Cleaning

I’ve been wrestling with what I should write for the last post of my month of gratitude.  There are still countless folks who I haven’t featured, moments that have shaped and impacted my life; lessons that I’ve learned that I want to tap out.  But February is a short month!  And so, I can only know that what I’ve written in these twenty eight days has been … enough.

Today marked a return to spring in my space.  I bought a few annuals that will bloom and die; cleaned the dust and the cobwebs from corners I’ve ignored since winter began; reorganized, repurposed, revamped.  It felt good to get into the grit of what winter meant for me, my life, and my space; but more so, to begin exploring what spring will hold.

I think the most important realization I’ve come to with this month of posting about moments and folks who mean something is that … by and large, there are too many to count.  With that comes the realization that I’ve been blessed.  Good folks, great times, wonderful lessons.

With that in mind, I returned to an old Mobb Deep album today; this track is one that I hadn’t really listened to since the album dropped in 2004.  The beats always put me in mind of Juice, which makes me think of East Hill, which makes me think of my first metamorphosis.  I didn’t set out today to listen to Mobb Deep; it just happened on my run that I transitioned from Z Ro to something to something else and then landed on Mobb Deep.  These cuts.  Holy fuck.  Took me right back to the days I was rolling that piece of shit car with a couple of 12s in the back and a woofer to handle it all. Those were some of my most treasured days, as much because I was relearning what it means to be whole as because well ... I was learning.  I guess that’s enough affirmation that what I’m doing is leading me in the right direction.

So with that, the final post for this month of grace finds me in a decidedly welcomed space.  My rambling flat is squeaky clean, I’ve just made some vata-pitta conducive foods, and I’m sitting to pages.  Not exactly the most glamorous way to spend a Saturday night, but exactly where I need to be. 

What will the theme be for next month?  Stay tuned!  Come back tomorrow and find out!

Mysterious Return

So I live in a converted house that was built in the late 1890s.  Think cellar style basement, creaky floors, amazing woodwork trim.  Also think easily discerned markings that show where and how the house has been repurposed over the years.  It’s a very far cry from my suburban life in Cbus and I couldn’t be happier.  I like hearing the floors creak, feeling some of the drafts … it reminds that I’m living, and not just existing.

Anyway, because of the setup of my space, I come in through the back door that opens to my kitchen.  It’s rare that I ever enter in the front, and the only time I’m in the shared hallway is to head to said cellar basement for the laundry, or to get the mail.  Last week, the letter carrier abandoned my street because of the snow, so I got out of the routine of checking for mail every other day.  

I spied the letter carrier earlier this afternoon, so I knew he was going to be visiting my house, and I’ve been expecting all sorts of mail.  Go out to the front hallway and guess what the fuck was sitting sweetly in the corner … as if it had been there all this time?

Yep.  The mother fucking shovel that I was in dire need for ALL last week.  What the hell, man?  Where did this come from, how did it end up here, and more importantly, where has it been?  I looked at the shovel for a while and chuckled. 

The reemergence of said shovel is a nice cap to the end of this month of gratitude posts.  Standing in the hallway looking at it, I thought of all the ways that the snow shaped my life over the last two weeks.  I was forced to stay inside for an entire day, resulting in great writing; I relied on the help of a friend; I dialed in to what I needed for each day, and found ways to make that happen.  In short, I didn’t let adversity stand in the way of what I needed to do.  I guess that’s the lesson from the Universe with this shovel.  I’ll never knew where it went, or what happened while it was gone, but I’ll be forever grateful that it disappeared in the first place.  Maybe these little mysteries are life’s way of saying, Hello Woman!  Wake the fuck up. 

Stallion Abounds

After the office, I sat in Dryer’s chair for another new addition.  Instead of going to his Mt. Lookout location, I ventured to the home shop in Latonia, KY.  What a different experience!  In Mt. Lookout, Dryer and I have the run of the shop.  There might be one to two other people there at any given time, but it’s usually just us.  We’re able to listen to whatever, have conversations that range from mundane to esoteric, and discuss life.  It's something that I've come to expect from my ink appointments.  

However, this afternoon’s experience was full of folks!  It was a decided progression from the usual ink appointment, and while Dryer’s needle pricked my skin, I found myself reflecting on progress, and the ways in which what we expect from life changes depending on the situation.  What I mean is that, the typical ink appointment usually starts with a question about music, and then Dryer and I launch a conversation that weaves in and out.  Because there were so many other people in the shop this afternoon, I just sort of zoned in to the feeling of the needle, and we really didn't talk much.  Now, I've known Dryer long enough to feel comfortable enough not to speak, so there was a decided bit of progress in today's appointment.  It was different, sure.  But it was a good kind of different.

