"But now I don't fear again--now I'm free"

Today she asked me where the bad dreams come from, and I couldn't answer her.

But I do know what the good ones are made of.

Intro to Voice Final: This Thursday at 5!

Are you going to Scarborough fair?

dearest friend will i see you there?

life's not always pretty

it hurts to care

and sometimes love's too much to bear

parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme

am I yours and are you mine?

give me reason

give me rhyme

the tardy fruit's the fullest wine

Remember me to One who lives there

if you knew would you still care?

he says "truth"

and i say "dare"

far from home in a villain's lair 

he once was A true love of Mine

is this life more than a tombstone's line?

a hope chest of maple

a casket of pine

we'd make something good, we'd make something fine

Tell Him to make me a cambric shirt

can i hold your hands when they're covered in dirt?

I want to dance

in a flowing skirt

made for joy and prone to hurt

without no Seams nor needlework

if death is drowning is Life the murk?

my heart still flutters

my knees still jerk

you see my silence you hear my quirks

tell him to find me an acre of land

Is there treasure under this sinking sand?

we stole our hearts

and took our hands

so full of desires and whispered demands

tell him to reap it in a sickle of leather

is it just me, or is it the weather?

raised in glory

Falling together

i caught an angel and hold Every feather

parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme

you will always remain a true love of mine

San Pellegrino

Pre-worn leather furniture on cowhide rugs. Old foreign trinkets that pique curiosity but not memories. Finger paint art in gilded frames. Marble philosophers with vacant eyes and stiff hair. Some things too ornate, others expensively plain.
Even their children seem like living accessories-- growing collectibles whose main purpose is to warrant an oversized house.

They are an attractive power-couple. More put together than I could ever hope to be.

Him: George Clooney's suave meets Brad Pitt's hair. Add a pinstriped sports jacket to dark wash jeans. A distinguished grey with professionally whitened teeth. Hospitable upon request, but not naturally. He has it all and knows it. This recent outgrowth of yuppie pursuits unsettles him to the core, reducing purpose to pretentiousness and servitude to show with lots of tell.

She, for her part, is ostensibly Italian. Beauty, mannerisms, dress, complexion, charisma. But no flourish. No spark of joy without coaxing. Her movements are floundering; a fish out of water doing its best to breathe air. She has subdued herself to his dreams. She misses her parents more than the best tomato sauce could ever convey. Here, she is reduced to half a spirit, and this adventure Americana has become a desperate search for anything familiar. She too has begun to realize that no amount of wine and kickshaws could ever make this home, but its not for lack of trying.

After petting the dog and mentioning thirst, I am offered filtered water or fizzy water. Aqua frizzante it is. There is no discussion of the two dependents sleeping above us. She rushes upstairs to powder her face, and he takes the opportunity to show off his new stereo system. I am lost in bubbly water and contemporary Jefferson Airplane. Of course my first instinct is to spill all over my shirt, which I disguise admirably. After dabbing at my chest with a burlap pillow, I wander the house awkwardly while my employer entertains a British chum with similar grooming habits. My ears are impressed, but I sense that my opinion on vintage turntables is inconsequential. I begin to feel like yet another accessory, so I bite my tongue and let the water tickle my nose away from snootiness. I turn then to the strangest art I have ever seen. It is a conversation piece, at best. A demon's nightmare at worst. Besides the myriad of non-plastic designer toys, this place feels inhospitable to sticky fingers and sibling rivalries. Kids, it seems, were an afterthought. Or perhaps far to planned?

After a few minutes of grooming each other, Brad and Angelina leave in a hurry to dine across the street. A trial run for me, apparently. From one place with nice things to another place with nice things, though somehow I doubt she will care for the meal. When you are raised on Strega Nona's homemade pasta, even the best that metropolitan market has to offer tastes like shit. Which makes me laugh, actually. But only for a second, because in all this finery I too have forgotten that there are two small children sleeping upstairs and that I am here to guard their dreams of ipads and leather bound books and stainless steel and treasures not to touch.

Part of me wonders if I should have come more prepared. This feels more like nightshift at the Louvre than babysitting, and I wonder if I should be patrolling with a weighted maglight. The dog, of course, is no help. Obviously starved for attention, he is more likely to fend off an intruder with bad breath than ferocity. At best, he might stall them with desperate hugs and kisses. Useless.
So its really just me here, with my unintelligent phone and glass of flattened Pellegrino.

