Whisper when appropriate, it's good for small ears

I think I need a break from the city. I enjoy it, but I just need a bit of a break. Camping has always been a great remedy for these periodic feelings of confinement, detachment, and general repulsion of modern society. Needless to say, nature has been on my mind lately along with a handful of other things. I will process/write about those other things soon, but here are some words in a silly attempt to make nature feel a little less distant. 


You have a map of the forest on your palms

the cut-outs and short-cuts mapped out with every scar

you know where the waters rise and the land sinks 

all branded into your skin

you have a map of the forest on your palms 

it all fits perfectly between your fingers

great spans and hallowed canyons  

pressed into every crack knuckled crevice  

figure eight valleys circle sun-worn fingers

with hundreds of years of oral histories

spoken into your skin cells

you have a map of the forest on your palms

the place you lived and tilled, toiled and sowed 

old hymnal stories, great lessons told 

where there is a sermon everywhere you look

never spoken but always heard

she speaks with eyes quiet and lips cold

same stories of bygone days

preceding the roads that
separated her from her children

and I am but a curious visitor.

                                              

'Be still and know where you are
only you forget when you 
are afraid of being lost'
whispered in both ears
as the greatest thief of all
found its rest beyond the horizon
leaving my hands filled with 
dark shadows of drunken dusk aftertaste

"I used to like StarCrunch until Jes told me it looked like ground beef."

I am courage. I am strength.
I tied the words daintily to my wrists.
They hung limp for many days.
Weightless words and fragile wrists
For many nights.
But slowly and just as sure as the ground they began to live.
They encircled my wrists and grew up my arms.
Covering my shoulders and overtook my soul.
I became that which I spoke.  
What I saw myself to be.
 
And I saw courage and I saw strength.

Bind my wandering heart to Thee

Our father in heaven
hallowed be thy name
thy kingdom come
thy will be done
on earth_beautiful broken habitat
as it is in heaven_the place you are beckoning humanity
give us this day_inhale, exhale
our daily bread
and forgive us our trespasses_innumerable they may be
as we forgive those who trespass against us
lead us not into temptation_yet so easily I wander...

Sisterhood Mantra

                                                    Sisters -
a deeply
sacred word
for within those
seven letters lie all
secrets  
dreams 
stories 
and fears. 

Friendship may be a tree, 

but sisterhood is all roots. 

We are planted so deeply
into one another, 

intertwining vines and roots

A myriad of splinters
forming parts of who I am.

With a friendship that the
heavens had to guarantee,

we sit at our distant dining room table

waiting for the others to come and see.

Mom, I lived a lifetime on the Nile

    I once heard someone say, "It is the space between the notes that make the music." It isn't so much about the notes being played, but the space between the notes. I've been thinking about this lately and today it seems that life is the same way--less about the highs and the lows and more about the spaces between them. The spaces that come before the ups and always follow the downs; the quiet spaces between that create music. I'm trying to embrace those between spaces.

Reflective Vest and Hand Wands

Yelp, if you haven't heard, I moved to Minneapolis, Minnesooota. I hopscotched four states north for awhile to intern with the non-profit here. As you can imagine, I'm getting paid more with experience and little monetary means. So in order to pay rent and clothe my body for my first winter, I needed to get a part-time job. After a couple of weeks of job hunting, I got hired on at the airport. Not what you think, more like this. I will be working outside on the ramp marshaling in airplanes, loading cargo, and driving tugs to push the planes back on the runway. Yellow reflective vest in the dead of a Minnesotan winter marshaling in planes with orange signaling wands. Aside from the entertainment value this job provides, the reason I applied for it was because of the flight benefits. I can fly anywhere for free as a standby passenger. Some international flights require a small international fee, but I'll be flying first class. I keep thinking of all of these different places that I've been wanting to go like Prague, Morocco, Papua New Guinea....the list is endless. I plan on going to as many places as I can within this next year. One weekend, I plan on walking into the airport getting on the next available flight out of the country, wherever that might be and just go. Take as many pictures as I can for a couple of hours, eat a meal, then flight home. Granted, we are not getting paid much to work outside in the winter, but seriously, best benefits ever.