That led me to thinking about the ways in which I've changed as a human.  Because I grew up always knowing that I wanted more than welfare and section 8, I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder.  I mean, I have long known that in order to succeed and excel in life, I need to reach.  Reach far and wide, extend my vision to see more than just the present moment.  In a way, the ink that I have is a direct representation of that truth; the notion that I understand from where I’ve come, and even more, have an idea where I’m heading.

Today, I met many of the people I’ve been hearing about for ages, but have never had the chance to meet in person.  It was wonderful to be able to finally put faces to names, recall stories I’ve heard, and understand the connections.  As par, I brought Dryer a bit of my newest vegan creation, and it felt wonderful to share my art with my artist as he prepared to mark me permanent with his own.

So, again I have a new piece.  

This little stallion is a good reminder that I am a human, full of choices and options.  It’s not so much that I have to reach beyond the bubble any longer; rather, the bubble, the boundaries that I’ve sought so hard to supersede are so different than when I started.  Today, I’m grateful for progress.  

One of Them

Ever have one of those days where all of a sudden the bottom of the to-do list suddenly gets done?  I slept soundly last night, after a fantastically shitty day.  I mean, it was a crayons-kick-rocks kind of day.  Work was for shit, plans for the evening weren’t clear, and meal prep took a long long time.  Skipped a bath in lieu of prep and conversation, and I went to sleep somewhat disjointed.  I woke to plans for the gym (#squatbooty), tea with 211, and pages.  I’m trying to address the Vata Pitta balance of food in my world, so I woke with that on my mind.

After making coffee, I found myself reassessing certain parts of my space – I hadn’t watered this poor garden in weeks!  

The faeries are likely to be a little pissed at me, to be sure.  But, that prompted a rearrange of my plants and the feng shui of my spot, which is always welcomed.  After I made amends with my faerie garden, I decided to tackle some of the bullshit I’ve been letting slide.  Finally took down and replaced a mini-blind that Rubin and I broke one drunken summer night last year; reattached a curtain rod, cleaned the fridge, scrubbed the tub, even swept the common area in my building … all shit that I leave go for a while until I can’t stand it.

I had a conversation the other day about having someone come in to clean an apartment or house.  The person with whom I was speaking suggested that it was the easiest way.  But I disagree.  I find a certain grace in doing the things I did this morning.  Not that any of it was glamorous; rather, it helps me center in a way that leaving a check on the counter for a cleaning person never has.  Maybe I’m in the minority here. 

All I know is after I returned from tea with 211, I felt a decided amount of gratitude walking into my space.  It felt fresh, making me feel fresh, making me excited for this upcoming season change, month change, mind change. 

Four Days to Go

This month of gratitude inspired posts is quickly coming to an end.  It’s wild to consider that I’ve been at this theme for this many days, and I still have so many instances to discuss, so many folks to thank, so many moments to relive.

I think one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned during February is that while, by and large, the world is full of degenerative fucks and assholes who don’t care a damn for anyone but themselves, I’ve been graced and blessed with a variety of wonderful people and beautiful instances to which I can return when things seem bleak.

Surely, there have been some dark moments in life.  I wrote about one of them a few weeks ago, and

others still haunt me in my sleep.  It would be so easy to pick out all of the evil and let it take hold of me. I think that’s what happens to a lot of people; the heavy days begin seeming so much more impacting, and folks forget to let in the light. But there have also been some exceptionally fantastic moments in my life as well.  And it seems way more productive to focus on the sunrise than the sunset.  So sappy, I know. 

But vibe with me for a second.

If one refuses that way of thinking, that is if one wants to live in the light, then the dark ultimately

becomes a misnomer, an off thought, something that comes and goes, passing as quickly as it arrives. 

Now, I’m not one for standard logic, but it seems to me that living in this way is way more beneficial than the latter.  I mean, who the fuck wants to walk around stoop-shouldered and miserable all the time?  It has to suck ass.  I, for one, want to see the light, feel the love, to know that what I’m experiencing and doing is going to have a positive impact on others around me. 

Maybe I’m just super granola in this idea.  Or maybe I’m just over the idea of being salty all the time. Not sure.  But I am sure that if what I’m doing inspires even one human, than it all makes sense, and it’s all worth it.

