We are not made to contain.

lemonblonde

Sometimes you have to just go for it. Spill yourself purposefully (you’re more than sixty percent water anyway) and see what you have in there. It’s huge and scary and intimidating because what if you don’t like what you find? For this reason, you hold back so often, almost always. Everything inside you crashes like waves against the strongest, outermost layer of your skin, but you refuse to acknowledge it, you say no. I say you, but I mean we.

My best friend Hillary used to vacation to the Outer Banks with my family (when clocks ticked in half-time and we’d have done anything to grow up faster). She would drape herself over the ledge of the top bunk to say goodnight; we would whisper all our anxieties and expectations for first kisses and first everythings; I would squeeze lemons into her french braided hair to hasten highlights.

But what I mean to say is that we’d spend all of the sunlit hours (except, perhaps, the first couple) in the water. Floating, singing, treading, racing, handstanding. The best days, though, were the ones with furious waves that made it hard to keep our heads up, that kept us guessing and refused to retreat. Hillary and I would  dive beneath and let the wave break on top of us. Usually we’d resurface unscathed, however nature can be harsh and unruly. When the timing was just right and the surge on top was strong and the pull below was powerful we’d end up rolling, caught up, toward the foreshore. Head over heels and out of control, beaten and bruising; the seconds felt like hours before we found ourselves with shells in our no longer lemon-braided hair, bathing suits askew, bodies beached and breathing.

The same terrifying exhilaration is inside every one of us, isn’t it? Stories and feelings start as ripples, grow to swells, and turn to tidal waves beating on us, from within. We contain so much more than we give ourselves credit for. It might feel right to stop holding it all so tightly. It might be the biggest relief to pour someone a glass of you so they’d taste all your memories, fears, and dreams. Cheers.

Summer isn’t endless after all.

perhaps my favorite photograph.

I didn’t think it would end; I never do, but it always does. I thought I’d be warm forever and that he and I could make this work. There aren’t really seasons in San Diego, maybe that’s why we thought things would stay the same, maybe they would have if only I hadn’t left his home for mine.

Here, home, the tips of the leaves are yellow and red, and the tips of my fingers and toes are cold. Here, home, I woke up one morning and realized that summer was gone. But I’ll think about it, and write about it, and dream about it, and sign love letters until next time because summer is the only thing that makes winter worthwhile.

This summer I rode on his handlebars because I had no bike of my own, I trusted him because I needed to. I held his hand every second because without it I’d be standing alone in a place I didn’t know. I rested my head on his chest because it was the only thing I felt belonged to me, the only place that felt right.

The equinox had other plans. And we’ll both be fine, eventually, because everyone is fated for flux, no matter the region in which they were raised.

San Diego, where fortune finds you.

the line, photo by Jessica Roenick

Sunday, I was spreading out my lime and white striped beach towel on the very ledge of a bluff–a bluff that drops down to a sandy beach, a beach that bears the break of a million waves, waves that are cast by the moon–when I spotted a penny, small and insignificant, like me. It wasn’t especially shiny or new, but it was heads up and I stopped fanning out my towel and I stared. Jessica saw my stillness and asked me what was wrong. I found a heads up penny. Oh yeah? Pick it up! She said. I don’t know if I should. Because I can’t see how I could get any luckier.

Suddenly I was dizzy, like I had too many sips of serendipity–fizzy, sweet, and free flowing these past three weeks. I had packed my life into two suitcases and moved, on somewhat of a whim, to the most beautiful city in the country. I was welcomed into the home of one of my best friends. I got a job the day after I arrived. I met wonderful guy who reciprocates my feelings (that actually happens in real life!?). The aforementioned  guy woke me up by kissing my cheek, he made me eggs for brunch. I’d been enjoying mimosas with new friends all morning. The sun was browning our bodies, the breeze was keeping us cool.

And then I found a lucky penny.

