” Jack relays to his father as the automated voice tells him they’ve reached Tottenham Court Road.

“Four more to go,” Thomas responds. The doors close and the tube continues on its way, Jack relaying each stop as they pass Holborn, Chaucery Lane and St. Paul’s. He pulls his hood back on and helps Jack with his as the train pulls out of St. Paul’s toward their stop, Bank, where they’ll transfer to the Northern line and ride a few more stops before reaching their final stop, Borough. Thomas and Jack had spent the day searching through Waterstone’s, looking for Jack’s sixth Birthday present. From there they went to Hummingbird’s Bakery on Wardour Street to pick up a batch of Jack’s favorite black bottom cupcakes.

Anna, Thomas’s wife, had spent the whole day cleaning the house and preparing Jack’s favorite dinner. She couldn’t believe her little boy was already six. Thomas and Jack would be home any minute, and guests would arrive soon after they arrived. Anna loved celebrations, any kind; she had decorated the house with balloons and streamers in Jack’s favorite colors, lime green and orange. The rain had cleared up, and she was excited to see her friends and their children, who were coming over for the party.

As she waited for her boys to return, Anna poured herself a glass of red wine and sat down on the couch, mentally preparing herself for the events of the evening.  She swirled her glass around and looked around the living room of her row house.  She finished off the glass just as the doorbell rang, once, twice, three times in a row.  Less than twenty seconds later, Jack was in her arms, his little knitted hood hanging around his neck.  His mouth moved twenty words a second as he spilled out the stories of the day.  Thomas stood leaning against the wall in the cut out between the living room and the kitchen, smiling at his son and wife.  It was the happiest Anna had felt in days.

Eliska: Character Sketch

(This is a character sketch I wrote after my trip to Prague on study tour 2010. Enjoy!)

She’d grown up in Prague, knowing as if instinctively never to look anyone in the eye.  By fifteen she’d held and smoked her fair share of long, skinny cigarettes, much like the one currently dangling from her bright red, glossy lips.  She barely felt the cold of Praugian winters on her perfect button nose, reveling in the fact that it was always perfectly dabbled in pink during the bitter cold months.  The fur coat she donned was well worn after years of use, and she paired it perfectly with black jeans and three inch pumps, in which she walked as if they were merely an extension of her petite feet.  

As a line of tourists walked by, big suitcases pulled behind them, she turned her nose a little higher, flicking her cigarette on the ground and stamping out the end with her pointed, patent toes.  She reapplied her lipstick unnecessarily and entered the café, meeting her friends for an early afternoon breakfast.

Eliska made an entrance wherever she went, with her dark brown hair hanging halfway down her back, and perfect bone structure, she turned heads without even trying. Which isn’t to say she didn’t try; she loved the attention, and did all she could to garner more.  A meeting with friends at a café was no exception, making a lavish display as she kissed each of them on the cheek.  As they sat and talked she leaned her head back and laughed, heartily and strong, yet beautifully reserved as well.  Everyone loved her, from the barista serving her cappuccino, to the woman by the window reading a book.  

Everyone, that is, except for one of the friends sitting next to her, Tereza.  Tereza was also lovely, with her bright blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, contrasting perfectly with her translucent skin.  And yet, no one ever noticed her, because Eliska was always sitting by her side, strikingly beautiful and positively outrageous.  Tereza had also grown up in Prague; the combination of harsh winter conditions and cold-shoulders had thickened her skin, but on the inside there was still a sense of fragility she couldn’t seem to displace.  

Falling Closer Every Day: A Haiku

Hot summer air on
a late August day has me
longing for autumn.

Blue Dyed Insecurity

A woman with blue hair
walks down the street without
self conscious tendencies,
which fade away with her
natural roots.

Get the Words Out

Sometimes, I don't feel like writing;
just like I don't always feel like eating avocados
or watching When Harry Met Sally.

These are some of my favorite things,
but they aren't the only things I do.

I've learned though, from mentors and teachers,
and writers who I wish were my friends
(but are really famous people, who don't know I exist)
that it's okay to not want to write all the time.

But as with most things,
you have to keep going.

You have to put that pen to the paper,
or your fingers on the keys,
and write as often as possible.

Because that's what writers do.

Published pieces don't define writers.
Writing defines writers.