Breakfast, Brunch, Lunch, and Dinner

B messaged me the other day out of the blue; he sent a photo of a jackfruit and asked if I was hip.  Now, I’m only part time vegan, so some of the world of granola cooking is still foreign to me, and I didn’t mind saying so.  Jackfruit is a superfood; pretty much the entire fruit is edible and offers some amazing nutrients.  It's a great thing to add to any diet, but even more so for those meat-free.  I guess, in a way, it's like the idea of adding gratitude to daily life.
In the course of the conversation, we dabbled on a few things that have been underneath the surface for a while, but came to no resolution.  I went to sleep wondering if what I’m seeking will ever come to fruition.

This morning, while making my trek into the burbs for work, I was listening to Gramtik and thinking about the ways of the world.  And a decided truth offered itself to me.  I wanted to stop my car, to get out and bellow a resounding Thank You to the Universe for giving me the answer to a question I have long been pondering.

Later in the morning, I messaged B a thank you, but didn’t go into detail.  It doesn’t matter the truth, or the question.  What matters is that finite instances of communication, coupled with clear thought ultimately produce results.  B graciously, albeit confusedly accepted my thanks, and then brought the conversation right back round to jackfruit, recipes, ways to prepare it.  The circularity of the exchange made me smile, and still makes me smile.  It was a nice reminder that even when I’m not actively looking for the truth, the truth will find me.  

Black on Black Excursion (in the snow)

I woke this morning planning to do what I do every Sunday – sip some coffee, look at my calendar, write some bills and head to the gym.  It’s guns day!  After my coffee, I went to start Loretta (that’s my Honda) and take out the recycling.  In my car, I turned up some old UGK to get me ready for the gym, shifted Loretta into reverse and got … nothing.  She wouldn’t move.  What the fuck.

So I got out of the car and looked at the expanse of snow surrounding the wheel wells.  Ghost has taught me well about cars, and I understand the mechanics solidly enough that I thought I could dig her out.  Twenty minutes and ten numb fingers later, I realized it was futile.

Pissed, I walked back in and wondered what to do with my day.  I did what any sensible writer would do in the situation - brewed a cup of tea and plucked a book from my pile.  I started reading, and four hours passed before I realized I still hadn’t solved the car problem.  Though, for what it’s worth, I did finish a lovely novel! 

So what to do.  I went to the kitchen, looking for some kind of digging tool that might help me.  The shovel is still missing.  I settled on a wooden spoon and went back out onto the street. 

Picture, please, me in Spalding sweats, my hair in some wild sort of Frida-like disarray, my threadbare Columbia jacket, cussing in English and Russian, wearing cat gloves and armed with a wooden spoon.  
Right?
Now step it back just a touch and imagine rich white kids who attend X looking at me suspect-like as they went to their own cars.  Yea, that’s exactly how it happened.

I gave it a valiant effort, but to no avail.  Loretta would not come unhinged.  I thought about what I might do.  The day was already a wash, but, ever the planner, I was considering how I’d get to the office tomorrow. Swallowing my fem pride, I messaged Logan and asked if he and his black on black diesel Excursion might come round to pull me from the snow.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard the diesel engine before I saw the truck. There was Logan with his English style hat, smoking a cigarette and surveying the situation. Looping his truck to my sedan, he pulled Loretta free, and then proceeded to plume diesel smoke into the street while making tracks on my driveway. 

We salted the shit out of the remaining snow, briefly caught up, and he was on his way.  I’d had plans to offer him a meal, but I had nothing prepared.  After the salting, we hugged, two long standing friends joined in the idea that Cincinnati winter can kick rocks, and went on our way.  Big ups, sir.  

Benjamin Button, What?

She was rolling a piece of paper between her fingers when I sat down at the art table in the underground classroom at Walnut.  Another girl with her name, who I knew from Latin class, had motioned me over.  I made introductions and knew immediately that Willis and I were destined to be friends.  Ferguson started teaching something about art form, and all I could think about was getting out of class and heading off for some fun.  Willis was thinking the same.

We were thirteen when we first met. Now, just about twenty years later, I’m so blessed to call her friend.  What started as an easy friendship borne at a school for smart kids has, over the years, translated to bestie, roommate, confidant, and ultimately, sister. 

Willis and I come from completely different worlds.  Her parents, who are amazing and fabulous, are still married, and her family unit is very much still intact.  By and large, there are few surface similarities between our lives.  But on a deeper level, we’re so much the same that I wonder sometimes when we’re chatting if I’m just speaking to myself.

This girl … came to New York to surprise me for my birthday.  Had a vegan friendly birthday dinner for me.  Knows what I want before I want it.  She is my truth.

This girl … she and I have had some knock down drag out shouting matches, some beautiful moments, and by and large, some lovely memories.  One of my favorites, that I return to whenever I’m trying to explain the connection is the day we called Uno’s to order a brownie dessert.   When we went to pick up the order, the hostess gave us two plastic spoons.  I won’t go into detail but suffice it to say that moment is … us, in an instance. 

