letting go of wishes

Ever since Saturday, I’ve found myself thinking about the wish fairy. For my Sunday Scribblings post, I let the words flow from my soul. For the first time in quite a while, I wrote without thinking or censoring. I wrote without worrying what other’s responses may be. I just wrote, and writing so freely felt good.

Indeed, I was quite amazed at the overwhelming number of comments I received on this post. My appreciation to you all for stopping by to leave your thoughts and let me know you’re out there, a precious reminder that maybe my words do mean something to someone. Maybe my writing is not always in vain. Maybe my words have a potential power that I have been too afraid to acknowledge.

My words for this week’s prompt were not words of conformity or comfort. How much easier it might have been for me to simply write out three wishes that I would love for some little magical fairy to grant me. But the easy road is not always the best road. If I want to expand my mind, if I want to grow within myself, if I want to be an authentic writer, then I have to get real with myself. And the reality is that I would love to make wishes and have them granted and live happily ever after. But the reality is also that my own life has shown me that turning wishes into reality is not always the dream we imagine it to be.

When I first began thinking about the possibility of three wishes, I thought I would wish for health and safety for all. And then I realized that this wish held far more repercussions than just a world full of happy, healthy people. Without sickness, we would not value health. Without death, we would not value life. And so despite the wonderful illusion of a completely healthy society, I realized that the losses that would accompany such a wish were far more costly than the reward.

For my second wish, I thought perhaps I would wish for no more financial problems and freedom from debt. Quite a selfish wish, but one I seriously considered. But again, I thought about this wish. The more I thought, the more I realized that without financial burdens, I would never know that value of intrinsic worth. I would never learn the importance of responsibility or experience the sheer joy and peace that follows a long day’s hard labor. With no financial concerns, I would be tempted to indulge myself in a life of luxury. Rather than making a difference in patients’ lives, I would likely find myself bored and empty and searching for meaning instead of truly living a purposeful life.

I never made it to my third wish. After all this thinking, I realized that I have spent far too much of my life making wishes. Perhaps it wasn’t a magical fairy to whom I made these wishes. But I wished nevertheless…I wished when the clock struck identical numbers, I wished when I threw pennies in fountains, I wished when I clasped my hands and prayed to God. I spent a large portion of my life wishing. And what I eventually realized is that wishing isn’t really living. In order to fully live my life, I have to ground myself in reality. This doesn’t mean that I never get lost in the clouds of imagination. But it does mean that I have come to accept the path of life I am walking. I have come to find my own path and my own pair of shoes to walk this road. And inevitably, I will encounter obstacles. But wishing away those obstacles would only keep me from learning the most valuable lessons in life.

And so it is…the wish fairy is tempting, but in the end, I choose to keep walking.

Sunday Scribblings - Three Wishes

I thought, if I could have three wishes, what would they be? What would I wish for? Would I wish for world peace? Or infinite health for all? Would I wish that every person in this world would know and experience love? Or would I wish that my debt would vanish? That finances would never again be a stress in my life? Would I wish to be able to travel all the continents? Or would I wish to become a world renowned writer?

As I thought, I realized that the wishes really didn’t matter. No matter what I wished for, the results would not be purely positive in nature. The challenges of life are necessary so that we may know the heights of beauty. And we always wish for things which we do not have. So suppose this hypothetical fairy were to come and offer to grant me three wishes, once those wishes were granted, I would likely find myself wishing for something else, something better, something different.

It’s not that I don’t believe in daydreams and fantasies. In fact, I’ve lived a lot of my life finding satisfaction in these precise ways. And yet our daydreams and fantasies will always leave us wanting. If we were to live out the fairy tales in our heads, reality could not equal the thrill of our imaginations.

And so, if this little fairy ever does decide to approach me and offer me wishes of my own choosing, I think I’ll have to say “thank you, but I’m not interested”. I’d rather let life deal it’s own cards. The path of life I’m walking is the one I am supposed to walk. I think I’ll let fate and destiny and God keep directing that path, and I’ll let the wish fairy pass me by.