When I found out I got the job, I planned on approaching it as a sociological study of what it's like being a woman doing what is traditionally-known as 'man's work'. Mainly, because I'm nerdy like that and seemed fun. Observe, experience, and write about it. Also, it would be a way of tricking my mind into thinking that I had a purpose for being outside marshaling planes in negative 15 degree weather. Some kind of reason to etch into my mind to make the winter seem less harsh and the wind's sting more bearable. Why am I loading someone's 60 pound leopard-printed suitcase into the cargo bin of a CRJ-900 in the dead of winter with a reflective wands in my hands? Oh yeah, I remember, because the sociological world needs me to. Mostly psychological, but I have a feeling this will make for some good stories, so I plan to write about it. Although, there is a small hiccup in my study. My training class is not exactly what I expected. There's a pretty even split between men and women. My focus may have to shift a bit, maybe a look into the world of traveling ramp agents or something. I still plan to write about my experience, but it might be through a slightly different lens. Although, my class is an interesting one. We have quite an array of people present with ages ranging from a few 20 somethings to a woman in her mid-60s. A lot of middle aged people, some retirees, a few college kids, a couple of internationals --- and we're all there for one reason: free flights. We want to see the world and have someone else pay for it. Most people there have other jobs and will just be working 10-15 hours a week at the airport for the flight benefits. After a week of classroom learning about belt loader operational procedures, proper hand signaling, and aircraft safety precautions, I'm feeling ready for on-the-job training next week. Oh, boy. Sometimes I just have to laugh at myself. When I applied for the job, I didn't even know what exactly I was applying for. I just saw the flight benefits and I was in. This should be interesting.

Those are not flaws. They make you only more you.

I have a fascination with birthmarks. There is something about them that is absolutely beautiful to me. I'm at a loss to pinpoint what exactly is so intriguing about them. It may be because it's like a plot twist of the body or an unexpected surprise. It may be because they remind me just how much of a patchwork quilt we all are. Or it may be because in a subtle way they challenge airbrushed ideals. Not in a hostile way, but rather in a standing-at-a-distance-smiling-and-waving kind of way. I must admit, my feelings have not always been this way toward my well-known friend, melatonin. As a child, bold brown freckles covered my entire face. They demanded (unwanted) attention and were far bolder than the timid girl that stood behind them. I remember not being overly fond of them, except when I was at my cousin's grandmother's house (my cousin's grandmother on her dad's side. But wouldn't that be funny if I referred to my own grandmother that way? Moving on). She liked me a whole lot and held my freckles in high esteem. She would compliment me on them (as if I had some hand in it) every time I went to her house. Her own girlhood freckles had since faded into aging spots, but somehow that created some kind of continuity between us. For her sake, I was glad I was freckled. There, at her house, I was overly fond of them. Maybe that's why I like birthmarks now, because Yolande thought freckles were special.


I have a two-freckled constellation that sits on the crater of my hip, a brown butterfly that rests on my shoulder and a coffee-stained ankle bone.

Little Sister Kind of Love

The morning I left, I woke her up to hug her good-bye. As she slides down my body back into a deep sleep, she whispers, " Have fun. Be safe. Jesus loves you."

A fourteen-year-old that's never really been fourteen. She is who she is and matures when she wants. She lives outside of age and cannot hear society's screaming voice of expectations. She doesn't know she's supposed to try and fit in. She doesn't know she's 'supposed' to try to be any other way. Part of me thinks it's absolutely bold to one's self so freely. On the other hand, a gift that she doesn't even know she is "being bold" just by being herself. She likes alligators, olives, the Amazon, tree houses and is quite vocal if she thinks someone is making fun of her maternal lineage. She is persistent in a way that only the youngest child can be. And she'll get what she wants out of life.

a small little summer ride

                     This summer I rode my bicycle across the northern half of the country with eight incredible individuals. We were a group of non-cyclists trying to make a difference. We rode for victims of human trafficking, girls forced into prostitution and for Burmese refugees. It was a humbling and renewing experience. These are a few photographs from the trip.

           “We didn’t have much when we started this tour. We had a bike and two legs that could peddle.”

                     “Cycling clothes are a little like baby clothes. Diaper pants and Velcro shoes.”