Jess was already sitting down, lathering on tanning oil (because we’re young!) by the time I found the courage to pick up the penny. I dare you , I said to my life, get even better. Maybe the penny was so hot in my hand because it had been sitting in the sun all day, but I doubt it. It was hot because it was saturated with all that is good and happy and lucky.

Before long, the boys were behind us, setting up a slackline between two palm trees, thirty feet away from the ledge. I’d never seen a slackline before, but the one inch strap bound taut a safe distance from the ground reminded me of an elementary Cirque du Soleil. It’s about balance, trust, knowing your body, adjusting yourself; but then again, what isn’t? I watched the boys play on the line and grew scared to step up. That is, until one new friend grabbed my hand, showed me how to get onto the strap, taught me how to balance on one foot then transfer my weight, and walked next to me, still holding my hand, as I took my first steps. Teetering like a toddler; new here and excited.

The afternoon passed and strangers approached our set up, asking to give it a go, staying to chat a bit. An older woman dressed all in purple inquired as to each of our birthdays and upon hearing them said they explained everything, why we each acted as we did. People here are different, I’ve been saying that to everyone at home. I couldn’t quite describe it at first, but now I get it’s that they’re open. More open. And they’re letting me be open too–my mind, my eyes, my heart.

That wonderful guy, the one who cooks eggs and laughs with abandon, helped me across the slackline every time I wished, then he dared me to do it on my own. I did once, almost a run, scared silly, but trusting in him trusting in me. Later, as we sat on the edge of the bluff he said You were great, on the line. And you looked beautiful while doing it. I smiled at him, then the grass, then the ocean. Dizzy again, that serendipity, so glad I picked up the penny.

Mind’s eye

light comes in, inevitably.

In that second, or maybe it’s not one, but two, just as and after you turn off your light–turn, flip, flick, push–and the world is black, pitch black, for the first and only time each day, what do you see? Or who, or where, maybe.

I’m asking because it wasn’t until recently that I discovered the magic of this moment. It reminds me of the optical illusions where we stare, really stare at an image for a solid thirty seconds, maybe more (this image is usually black and white, often geometric and dizzying); immediately after, we place our gaze on a blank wall or sheet of paper. The image, on which we’d so concentrated, appears magically, and the longer we’d stared, the crisper the result. We blink a few times and it’s gone.

At night though, the image that appears isn’t one we’ve just studied, it’s the one that’s been plastered in the back of our minds the whole day through, and it’s only in the moment when the blackest curtain has dropped down on our day, before the street light fizzles in the window and the clock radio begins to glow, that our minds move the image from the back of our cluttered thoughts to in front of our open eyes.

Recently I’ve been seeing my Gran in these moments, she passed away two and a half weeks ago but I started seeing her before that. I know I won’t see her every night, because you can’t control what you think about subconsciously and things come up and time goes and I will be different tomorrow, so will you. To me, seeing my Gran reminds me of how my mom used to tuck me in at night, walk away but turn and wait in the threshold with the hall light behind her and tell me she loves me, then go. That’s what Gran is doing too, in a way, and it makes me feel better.

I might be sad tonight, if she’s not projected from the filmstrip of my psyche. I might feel shallow if I see something else, like San Diego, or the puppy I want my dad to adopt, or a boy, or two. But I don’t think we should feel sad, bad, or shallow about our thoughts–we should learn from them. Take the moments after (as we, literally, start to see the light) to reflect and listen and really, really see what is important, who we love, and where we want to be.

The big city and not saying.

mum's the word.

Two weekends ago, I spent three days in New York City. My time was divided almost evenly amongst three fantastic friends. Quality one-on-one time with each was much needed, as I hadn’t seen any them in months. Friday I spent with Erin touring Columbia University, exploring the Chelsea Market, and nibbling on delicious treats atop the High Line. From the elevated park–a former freight train cache, now landscaped walking path extending along the West Side–we watched the setting sun dip into New Jersey.