Don't get me wrong. I am not angry, nor am I bitter. People have nice things, and that is great for them. Heck, I have nice things. I appreciate the work that it took to acquire and display them so artfully. I enjoy looking at things from a different time, a different land, a different perspective. People have nice things and they like that about themselves. Good for them. Good for me.

But after spending a weekend in the simplicity of home, I am reminded once more; that's just not my best.
I was born in mess, I live in mess, and I will die a glorious mess.
Despite a tone of mild annoyance, the past few hours have not emblazoned permanent disdain upon my face, but have instead strengthened my desire for something else.

When I have a home, there will be no untouchables. Nothing so valuable that it cannot be treasured by tiny hands. There will be leather bound books and paperback books and children's books jumbled together--probably all with juice stains-- and they will share many many shelves and we will read them. Walls decorated with things we think are beautiful and things our children create and scuff marks from wrestling matches and coloring endeavors. We will sit on the kitchen floor for the deepest talks. There will be messes made and messes that don't get cleaned up until days later. Dusting will be easy. Keeping animals out of the house will not. My children will be loved enough to be disciplined, and just poor enough to share.

My house will not have an abundance of niceties, but it will be filled with joy. I dream of a house where the highest and the lowest are made welcome. A space where even the wanderer can feel at home. A place that knows it's place.

Until that day, I will continue getting paid to do homework in this quasi-gallery, and I will enjoy my fill of fizzy or filtered water with these delicious imported organic apples.

But hear you me, and hear me clear: you can't keep this girl under a bell jar, and these nice things will outlive us all.

One of my most exciting musical moments was getting to play bass drum for the 9th grade band (as an 8th grader, no less!) on Verdi's Requiem: Dies Irae.

I would love. To hit a bass drum right now. I would love that so much.

This is as close as it gets.

something inside of me has s n a p p e d.
like a neon glow stick I have been b/r/o/k/e/n and
s-h-a-k-e-n to the point of
no return and
--low and behold--
I am alight
for the first time in ages.

The Golden Times

Walks along the railroad tracks with a lifelong friend, talking about things discussed the day before. 

Meandering through the same old streets on a rusted bike, wishing for enough money to buy a donut. 

The only limitation is to "be home by dinner"-- fresh corn, watermelon, barbecue, beer. 

Skipping rocks on the beach--or watching as Carmen challenges my dad and always wins

Forcing miniature crabs out from under rocks and into a dug-out "battle arena" to fight 

Swimming out to the dock 

Picking blackberries and rhubarb with a mother's promise of pie

Ghost stories at bonfires

Sleeping outside to watch the meteors fall

Building a tree house with dad's lumber scraps

Papa plays guitar after dinner--we belt "Angel From Montgomery" through mouthfuls of s'mores

Raiding my best friend's fridge for otter pops 

Running through the sprinkler and chasing water rainbows in a circle

Pegging my sister with water balloons while she tans

Catching fireflies 

Playing horse shoes at the park (hahaha, Charlie!)

Long drives across the sound 

Sailing to Mye island and trekking out to the sea dragon 

Long walks to nowhere in particular

Naps in the hammock

Losing myself in a book without the guilt of "wasting time"

Listening to blues music

Outdoor movies in the backyard 

Driving that truck to god knows where and blasting twangy country tunes

Road trips to wherever the sunsets hold the most promise

Lounging around Grandma and Grandpa's house--drinking milkshakes in exchange for gardening

Surviving on dried mangos, peas, cherry tomatoes and pizza

Trekking through the woods, finding the Big Mama clay wall and inscribing our own hieroglyphs 

Sitting in the double-Kayak and letting the current have it's way with our destination

Hiking those Olympic peaks and gorging on Chimacum Cheeseburgers and Root beer afterwards

Cutoff shorts, Tevas, tie-dye tshirts, farmer tans, ray bans and whirring fans

Watching Stand By Me, The Sandlot and Breaking Away for the nth time

Laughing with friends and family

Putting all our efforts into the 4th of July

The smell of sulphur and the ear-ringing blasts for days

Weddings at the park

Slip and slides

Rope swings

Drinking on the porch

Making water marks on the street with your butt

Becoming overly serious about the rules of croquet 

Fresh cut grass

and sun. Sun. SUN!

The Weight of Words.