Poetry Thursday - "only us and wind and fire"

~only us and wind and fire~

The road goes on, and I am reminded
of days when time knew no boundaries
of nights when passion carried us
across miles and wind and fire.
Your gentle touch of masculinity
set my body blazing with desire
beyond chemistry or sparks.
We made love with just our fingertips
tenderly touching, finger to finger,
years unfolded and two lost souls
found knowledge and wisdom in the other.
And now I think of you, of me,
the unexplainable unity of us.
The tears fall in streams of grief and loss,
knowing that not one day
shall ever pass us by
without you seeing my face in the clouds,
me hearing your voice in the wind
memories of your fingertips brushing mine
and the world fading away.
Only us and wind and fire.

I know the assignment was to take myself on a field trip and find inspiration in a bookstore. But I have found my inspiration elsewhere this week. This poem holds so much emotion and intensity for me. I could not help but to share it.

Sunday Scribblings - The books I would write...

The books I would write would be of travels in foreign lands, of lessons learned, of beauty seen, or awareness heightened. The books I would write would tell of adventures of the body and spirit, of the mind and heart, adventures of a fully lived life. These books would tell of my own journeys across native soils, the people, the culture, the diversity and challenges of life. Filled with my own moments of pain and fear, these books would tell the stories of overcoming danger and adversity, rising above the terrors and facing the world head-on with courage and grace. The books I would write would tell these stories through honesty and hope, imparting wisdom and bravery to those reading the raw words of my own experiences.

These books I would write in the hopes of making a difference in the world. By using my own life, the only experiences I can truly, wholly know, and molding these experiences into words, more than words, emotions and awareness and realizations that could touch the deeply scarred souls of this world. I would write these books because I want to live this life, because I want to have these experiences and to know that I am capable of surmounting the strongest fears and deepest pains. I would write these books because if I could live this life, then somehow I believe the answers would find me. And in turn, these answers, this wisdom and knowledge, could be passed on to others.

Or maybe the books I would write would be a collection of my actual experiences, moving memoirs of the life I have actually lived. Maybe I would write a book detailing the internal torment of a seven-year-old girl diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Maybe I would describe the constant fears, the disturbing beliefs that every detail of life must be lived out in a certain way in order to avoid catastrophic repercussions. Maybe I would write of the endless hours spent arranging and rearranging books and stuffed animals and shoes, or the feeling that no matter how much I washed my hands they would never be truly clean. Maybe I would write of being the preadolescent girl who ate her sandwiches at lunch by holding only the plastic wrapping, and the laughing sneers from her peers at this strange behavior, and the emptiness and confusion she felt. Maybe I would write this story.

Or maybe I would write a book about an adolescent girl sitting on a bathroom floor, a razor blade in her young hands, contemplating the meaning of life. Trying to understand why her male friend had tried to force himself upon her, to understand why she deserved such violation. Maybe I would write of a morning when the drive to school became a drive across the country, an attempt to flee from herself and the pain that no one could understand. Maybe I would write of drugs and sex and every avenue of self-destruction and the reasons these paths were taken. Maybe I would write this story.

Maybe I would write these books because these are the stories I know. Because these are the stories I’ve lived. Because these are the stories that may actually make a difference to someone, somewhere, in the midst of tormenting fears or the confusion of a lost identity. Maybe I would write these books in the hopes that lost souls would know they are not alone, that their path is one that has been traveled by many, that their story is not so different from mine.

So maybe, just maybe, I would write books of my life, both real and imagined. Books that tell my story, and the story of so many others. Books that remind us all that life’s journey need not be walked alone, that the burdens will not always weigh upon us too heavily, and that beauty can be found even in the midst of darkness.