Saturday, Lee and I persuaded a less than eager cab driver to take us to Terminal 5. The driver was vexed by our destination request, claiming it would take him over an hour, with the traffic–but Lee knew he was hassling because the exact same driver had driven Lee the night before and what the driver said would take forty-five minutes, took five. When we’d gotten as far as the driver would take us, Lee and I rounded the blocks and got ourselves each a perfect slice of pizza. We spent the next few hours in the midst of The Frames, the Irish Rock band fronted by Glen Hansard, and I was swooning. When the crowd dispersed, we found Danny; I felt like the baton in a relay, being handed from the second to the third leg.

Sunday, Danny attempted to explain the subway, rather he explained and I attempted to understand. We spent more time than we realized in my new favorite store, The Strand, which boasts to house over eighteen miles of books but I think perhaps it has more. Danny purchased a few screenplays and I bagged Bill Bryson’s biography of Shakespeare as well as the third and final Knuffle Bunny book (an adorable story, accompanied by black-and-white photographs lain over with illustration) for my favorite three- and five-year-olds. We then enjoyed brunch and conversation at an Irish pub, to keep with the theme from the night before. We were shaken by the 9/11 Memorial and Museum at Ground Zero; I was especially stuck on the Missing poster, plastered right at my eye level. The man was young, twenty-three, and reminded me of any and all of my male friends. He had worked on one of the 100+ floors, it said–I looked at his grainy, grayscale face and  imagined that in September of 2001 his college degree was fresh, it probably wasn’t even in a frame yet; I imagined he’d landed this great job, moved to the big city, and his parents were so proud. I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking of him.

After talking through what we’d seen, Danny and I continued exploring the city until we ended up at the cross-street where I’d get my bus, the driver would be the last leg of the relay. The weekend was a complete success, due fully to my three fantastic hosts and the awe-inspiring vocal stylings of Mr. Hansard.

Yes, back to the concert. I’d learned, when I saw Glen perform as The Swell Season with Marketa Irglova and many of the same band members just this summer, that he is all about audience participation. Not in a hokey way, but in a way that says this music means so much to me, I would just love for you to feel it too. He gives the audience flash vocal coaching and phrases to own. At this most recent concert, Lee and his pitch-perfect voice nudged me for not joining in. I mouthed to him that I can’t sing.

I would, oh, if I could carry a tune. It’s such a shame, as much as I love music, that I can’t help but ruin it. In that moment, with my  jaw clenched and lips sealed, I was reminded of words I’d learned two years ago. For a Shakespeare class, our midterm was to know by heart (not memorize, but specifically know by heart) a monologue of our choosing. I picked that spoken by the Duke of Norfolk in Richard II, who, upon being banished to a country where English is not spoken, says to the King “Within my mouth you have enjailed my tongue/ Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips” (1.3). The image of not one but two,  heavy grates, the innermost with pointed ends like cuspids and the outer with a blunter bottom, kept any notes from escaping my mouth that evening, I simply enjoyed the voices of those around me.

The image came back to me today and I wondered how I’d manage if those heavy gates blocked my speaking voice as well as my singing voice. I thought, at first, it wouldn’t be so bad because I’m fairly practiced at being selectively taciturn and I could always communicate through writing. I thought of all the times in classes when I’d kept my reflections to myself, my heart racing at the passing mental mention of raising my hand to contribute; I thought of all the times I’d responded to my mom’s inquiries with my eyes or shoulders; and I thought of the time, during a heated discussion with and about my consistently inconsistent beau, he put his hands on either side of my face and said Please, just tell me what is going on in your head, and none of the emotionally charged phrases dancing on my tongue could break through the double barrier.

I could do it, I thought. I’m pretty good at not saying. And then I remembered all the fantastic conversation I’d had with Danny over brunch, and how I couldn’t help but tell Lee that I’d missed him, and all the laughs that just came out when I was with Erin, and how good it feels to tell my mom I love her, and I knew I could never do it. I thought of the young man on the missing poster and how his family and friends must want, more than anything, just to hear his voice.