So last night I put my foot in my mouth and said something I immediately regretted. It was the kind of phrase that you want to take back after each word is expelled but the drive to form a complete sentence urges you to continue and before you know it the thought is out and offers no hope of retraction.
Listen here-- I am no stranger to this feeling. I have tossed words around my whole life, like pizza dough or salad or crumpled up pages of bad poetry. I've flung some slings and arrows in my time, like anyone with a fickle tongue on the defensive and a desire to impress. I've chucked my verbal deuces up and turned peace signs into peace-out lines that really zinged (or so I hoped). And as a general rule, I've been really impressed with myself about all that. Those casual stabs and jabs got me through middle-school taunting. Survival mechanisms, baby.

But the past 9 months or so have been a toughie. Trying to reconcile my protectionist instincts with the desire for authenticity and vulnerability, I have become increasingly aware of the weight of words.

At the Seattle Science Center, there is a giant lever with a huge steel weight attached to one end and a rope on the other. When you pull the rope to the far end of the lever, away from the weight, you can lift the 2,500 lb. mass on the other end with relative ease. For little kids/me, its like having super strength for 5 seconds. Pull this rope, move a ton. Done.

Then things get a little more complicated. As you move the rope closer to the weight, it becomes increasingly difficult to gain any leverage. This is the point where kids/me start piling onto the rope like squirming rock crystals in attempt to shift the defiant mass on the other side. Pull this rope, be reminded of how much my arms resemble spaghetti al dente. Done.

I've found the same concept of leverage applies to words. When my heart is far away from relationships/people for whatever reason (be it time, injury, apathy, annoyance or as a protective measure),  I can flick around words that should be weighty as if they were dried goobers. "I love you", "I hate ____", "You're great", "You're my favorite", "You're mean", "I trust you". I've said all these things at some point, probably even today. Drat that!

Inversely, I find that the closer I get to someone, the more those words mean. The heavier they become. They can't be spoken as easily, and they are taken a lot more seriously. I couldn't even tell my parents that I love them until late in my teen years, yet I could readily profess a love for Spike by season 2 of Buffy.

The harsh truth is that precious few of us are prepared to take on the responsibility of stewarding our words. We yearn for closeness and a tangible sense of reality, but not if there is the possibility of getting hurt in the process. We love our security, and we love our pride. No one wants to pull the rope and look like weak sauce in the middle of the Science Center. Its downright embarrassing.

Yet I've learned from personal experience that after a time, hanging around the fringes of vulnerability to preserve the upper hand stops being impressive and starts being strangely isolating. It didn't take long for the 5 year olds ooing and ahhing my superwoman antics to get bored and move onto other exhibits. Especially when they realized they could do the same thing.

But I digress. Something always has to give. Last night, I made a snarky comment towards a close friend that carried more weight than I wanted to take responsibility for. I pulled the lever from the outer edges and those words shifted without effort and without thought and without impressing anyone, really. Including me.

"With the right leverage and the proper application of strength, the door will come free." So true, Will Turner. But it's up to us how we use that leverage--that strength. Because there are some doors we don't want to open, and there are doors that we do want to open but are too afraid to because they represent vulnerability in a relationship, and some doors that should stay closed, and not all doors are holding Jack Sparrow captive, and criminy I am horrible at extended metaphors.

Regardless, taking responsibility for the weight of your words requires a strong element of humility. Sometimes it means saying, "Yes, I do have noodles for arms. Will you help me carry this?" I am fortunate enough to have a few wonderful individuals that are willing to share the weight. Every once in a while (sic last night) I slip up and get a little too cocky, but like so many unimpressed 5 year olds, my antics are quickly called out. Thank you.

So here I am learning the weight of words. It isn't glamorous and it isn't easy and I still put far too much stock in my defense mechanisms, but in learning weight, I am learning how to hold what is real. I am learning self-respect and other-respect and what it means to be truly vulnerable. And within this vulnerability, I am learning what it means to love and be loved.

Tiring? Yes.

But a shared tired. And so incredibly worth it.

To a promise made long ago

I will learn how to miss you the way I promised.

Everyone tells me I am stubborn as hell but
if it takes a spotless mind to love you best,
I will relinquish these memories
one
by
one

re-direct my neurons to other names
stop thinking that
synaptic do-overs
could keep you near

and obsession could hold you close.

I am learning to let you be an absence that no other can fill,
and I promise that on that day when our voices meet again
my heart will leap for joy from the weight of what it holds
and my mind will re-remember that


Yes.


I have missed you well