Poetry Thursday - a favorite by Neruda

Love is a difficult path to walk. The illusions of happily-ever-after are simply fairy tales of our naive youth. And yet, amidst the trials and tribulations, love offers us the purest and grandest beauty of life's experiences.
I first began reading Pablo Neruda in 2004 following my divorce. I cannot recall the specifics of how I became introduced to the music of his words, only that from my reading of his very first word, I began to fall in love. Unlike the illusory romances of my past, I began to fall in love with myself and with life and with the world around me. Through my own internal trials and tribulations, I began to learn the reality of love rather than the fairy tale. And despite the obstacles, the beauty and peace I found within myself during that time propelled me into a new way of living. Embracing the good and accepting the bad as stepping stones that gradually lead us where we are meant to be. Searching my soul and finding myself amidst the confusion of those around me.
Two years later, these words still speak to me. They remind me that life, and love, are not always easy. But despite it all, love still is the greatest of all things.

II

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss,
what loneliness-in-motion, toward your company!
Rolling with the rain we follow the tracks alone.
In Taltal there is neither daybreak nor spring.

But you and I, love, we are together
from our clothes down to our roots:
together in the autumn, in water, in hips, until
we can be alone together -- only you, only me.

To think of the effort, that the current carried
so many stones, the delta of Boroa water;
to think that you and I, divided by trains and nations,

we had only to love one another:
with all the confusions, the men and the women,
the earth that makes carnations rise, and makes them bloom!

~Pablo Neruda - from 100 Love Sonnets~

Portrait of a Survivor...and a Plea for Prayers

She is a statuesque woman of distinguishable beauty. With her towering height and long thick curls, she exudes a wave of warmth that touches even the tiniest of souls. In fact, it is those very tiny souls (the souls of three and four-year-old children) that she touchest the deepest. Her creative flair manifests itself in the mornings she spends with these youngsters, helping them to paint their first masterpieces and make catterpillars out of clothespins. But her creativity and warmth reach far beyond the tiny hands that latch onto hers as she guides and encourages those tiny souls to grow. Just two years ago, I sat on her couch with her as she patiently guided my own hands in and out and around the fragile strands of yarn, teaching me how to knit. Again and again, her hands swiftly maneuvered the colorful yarns...slowly and slowly my own hands began to imitate hers. As she taught me to weave strands around needles of various sizes, made of metal and plastic and bamboo, she taught me more than just the act of knitting. She taught me the art of knitting, and in some aspect, the art of living. Slowing down, allowing myself to make mistakes, choosing colors and textures of diversity...she taught me how to create my dreams and how to lend my own warmth to others.

Just yesterday, this woman of fullness lost a piece of herself. On an operating table in one of the nation's most renowned hospitals, her life became forever altered. With a long recovery ahead of her and 3 - 6 rounds of chemotherapy looming in her near future, the path at her feet has suddenly turned treacherous. During the days and weeks and months ahead, may we all remember this dear woman in our thoughts and prayers. May we exude our own warmth and creativity in hopes that such rays of healing will reach her and brighten her moments.

Sunday Scribblings - "My Shoes"

The thing about shoes is that each pair carries a story, or multiple stories in some cases. Every pair of shoes is much more than just two matching pieces of footwear. They carry memories and adventures, heartaches and joyous celebrations. Maybe that is why it is so hard to give away our old pairs of shoes. Even after multiple moves and countless attempts at “simplifying”, my closet still holds an array of shoes. And each pair has its own story.

The dingy white Converse sneakers purchased when I was 11 years old (and yes, they still fit) have walked many miles across varied paths. The faded remnants of inked doodles are still faintly visible if you look at the inside soles. The word “Texas” was once carefully written there in my youthful innocence, fueled by my fantasy of one day moving to the state of great open spaces and marrying a cowboy. Over the years, many boys’ names were also imprinted on the soles in black ink…hopeful markings of where I wanted my feet to lead me…namely, into the arms of those various boys.