                                        “You sound like a coyote in a trash compactor.”

  “Are we really sitting in a van, eating lasagna, watching the sunset because there are too many damn mosquitoes…sorry…dang mosquitoes?”

                                                  “America, you have created machines.”

                                    “Twelve hours ago we were taunting a security camera.”

Untitled #002

The words are pushed into me
somewhere in my back
finding their way through the canal of my throat
coming through my teeth in a whisper
I whisper in the shower alone
standing on the tips of toes
as if to go into a demi plie
like learned as a child
but I don't demi plie anymore
I stand there in releve as the hot water creates an illusion of cleansing
whispering to myself as the words fall into the porcelain tub and are washed down the drain.






On a lighter note, I just learned how to create hyperlinks. I know, about 13 years late. But I can't wait to employ this newly discovered ability.

Beauty

Friday was a strange day

Dead body flowing down the Mississippi
the first one I see today
can't help but no looking away
watching death as the waters sway
older man with his hat floating along too
Two minutes to the time
Too late to do anything
but watch
and I did
I watched
hand over mouth with eyes stretched wide trying to take it all in
but hide from the sight at the very same time
like fistfuls of crushed flowers
empty habitat where life once dwelt
traces of color
rimmed and lifeless

Dead body flowing down the Mississippi
the first one I see today
resting upon the waters sway
to find peace from your troubles
the brown waters wrap you up from sorrows
swallow you in warm embrace

Living the Life

A Journey of Detours

This is for the breast-bearing hippies

the wild haired feminists

the child abusers

the free radicals

the cool chasers

the happy artists and the lonely businessmen

this is for the mailwomen

for the factory workers who screw on the tops of toothpaste bottles.

This is for you

for those whose whispers are not heard

for the violent and for the meek

this is for those who stay while everyone else travels

for those who are pretending to be strong

for junior highers on bicycles and for old men in gardens

this is for the late night dishwashing wine sippers

for the new girlfriend

for the lollygaggers

this is for new mothers and dirty diapers

for the average c and for middle c

for the poser and for the hidden

for the free spirit and for the caged bird.

This is for the mustached veterinarian

for the antique junk collector

for the cyclist whose clips won't clip

for the Lutheran pastor with a colorful sash

for the old lady who shares ice cones with her dogs.

This is for girls that drive their own motorcycles

for tree-climbing homeschoolers

for single dads with young children

for tin-can robot makers

for r.v. families

for old couples who sit outside and just hold hands

for angry blonde toddlers

for old women that mow the lawn in American flag bathing suits.

This is for hoodlums with chihuahuas

and for fourteen-year-olds who move out alone because of bipolar mothers

for those who share deep secrets

for those who don't speak to their fathers

for girls that are insecure about their legs

for people that monogram their make-up bags.

This is for the vagabonds and for the wanderers

for dieting mothers

for little girls who wear bathing suits but never swim

for people who don’t want to hold hands

for the toll booth workers and for the times square street preachers.

You have made this journey unforgettable.

You have weaved in and out of my story this summer, which is only made up of me entering and exiting yours. You shared it with me, and for that I am most grateful.

Some for only a glimpse and others I have experienced more deeply.

Some are fleeting moments while others are composed of hours of conversation.

Some are only thoughts while others I have met. You make up the fabric that spans from the far west coast to the east. I am changed and at this point I’m not sure how but I know that I am. I can feel it. Bubbling to the surface the same way water does in a small black pot right before two large eggs are dropped in. It will be a long process unraveling the complexity of this summer. Discovering the changes as they surface, realizing the lessons I have learned along with the things I had to unlearn.

I am always on my way home.

heart home

> "What did you say about our home?"
> "Home is where the heart is."
> "Then mine's a mobile home."

You're Welcome

I've got wherever it takes
to stand out
above the crowd
even if I gotta shout out loud
till mine is the only face you'll see
gonna stand out
stand out yeah
stand out yeah yeah yeah yeah
stand out
till mine is the only face you'll see
gonna stand out
till you notice me

words schmerds

There once was a little girl who owned a leopard-printed purse and a lack of words. She tried to speak but had yet learned enough words to piece together in order to accurately articulate the thoughts she thought or the feelings she felt. Hot stem of frustration would billow out of her ears at every attempt to speak. This was a growing problem for this little leopard-printed-purse-carrying girl. After a farcical outburst in the cafeteria (over corn dogs from what I could gather), she slowly began to withdraw from society. She moved into the woods with only her limited vocabulary to keep her company. 