So that's what I'm doing.
I'm writing even when I don't feel like it;
I'm writing when it doesn't seem to have a purpsoe.

I'm writing...
because I'm a writer.

Old Hat

I sit and read
my own words,
from a different me.

Things I wrote in the past,
even just a few months past,
find new meaning in my life.

They teach new lessons,
remind me of old revelations,
help me to figure out the future
by understanding my past.

Some words are hard to read,
some I flip past...
then carefully return to with
my tail between my legs.

Others I read with tears in my eyes,
wondering what it would have been like
if the events described had played out
differently.

But I've wasted time,
sitting in silence on my bedroom floor...
yet it doesn't feel wasted at all.

The Speech: Part 5 (The Finale)

For the integrity of the piece, please read "The Speech" parts one, two, three and four found in the past four posts. And now... the finale!

****

     After what felt like the longest car ride ever, Mac and Lucy pulled into the parking lot of the community center. Mac parked the car and left her hands on the wheel. After taking a breath to steady herself, she unbuckled her seatbelt and helped Lucy out of her car seat. The community center had been transformed from a boring, beige activity room to a dignified ballroom. It seemed as if anything that had stood still long enough had been draped in either red or blue fabric, white flowers gracing each of the round tables. It reminded Mac of her wedding reception, held in a hall not unlike the one she currently stood in, white daisies contrasting with deep orange table clothes. Orange had always been Matty’s favorite color; it was the perfect shade for their fall wedding.

     A buffet was set up near the back of the room, heavenly smells wafting toward the door where Mac and Lucy stood taking in the room. A simple wooden podium stood on a stage at the front of the room, looming over Mac as she walked Lucy to a table marked with a little maroon “Reserved” sign that clashed terribly with the red table cloth.

     After a nice meal, of which Mac took a grand total of two bites, the ceremony started. A man that Mac recognized as police chief took the stage. He stood behind the podium making a speech using phrases like, ‘bravery in the face of danger,’ and, ‘men with hearts of gold.’ Lucy tugged on Mac’s sleeve when the police chief started talking about Matty. Mac hadn’t been paying attention; she was too focused on keeping her breakfast down and whether or not sweat was beading on her forehead.

    “Mommy, he’s talking about Daddy,” Lucy whispered, loud enough for the whole table to hear.

     “...and now, I’d like to invite someone who knew Matt Elson better than any of us up to the stage. Please help me welcome Matt’s wife, Louise, up here to take my place.”

The applause started as Louise made her way to the podium. This was it. She had been preparing for this moment for so long, it didn’t feel like it could be real. Emotions caught in her throat, clawing their way to the top. But as she stepped onto the stage she pushed them down, hiding them back in her heart where they belonged.

     “Thank you,” she said as the applause died down. “Thank you so much. As Bernie said, my name is Louise Elson. This,” she said, motioning towards the poster size picture of Matt in his uniform to the left of the stage, “was my husband Matt. But the Matt I like to remember looked a little different.” Mac placed the frame she had carried up to the stage with her on the edge of the podium, facing the crowd. She took a breath and turned it so only she could see his face. It was better that way.

     “Matt… Matty, was a wonderful man, as many of you know. He was a beloved son, brother and uncle, a devoted family man. But most of all he was a fantastic father and husband. He cared for and loved our daughter, Lucy, so much it was almost unimaginable,” Mac took a breath to steady herself and looked over at her daughter, who was fiddling with her spoon. “She only knew him for four short years… which seems so unfair; but in those four years she knew more love than most little girls know in a lifetime,” She steadied herself, pushing the emotions back down before continuing.

     “Matty isn’t the kind of man that can be summed up in a few minutes, so I’m sorry Bernie if I take too long, cue the music if you have to,” Mac paused to allow for laughter, continuing after a few chuckles. “Unless you knew Matty personally, you will never understand just who he was, unfortunately, and what he meant to so many people. He loved his squad just as much as he loved his family, which is good because he spent just as much time with them as he did with us. He called the firefighters in his unit his brothers, the brothers he never had. And that’s really saying something… he had a lot of brothers.

     “He could make a person laugh when all they wanted to do was cry. He knew how to get our daughter back to sleep after she had a nightmare, soothing her in ways only a father could,” Taking a breath, Mac tried to push down the tears. “If there’s one person who misses Matty just as much as I do… it’s Lucy. She lost her father, something that I can only imagine. It breaks my heart just thinking about it,” Mac looked down at the picture of her husband, mustering up the strength to continue. “But I know that with the help of the people in this room, she will know the man that her father was. And for that, I thank you in advance.