Then there were the wooden sandal clogs…quite impractical shoes but perfectly fitting for the bohemian sundresses of my early adolescence. Despite the pain my feet endured, I wore those sandals on many adventures, down sandy paths that led to the midnight shore and across cobblestone streets in historic cities of the South. With my hand gingerly clasped in the hand of my first true love, we walked by the Savannah River smoking clove cigarettes and dreaming of a freedom that we could not fathom at the age of fourteen.

My black combat boots, now nestled in the back of my closet, a tribute to my days of adolescent rebellion. They were THE shoes, the shoes I was known for and remembered for. At the ages of 16 and 17, I wore those boots everywhere. Inspired by Drew Barrymore in the movie “Mad Love”, I put on long flowing dresses and my combat boots and imagined that the craziness in my head would somehow imbue me with the romantic beauty she so courageously portrayed in the movie. Even on Sunday mornings, as my parents nagged me to get out of bed and get ready for church, I insisted on wearing those boots. In a time when I struggled to establish my own identity, my black combat boots gave me one I could borrow until I could find myself on my own.

My old brown leather clogs, weathered by years and trials, still sit at the forefront of my closet. These are the shoes I wear when my pager goes off at 3 a.m. and I hurriedly jump into my dark green scrubs and head to one of 14 emergency rooms. These shoes walk the stark white hospital floors, sometimes stepping over puddles of blood or other bodily fluids. These shoes carry me into rooms of heartache and despair, rooms that have lost all sense of hope or basis of reality. These are the shoes that keep me strong when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. They are the shoes that guide me as I talk to doctors and police and families and patients. They are the shoes that help me save lives.

And perhaps most central to the past 10 years of my life are my black Reef flip-flops. These are my “everyday” shoes, the ones that walk through puddles of rain and then dance in the park just because the urge strikes. These are the ones I wear when I’m driving to the beach or to school or to the mall. They have walked on mountain trails, on sandy beaches, in the open desert, and in foreign lands. They’ve protected my tender soles (and soul) from hot pavement and burning fears. With speckles of white and blue and green paint barely visible after years of daily life, they hold a thousand stories and a million memories. These black flip-flops carry a piece of me and my life.

So there you have it…the stories of my shoes. Holding innocence and dreams, rebellion and uncertainty, romance and hope, death and fear…holding life, these shoes have walked many paths and will walk many more.

Poetry Thursday - "a love affair with words"

Okay, so it's actually Friday evening. But I do have a good excuse for my delayed post. Unfortunately, our cable company accidentally clipped our lines for both cable and internet yesterday, and were unable to get us rewired until late this afternoon. So, at last, here is my contribution to Poetry Thursday. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, as it gave me a little extra time to think about what I wanted to write. The irony...no matter how much I think about it before I write it, I always write poetry in a spontaneous moment. I never make notes or write bits and pieces here and there...I sit down and usually in about 10 minutes, I've put my piece out there on the paper (or screen). So here it is folks...my love affair with words!

~a love affair with words~

Sensual,
rolling from my tongue
filled with emotions
of love and fury
tenderness and sorrow.
I taste the bittersweet
sensations, vibrations
of words’ empowering kiss.

Comforting,
enveloping like a warm blanket
full of hope and reassurance
on the darkest, coldest nights.
Holding me in safety
as I allow myself to be
lulled and caressed
by words’ soothing embrace.

I feel the sensuality, the comfort,
the sheer beauty of the words
forming on my lips
written on a blank page
held by weathered binding.
And I know that I am bound
in this moment, in this experience
my eternal love affair
with words.

things that make me happy

These purple irises are simply beautiful! As my dear boyfriend cooked a delicious dinner of orange chicken, asian noodles, and various peppers stir-fried to perfection, two of my best girlfriends arrived. These lovely flowers were a gift from one of them...a heartfelt gesture to brighten my days and lift my spirits. After dinner, we indulged in a succulent strawberry shortcake for dessert and settled into the plush couches to finish watching American Idol and House. This seemingly simple night was just what I needed...delicious food, wonderful company, and these stunning purple irises!

the bad days

It's been far too long since I've posted a new entry. I've missed one Poetry Thursday, one Sunday Scribblings, and many other days when it probably would have calmed my inner nerves to just sit down and write. Unfortunately, I just haven't felt like writing, or doing much of anything. I wish that I had a better explanation, a more justifiable reason for not writing. But my friend of darkness bears no warning at times, and so the veil of clouded anxiety fell upon me unexpectedly.