Lift the gates, there are too many things I want to say. And I’ll sing as loud as I please (in my car).

On Wednesdays, I bake.

Real as it feels.

WARNING: you might get soaked

If you’ve been around here, my staked-out section of cyber-space, for a while, you might remember Maya. If you haven’t, or if you don’t, let me just say we go way back. I’ve known her now for two of her four full summers (she’s freshly five). Our interactions were seasonal until recently, because one can only teach swimming lessons outdoors when it’s warm–nannying, however, knows no such limits. So now, instead of wading in three feet of water for her to jump to me and holding her afloat while she lays on her back, I’m waiting at 4PM for her bus to arrive and holding her hand as we cross the street. She talks so quickly that she can synopsize a full day of kindergarten during a short walk from bus-stop, home.

Our first summer was just Maya and me; but now we are three–[Enter the ne'er napping nymph named Emily (who is, coincidentally, three)]. So while Maya is off at school, learning about monarch butterflies, hibernation, and how to use a reference (kids these days!), Emily and I play. At first glance Emily seems to be a carbon copy of her sister, but the more time I spend with each of them I realize how truly individual they are–except for the squeals, they most definitely have the same giggly squeal.

Playdate #1 involved a dollhouse. Emily relinquished control of only the plastic family’s dog, whom I was to render with woofs and barks as instructed. To be honest, I was relieved. Somewhere, I’d misplaced my ability play; or lost the key that unlocks that part of the brain and lets sparkly little girl imagination dance behind the eyes, fill the ears, spill out of the mouth, and electrify every nerve. On Playdate #1 I realized I needed to reteach myself.

Yesterday, Emily asked for my assistance spreading a plush, pink blanket out on the floor. In case I want to lay down, she said, acknowledging the nap she had conned her way out of just as her mother was leaving for work. The blanket could have easily transformed into Emily’s pink bed if you squinted your eyes a little. But a bed is the furthest thing from what that blanket became. You see, the pink turned blue (or aquamarine as Maya would have said, had she been there), and we had a pool and in it we swam.

We jumped off the ottoman and heard the splashing, blew bubbles on the surface and felt them popping on our cheeks, took the biggest breaths our lungs could bear and submerged ourselves all the way down to the bottom–gasping when we came back up. Emily wore her favorite fruit bathing suit and I wore a floral one. I wiped my hand across to forehead to draw a thick curtain of wet bangs from over my eyes to the side. I saw that Emily’s little ringlets stayed perfect when wet, and somehow with her tiny little girl hands, she unlocked my little girl imagination.

For my collection.

J&J

My Gran tapped her fingernail on the glass plate covering a large composite picture of the U.S. 115th Infantry Regiment, Company B, dated 1942. “That’s Bud, my brother,” upper right hand corner. “All these guys are gone now, I read that in the newspaper. I don’t think that’s right though,” she said, sliding her finger over to the left side, scanning, pointing to a new face. “I think he’s still alive, he became a police officer. I never saw a correction in the paper.” A pause. “They were gone for so long; they didn’t come back ’til it was over over there, like the song.” A smile.

“Want to see a boy I dated? Look for Ruck, the writing’s small, but, oh there he is! He was good looking, yes that’s him.” She stood and stepped back from the composite and the desk, where she had room to slightly sway, a little dance to the tune of a memory. “He liked me more than I liked him. Ruck liked me; I liked Herb. Herb wasn’t interested in me. That’s how it goes though, isn’t it?” She smiled.

Yes and no.

I looked down at the picture in my hand, my Gran had told me I could take it for my collection. Not Jennie and Herb; not Jennie and Ruck; Jennie and Joe, dated 1943.

Something blue.

for you!

“Just write a little note with words of advice on marriage, drop it in, and we’ll compile them all into a little booklet for Lindsay and John,” the wedding shower hosts instructed, gesturing toward a pad of paper and  small box with a slot in its top.