     “When you lose someone you love you go through many emotions. Some mornings I woke up so angry, so red-hot, that I was surprised the bed hadn’t burst into flames around me. Some days all I wanted to do was punch something, anything, and the one time I indulged that desire it cost me two broken knuckles and a hole in my bathroom wall,” Realizing that she had been talking fast, Mac took another breath to calm herself. “Other days all I wanted to do was crawl up in a ball and sleep until the sun went back down. And still other days I didn’t feel anything at all. Most of you would label those days of apathy, but to me they were… bliss.

     “These are not things I am proud of. I am not proud to say that all I prayed for the first month after Matty died was for Matty to come back… come back to me, and to Lucy. I wanted to hug him, and hear his voice… I wanted him to tell me everything was going to be okay,” Mac closed her eyes, a picture of Matty swinging Lucy around the living room flashed in front of her.

“Everyone was saying that he died a hero… and I loathed the fact that he was the one who had to die. Matty wouldn’t like what I turned into when he left; I know that because I don’t like what I turned into when he left. And slowly I’m turning my life around, becoming the person that Matty fell in love with so I can be that person for Lucy. Matty was always my—our rock. In the years that we were married, I learned to lean on him… and now I have to be that rock for Lucy,” this time when Mac looked over at her daughter, she was smiling back at her.

“It’s difficult, and I have a feeling it’s going to be difficult for a long time to come… but we’re getting by. Thank you all for the support, love and casseroles that you have blessed us with the past few months. I don’t know where we would be without you.

     “I’d like to make a toast to Matty now. Matty,” she said, looking at the picture, “I love you… I will always love you. And I will always be proud of the service you did this city. Watch out for us, baby. And don’t worry,” she said, a smile creeping across her face, “I can handle things down here.”

     By the time Mac had finished the speech she wasn’t even looking at her note cards anymore. They remained on the first page, bullet points about who Matty was glaring up at her through tear-streaked eyes. She thought she had shed all the tears she could possibly hold, and yet a stream of salt water ran down her face without ceasing. She looked up at the picture of Matty, staring up at her from the frame on the corner of the podium. She smiled half-heartedly at the crowd, standing stoically in applause. She grabbed the photo and started toward the edge of the stage, wiping furiously at the tears streaming down her cheek. As she reached the bottom of the stairs she saw Lucy walking towards her. She slipped her tiny hand into Mac’s and squeezed a little, looking up at her mom with tears in her own small eyes.

     “Don’t worry, Mommy,” she said with a smile on her face, “it’s alright to cry.”

The Speech: Part 4

 For the integrity of the piece, please read "The Speech" parts one, two and three found in the past three posts. Thanks!

****

     In the morning, Lucy woke up first. Mac awoke to her four-year-old bouncing up and down on the bed, giggling and shouting, “Today’s the day!” at the top of her lungs. When she noticed that her mom’s eyes were finally open she plopped down in a belly flop right next to her.

     “Today’s the day, Mommy,” she reiterated.

     “You’re right, Luce. Today’s the day.”

     “Can I put on my new dress now?” Lucy asked, a smile crawling across her face.

     “How about we eat breakfast first, then you can put on your pretty dress. Sound like a plan?”

     “Yes!” Lucy replied, as she jumped off the bed and ran to the kitchen.

     Mac stayed still for a few seconds more, staring at the ceiling. If Matty were here he would tell her that everything was going to work out perfectly. He would kiss her on the forehead and slide off the bed to follow Lucy before she made a mess with the cereal. ‘You can do this,’ she told herself, taking a deep breath. And with that she took Matty’s cue, climbed out of bed and ran to the kitchen just in time to stop the Rice Krispies from covering the floor.

****

     One much needed shower later Mac was almost ready to go. Lucy was watching TV downstairs, already having been in her dress for at least two hours. She slipped her favorite black dress on carefully and did a last minute check in the mirror. After applying her lipstick, she caught a glance of a picture of Matty. It was her favorite picture, and it had been on her dresser since they had lived in this house. He was wearing a plaid button down and Levi’s, work boots peeking out in the overgrown grass. He was laughing, leaning up against the fence in his parent’s backyard.