Tuesday was spent with an afternoon at the pool and a delicious dinner of grilled salmon and veggies cooked by my own personal favorite chef. A longtime dear friend, he and I had grown apart for a time and only rekindled the depths of our friendship this previous summer when his best friend passed away. Between the presence of his girlfriend and all the craziness of the days, we never grieved together. In fact, we never really spoke about the death or the funeral or all the drama that surrounded that time, or the drama of the months before when we allowed our friendship to fall to the wayside. We kept in contact, but our conversations remained relatively superficial. It wasn't until last Wednesday night that our conversation flowed from the heart, the tears finally being released. And still, the full outpouring of all we needed to say was not complete.

Wednesday I awoke early with familiar feelings of nausea and attempted as best I could to prepare myself for a journey home to visit my family. Six hours in the car and two anxiety pills later, I arrived at my parents' home only to have the feelings of anxiety and nausea increase as the hours passed.

Thursday I managed to enjoy a shopping adventure with my sister, dinner with my grandparents, and a glass of shiraz at my favorite local bar. But as the warm red wine flowed into my body, the comfort and relaxation I was seeking were nowhere to be found. By the time I returned home and went to bed, the anxiety was slowly creeping back in.

Friday morning was spent on another shopping adventure with my sister with an afternoon at the pool following. Ordinarily, such activities would be the epitome of my therapeutic day, but the nerves followed me through each store and left the blood within me cold even as the sun's rays warmed my body. Supper was another ordeal, with each bite leaving me panic-stricken and aching for home.

Saturday was another up and down day, but with the nerves finally settling by late afternoon.

And so Sunday, I awoke with hope, with a more calm feeling, and with the knowledge that the comfort of my own home was awaiting me. I expected a relatively uneventful ride home, but two hours into the trip, I could feel the shallowness of my breath quickening and could literally see the trembling of my hands. Not much later, it hit...my first full-blown panic attack in many, many months. The blinding dizziness, the pounding heart, the sweaty palms, the blurred vision, the debilitating nausea...it was too much. Another anxiety pill and two more treacherous hours later, I finally made it home.

So this morning I awoke, wondering if this horrible episode of anxiety and depression would still be lingering. Was it the aftereffects of an emotional conversation with a friend whom had grown distant that set the stage for these past five days? Was it returning to my hometown and finally experiencing a new awareness that I just don't fit in there anymore? Was it the pressure of being surrounded by family and not having a way out (I rode down with my sister and left my car in Atlanta)? Or was it simply another unexplanable episode that would continue to dwell within me until one random day the world once again appeared brighter? These were my questions when I awoke this morning, wondering what today had in store for me and my nerves.

I still don't know what brought this massive attack of emotions to the surface. But they have yet to vanish. For moments, even hours, I am fine. And then suddenly, without warning, I feel my breath quickening, my heartbeat increasing, that feeling of internal "shaking" that threatens to put me back in bed. I am fighting it! I am fighting hard. But these past several days have been bad.

I hate seeing the world in muted hues, shivering from a cold that lies within my soul. I hate wondering if tomorrow will only be more of the same and knowing that even if it is, I must somehow summon my courage and make it through the day. In the midst of all of this, the one thing I love, the one thing that brings me so much hope is the man that loves me enough to walk beside me and hold my hand, even on these worst of days. With no questions and no need for explanations, he brings smiles amidst the tears and helps me take one step at a time. Until the bad days end, I'm walking slowly and carefully...but with hope.

**Note: I did not reread this before posting. I also did not censor or put much thought into the actual "writing" of this post. I simply wrote...after finding the courage to share with you the reason for my absence.**