Moral of the story: Make your children learn GRE words starting at the ripe ole age of five years.

Untitled #001

This past March I was on a team that went to Texas. This is my absolute favorite quote from the trip: "Three things make my wife cry. Old people, Native Americans, and Louisiana coastal erosion." I have never met this woman but I'm pretty sure I would like her.

Library

    I found this on my computer the other day. I'm pretty sure I wrote this sometime last summer.

I got a library card last week and I've been there three times since then. It's very easily becoming one of my favorite places in Lafayette. It has this sort of 1970s vibe to it...the architecture, the style, the windows, the chairs. The first time I went, I was looking for a GRE prep book. The guy from the circulation desk that was helping find the book asked me what I was going for. I told him anthropology. He said that he had received his masters from LSU in the same field. His thesis was on political cartoons pertaining to Native Americans and the casino industry. It didn't surprise me that he was an anthro major. We talked for awhile about anthropology and graduate school, our only shared piece of history. He was a pleasant fellow with a long black ponytail streaked with grey, although I left feeling slightly disheartened. He has a masters degree in cultural anthropology and is working at the circulation desk at the local library.
    Yesterday Joi and I rode our bikes down there again. Another reason I love the library, I get to ride through downtown to get there. She got her own copy of the Catcher in the Rye, then we proceeded to check out. While the lady was checking us out, I told her that I thought the library card keychains were a great idea. (When you sign up for a library card you get a normal library card and another one that goes on your key chain. It looks like one of those win-dixie money-saving keychain cards.) She looked up and after a long pause said "....okaaay." Really dragged it out too. It's like she really didn't know how to respond to me. It was as though she was thinking, "this is strictly a business transaction, no conversation necessary." Kind of fun to breakup someone's normal routine with human interaction.
    When we were leaving the old security who sits near the door said "I'm beginning to feel like I've known you two for a long time." For we had talked to him in that very same spot the day before. Laughter followed us out the door and we hopped on our blue bikes and rode home. The end.

Likes and Nots

To keep it balanced for every don't I need a like.


I don't like gauchos.
I like ponchos.
I don't like dictators.
I like dictionaries.
I don't like child soldiers.
I like old people hands.
I don't like discrimination.
I like origami cranes.
I don't like bras.
I like sisters.
I don't like writing on chalk boards...or writing vertically at all for that matter.
I like pencils.
I don't like insurance.
I like nature.
I don't like public speaking in Spanish.
I like spoken word poetry.
I don't like high heels.
I like community.
I don't like when the author's name is bigger than the title on a book cover.
I like Dylan's lyrics.
I don't like to shower.
I like knitting.
I don't like the fuzzies in socks when you wear them right side in.
I like maps and globes.
I don't like party planning.
I like hearing laughter.
I don't like telling people to 'be safe'.
I like roadtrips.
I don't like loopy bubbles in letters (like when people write the letter 'm' for instance and have a small loop on the middle line of the 'm').
I like pocket-sized notebooks.
I don't like frat boy sunglasses connector bands.
I like blonde eyelashes.
I don't like sticky hands.
I like helping others.
I don't like seeing thirteen-year-old girls in Starbucks.
I like bookstores.
I don't like air conditioners blowing cold air directly on me.
I like aboriginals.
I don't like chicken noodle soup.
I like modern dance.
I don't like eight hour bus rides packed to the brim from Cairo.
I like documentaries.
I don't like realizing that the b.o. smell is coming from the shirt that I pull off the floor to wear.
I like Mother Theresa quotes.
I don't like alarm clocks.
I like Native American prints.
I don't like alarm clocks.
I like hammocks.
I don't like itchy sweaters.
I like baby owls.
I don't like wasting.
I like hiking backpacks.
I don't like writing on the backs of pages. (But I'm trying to overcome for green's sake.)
I like different cultures.
I like napping in parks too.