     They had been at his parent's farm taking engagement photos. Matty had reached the fence first, pushing his way through overgrown weeds and neglected plants. Mac stopped, watching him.

     “Well, are you coming or what?” Matty had asked, laughing at the care with which Mac was choosing her footsteps.

     “Don't push me, Matty. I'll get there when I get there, okay?” Mac said, navigating around a grouping of wild daisies dancing in the wind.

     The photographer had taken a few shots of the exchange, capturing this photo in the bunch. Mac had ordered a print of it without Matty's approval, and it had been on her dresser ever since.

     She picked up the frame and slid it into her purse, right in between her wallet and her note cards. As Mac walked down the stairs, purse in hand, she heard a small gasp. There, at the bottom of the stairs, was Lucy.

     “Wow, Mommy. You look pretty!” Lucy said, twirling in her red tulle tea dress.

     “You look pretty cute yourself,” Mac replied, kneeling down to her level. “Do you remember what I told you?”

     “Yes, you said, ‘sit still and listen.’”

     “And…”

     “And…”

     “It’s alright to cry,” Mac said, pulling her daughter in for a hug.

     “Oh yeah; it’s alright to cry,” Lucy echoed, squeezing her mom right back.

****

The Speech: Part 3

For the integrity of the piece, please read "The Speech" parts one and two found in the past two posts. Thanks!

Mac woke up practically on the floor, Lucy having taken up over half the bed while she was asleep.  Sun cascaded through the cracks in the blinds, hitting her eyes like daggers. It was Saturday: Pancake Day.  Unfortunately Mac didn't know if she could muster up the strength to stir, pour and fry the batter, but she knew it was her duty. Lucy would expect it; it was and always had been a Saturday tradition.
    Lucy started to stir, wriggling around into a stream of light that woke her up quicker than a bucket of ice water.
    "Good morning, bug," Mac cooed as Lucy slid over to cuddle up next to her. "How about I whip us up some pancakes?"
    Lucy glanced up at her mom and, as though she were testing her limits, whispered, "With chocolate chips?"
    "Only if I can have blueberries," Mac giggled, scooping up her daughter in a tickle-filled embrace.
    'Is tomorrow the big day, Mommy?" Lucy asked while finishing off her plateful of syrup drenched pancakes.
    "It is, Luce," Mac responded, surprised her daughter had remembered.
    "And are you nervous or excited?"
    "Well, honey, I guess you could say I'm both. I'm anxious."
    "Is anxious a good thing or a bad thing?" Lucy asked, continuing her daily interrogation.
    "It could be either, but I'd say its neutral this time."
    "Neutral?"
    "It means it isn't good or bad. It's kind of like zero," Mac explained, hoping that it would be enough of an answer for her inquisitive four-year-old. If Matty were here, he would laugh at Mac for obliging to answer all of Lucy's questions.
     "You know, she's just like her mom," he would whisper in her ear as she washed the dishes. Then he would kiss her on the cheek as Lucy questioned what they were whispering about in the background. Matty wouldn't have answered her; he would have said, "You want to know what were talking about?" while walking toward her slowly.
    "Yes! Tell me! Tell me!" she would squeal from her seat.
    And then he would scoop her up in a bear hug and swing her around the kitchen. Mac would have scolded him for causing a ruckus, laughing the whole time.
    "Mommy?" Lucy said, snapping Mac back to reality.
    "Yes?"
    "Do I have to be actious too?"

     “It’s anxious not actious, honey, but of course not; you can be anything you want to be,” Mac said as a smile crept onto her face.

     “Good, cause I’d rather be excited. I get to wear a pretty dress… right?” she asked, uncertain and filled with glee at the same time.

     “I thought we’d even get a new dress, if that’s alright with you, but, I mean, if you’d rather wear one of your old ones…”

     “NO! I want a new dress Mommy! Please, please!” Lucy interrupted.

     After a day filled with shopping, Mac placed an exhausted Lucy into her bed still in her clothes. She had fallen asleep in the car on the way home, and Mac didn’t have the heart to wake her up. She sat on the edge of the bed untying Lucy’s tiny Keds, mentally preparing herself for the day ahead.