I couldn’t stifle my laughter because, honestly, what do I know? Me, the girl who can’t remember far enough back to picture her parents together, who has never had a substantial romantic relationship, who sees herself in a wedding gown only in a mirage.

As the shower passed, I watched Lindsay interact with her mom, whom an outsider would no doubt assume to be her sister, her bridesmaids, her family and friends, and her fiance, John. As the last guest to leave, I knew I couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer; I reached for the pen.

After some self-deprecation, albeit tenable truth, I gave Lindsay what little advice I could. Something like this.

I don’t know much about marriage or relationships, but I think, I hope, that love and friendship are the very real  base of those seemingly storybook things. If that’s the case, I can think of no two more ready for marriage than you and John. I see the way you have dedicated your hearts to each other. I know you’ve been surrounded by and practiced in love your whole life and I know first-hand how wonderful a friend you are. You have all the wisdom you need! So be you, stay true, and, oh right… something blue.

To the swings

Elise

When

(she made me wonder)

do we stop saying Higher!

There’s a sad sort of Clanging from the Clock in the hall.

silence is golden, they say.

Goodbyes are imminent; graduation is days away. See you, Ciao, and So Long aren’t easy when you don’t know the next time you’ll meet. Keep in touch sounds nice, I love you feels better. I’ve begun to say goodbye, to cover all my bases, working my way through an eclectic collection of friends I treasure. I want to tell them each how special they are, how truly individual, and why (exactly why) I will never forget them. It isn’t always easy; not because the words are hard to say, but because they’re hard to choose, nearly impossible to get just right.

My mind wandered back a few months to another goodbye. It wasn’t supposed to be for good, yet in a way, it was. It was because when we pulled up to Departures and saw the couple in front of us kissing, countering the time on his boarding pass with their embrace, we both knew it wouldn’t be nearly as hard for you to walk away from me. So when I said Goodbye, good luck I hope you know I meant I’ll remember you, always. Those words weren’t hard to choose, in fact they were just right and just too hard to say.

I think I’d like to transpose the easy goodbye, when I didn’t say what I meant, to replace today’s uneasy goodbyes, when I said what I didn’t exactly mean. Today’s goodbyes are cluttered and almost forced;  there was a simple truth in the goodbye at the airport. I hope you saw it on my face when you looked at me and felt it on your cheek when I wished you well.

Goodbye, good luck, I’ll remember you, always.

Wind it up and let it go

now that's a big balloon.

What are you doing later? my roommates would ask.

Balloons, I’d reply.

I’ve been working for my neighbor, helping her with the balloon decorating business she runs out of her house; I mean run in every sense, Lisa is always on the move and moving quickly. I’ve loved every minute spent with her, her children, her family. She taught me how to fill, knot, and string a latex balloon in one sweeping motion; she taught me how to train my dog, how to work quickly and resourcefully when a client adds to an order last minute, to navigate PG county following a pen-drawn map (not to scale). Most of all she taught me how important it is find something you love, then make a career out of it.

Her children have taught me a lot too, about time travel, matter, math, Miley Cyrus, Miley Cyrus’ brother’s tattoos, how to play wiffle ball with a frisbee instead.

When Reggie, Lisa’s husband, delivered a special balloon bouquet and gift to me yesterday morning, from the family, for my graduation, I was flattered and grateful. Flattered that they’d thought of me; grateful to have them, each of them, as friends.

An amendment.

not just one.

Tonight I stumbled across a draft of my high school graduation speech. Four years ago, on a cooled June evening like tonight, I said to my classmates, “We haven’t found our purpose, not yet–but we will, because we have one.” Some of them have now, on track to law school,  enrolled in nursing programs, or already dipping their toes into a career. Some, like me, are still searching. But I hope and wish and dream that I had it wrong; that it’s not purpose but purposes, not because we have one but because we have many.

Looking back to look ahead.