     I’ll have to take a sleeping pill if I want to sleep all night, but if I take a sleeping pill and Lucy has a nightmare I won’t wake up as fast. I can probably go without the sleeping pill; I’ll just read for a little bit. That should knock me out right away. What am I going to wear? I don’t know what time I need to be there; I should probably call someone about that… or check the invite, I bet it’s on the invite.

     As Mac sat on the foot of the bed, watching Lucy sleep, her mind wandered, as had become custom in recent months.

    “She's all ours now, you know,” Matty had whispered the first night they laid Lucy down to sleep in this very room.

     “I know,” Mac had responded, holding Lucy's tiny hand in her own as she leaned over the side of the oak crib, “We can do it...right?”

     “I know you can,” Matty had said, his hand on the small of her back. “You're going to be a great mom, Mac. Lucy is lucky to have you.”

     “Thanks,” she had said, allowing the emotions of pent up hormones to take over her body, tears of joy and fear rising into her throat as she folded into his warm embrace. “You too,” she mustered through the tears. “You too.”

     “Mommy?” Lucy asked quietly from her bed, drawing Mac back to the present.

     “I’m here, baby. What is it?”

     “Mommy, are the dreams going to come back tonight? I don’t want the dreams to come back,” she said sleepily, her eyelids still drooping over her hazel eyes.

     “I hope not, honey. Should we sing a song?”

     “How about you sing and I listen,” Lucy responded, cuddling up to her bear and rolling onto her side.

     “Okay, I will,” she said, clearing her throat, “Blackbird singing in the dead of the night, take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise. Blackbird fly, blackbird fly…”

     The song was over before she had time to realize the beauty of the moment. Even though Lucy had fallen asleep halfway into the first verse, Mac kept singing. Maybe it wasn’t even for Lucy. “Blackbird” had always been Matty’s favorite song. He had loved The Beatles for as long as he could remember, longer than he’d known Mac.

     Mac went through the motions of getting ready for bed in a fog, lyrics running through her head like background music to the constant stream of worry. She climbed into bed and fell asleep mindlessly, only to be woken up by the familiar screams of yet another restless night. Mac took Lucy from her room and went through the same routine as nights past. The nights were always the worst.

****

The Speech: Part 2

For the integrity of this piece, please read yesterday's post for part one of "The Speech" before continuing on  with part two found below. Thank you!

****

The first time Mac met Matty face to face she knew she was going to marry him. It was admittedly cliché, and completely cheesy, but when you know, you know.
    It was at a campus picnic, senior year. She had seen him around before, even talked to him on occasion, but she'd never really gotten to know him. But when she put her hand in his that night to introduce herself, something sparked. Time stood still as she looked into his dusty blue eyes, standing out in the open under a fresh buzz cut.
    "Hi," she'd said, dumbfounded.
    "I'm Matt," he replied, smiling a gap-toothed grin while he held her hand just a second longer than was socially acceptable. He'd still gone by Matt then; it was more dignified.
    "Louise," she'd responded, allowing his bear paw of a hand to swallow her own until The first time Mac met Matty face to face she knew she was going to marry him. It was admittedly cliché, and completely cheesy, but when you know, you know.
    It was at a campus picnic, senior year. She had seen him around before, even talked to him on occasion, but she'd never really gotten to know him. But when she put her hand in his that night to introduce herself, something sparked. Time stood still as she looked into his dusty blue eyes, standing out in the open under a fresh buzz cut.
    "Hi," she'd said, dumbfounded.
    "I'm Matt," he replied, smiling a gap-toothed grin while he held her hand just a second longer than was socially acceptable. He'd still gone by Matt then; it was more dignified.
    "Louise," she'd responded, allowing his bear paw of a hand to swallow her own until all she felt were the calloused hands of a working man. His toasted tan skin contrasted with her milky complexion. The moment was captured in her memory like a Polaroid picture, slightly faded around the edges with time. No one had called her Mac until Matty came around. It started out as a playful poke at her horrendous middle name, and of course it stuck.
    Mac's mother was a huge literature fan. She had majored in English Literature at NYU, where she immediately fell in love with the dramatic arts. Mac's middle name came from her mothers favorite play: Macbeth. Mac hated her middle name growing up, lying about it on forms by writing 'Beth' or just putting an initial. Matty had coaxed it out of her one night after they had shared dinner.  Mac would have kept it from him, if she hadn't had so much wine. She wouldn't tell you if you asked her, but she secretly loved the nickname Matty had created.

****