Wise eyes

It’s summer, another Stingray summer. Another fast-paced, voice lost, never a quiet (or shaded) moment summer–the best kind, the only kind. Time Trials, a mock meet where swimmers get in the swing and get their base times for the season, was Saturday. Everything ran smoothly, save the few missed events when kids didn’t hear their event number called or somehow wound up behind the wrong lane as the official started a race. These things happen and can be easily remedied. Someone can say It’s okay, swim with this group instead.

There was one other mishap. A new member of the team, an adorable nine year old girl with fated beauty, dove into the water for her first race, the 50 meter Freestyle. She was to swim from deep to shallow and back again, but as she reached the wall in the shallow end she place her feet on the bottom, disqualifying herself from the race, and turned to face all of us cheering her on behind the starting block. We tossed encouraging words her way, like lifelines, and used gestures to coax her back to us. She stood rigid and mouthed the words I can’t, no, I can’t. Maybe she spoke them, but at too few decibles and with too many meters between us; I found myself reading her lips.

My little swimmer’s thinking she couldn’t made more sense later in the evening, as I sat in the movie theater with friends, waiting for the feature presentation. An intriguing preview for Legend of the Guardians played and I caught a line of dialogue that made me want to see the movie when it is released. “When you’ve flown as far as you can, you’re halfway there,” the older, wiser owl gave the younger as cryptic directions.

I’m keeping that line with me because it pays needed attention to the middle; start and finish are the ones we glorify, and the middle often overlooked. But we all reach that point where going on seems impossible, when the finish seems past the horizon, when our body, then our lips say I can’t. It’s the point where the matter is a mind game, we flip a switch and trick ourselves into perseverance. Then is when we must look back and acknowledge our accomplishment (but not relish in it) so that we have the faith in ourselves to continue.

My little swimmer, after thirty or so seconds, didn’t continue swimming because all of her coaches and teammates were telling her she could; she started up again because she’d reached the perfect halfway position, turned around to head back, and the view of all that was behind her and all that was ahead of her was the same. She realized, I imagine, that she’d done it once and could and would do it again. There is a magic at the midway.

Feeling the pull.

now, in bloom

In all honesty, I thought coming home would feel better. A magic heal-all or a simplifying agent like a desk drawer organizer–a way to get my ducks in a row. But this discontent I feel here is a rash that itches the more I scratch it, and my yearning (for a place I haven’t yet been, people I haven’t yet met, and a self I haven’t yet become) isn’t softened by the familiar, as I hoped it would be. Instead, my desires have become conflicted; the haven’t yet‘s are every now and then replaced by even stronger desires for the idea of home, the intimacy of people, and the sense of self that I used to have, those notions that have faded with time.

A contentment in the present seems nearly impossible sandwiched between the romanticized past and the phantasmic future.

I was sitting here, spread out in the hammock swing that used to envelop me, thinking what I revelation I had this morning, on dwelling and dreaming and unrest. But I see now the only revelation is uncovering that this is my subconscious nature, maybe everyone’s, but I can only honestly speak for myself. The revelation is that I’ve felt this way all along. Almost one year ago I named this blog Reveries and Rendezvous–a place for me to come put forth elaborate pipe dreams and recount trysts, detailing places and people dear to me and preserving them with particularity. Here I’ve been free to express the pull of behind and ahead, perhaps I should have called it, more symbolically, Rendezvous and Reveries.

Forgive me, as I post a pictureless poem.

Mint Moon

Someone thought the moon was valuable tonight,

Maybe they had it appraised, like an old coin,

Considering its age and great condition

(shining bright enough to bring light to midnight)

An aficionado must have declared it collectable.

A collectable indeed, even a child could have told you

This earth only has one in circulation.

Someone then, for safekeeping, tucked it away

Into a protective sleeve that left exactly half exposed,

The only display board big enough, naturally,

Was the star spattered sky.

There it sat, a solo spectacle, high up and

Beyond the reach of grimy child hands like mine.

k.coons