We’re just as liable to listen to Outkast and old school Mobb Deep as we are to discuss her current research projects.  She’s been around through the bullshit of leaving a poverty stricken hood and the weirdness that comes from living in the suburbs.  Fuck, Willis even paid for my first tattoo – a gift from her and Twilite on my eighteen birthday.  She has set the tone for all things I understand friendship to be.  When I look at photos of us over the last twenty years, it seems like neither of us change … we’re the same, we’re different, we’re exactly who we sought out to be. 

I look to this woman for strength, understanding, and a new perspective.  She’s been my voice of reason more times than I care to admit, the one who talks me off the ledge when my creative sensibilities have taken the best of me; the chica I send postcards and random mail to because I know she appreciates it, art when I’m feeling saavy, food when I’m feeling homey.  She’s my girl, through and through.  Willi just bought her first house, and is now engaged to a delightful man who makes her happy.  I’m so pleased that her life is shaping up the way she wants it to be.  I am grateful that I have had her in my life these last twenty years and wish for so many more.  

The Creative Process

Yesterday, I was chatting with a friend about all things creative related … the conversation ebbed from that to other personal sorts of matters.  He began a sentence with this phrase : “My favorite ex-girlfriend …” I stopped him before he could complete said statement and marveled at the beauty of the words.  For him, it was simply an admission, something that he was willing to share.  But for me, it sparked something.  It reignited a creative fuel that has been somewhat stagnant over the last few weeks.

Okay, I’ll admit it.  I haven’t been doing much writing this month.  The weather.  The cold.  The snow.  Lots of training.  Work and thesis.  All of these things have been getting in the way.  But, those are all excuses and the brass tack of the matter is that I just haven’t felt inspired.

The first time I had bona-fide writers block, I was sure that my craft had left me for good.  I freaked the fuck out; thought that I’d never write another sentence to save my life, never find another phrase that felt as good as the ones I’d already written.

That was ages ago, and with this newest bout … I’ve learned to accept it.  To understand that the creative process comes and goes, and that with it, comes a certain level of introspection and truth.  Hearing the phrase my friend offered wasn’t so much that his words spawned an immediate piece of writing in my head.  Rather, they started a train of thought.

So.  Last night, after we hung up, I tapped a short and silly poem using the phrase, except I changed it to ex-boyfriend, since I’m not into girls.  Today, that poem became a flash piece.  And this weekend, if the steam continues, it will become a short story for a collection I’ve been nursing along for a few months.

Today, I’m grateful for the small bits of inspiration that strike just when I think no one is looking.  Thanks, 211. 

Write On!

Yesterday, I received an email from an undergraduate student who has been given an assignment to seek out and interview writers of flash fiction.  She came across one of my pieces online and wants to interview me for a podcast.

I scanned the email after having just paid an astronomical fine at the library and thought surely she’d sent it to the wrong person.  Interview me?  For a podcast?  As Anya says, what in the what what?  I reread the email once back in the lab, and was delightfully surprised to find that she really had my read my piece, Bridle, and wanted to talk about it.

I’m not sure what to call the moment - #writerpaycheck comes to mind, as does #yesthisishappening …. It’s just wild to think that some young woman at a university states away found my writing, thought enough of it to seek me out, and wants to interview me about my process.  It was as if … no it is as if these days, countless hours I spend in my lab, tapping the truths of the world really are worth it.  Of course, it’s not fame and fortune I’m after – I’m a fucking writer after all, but it’s the recognition, the opportunity to change the course of one person’s life.  It seems I’ve succeeded in doing so.  Today, I am so grateful for this opportunity, not only to share with a stranger the ways in which I go about my craft, but also the idea that what I’m doing really is making some kind of difference.  

Waxing Poetic

Today, I visited with my esthetician for my monthly appointment.  I found her last year after a recommendation from a friend who is in the field.  Esthetician relationships are like those with dentists or gynecologists – they’re personal, intimate and somewhat awkward all at the same time. 

Over the last year that I’ve been visiting with Neva, we’ve developed a wonderful rapport.  I don’t exactly look forward to the visit, but I always look forward to catching up with her.  She’s an artist, and I’m a writer, so naturally, most of our conversations flow about all things creative.  Sometimes, we’ll discuss our respective projects, or books we’re reading; sometimes, we barely speak at all.  Today, I touched on the fact that at my office, I have to be “on” most of the time, and how it’s a little difficult on the days when I just want to be sitting in my lab, tapping words but not speaking them.  Neva looked at me, and offered me some real-talk Nati-style truth. 

It was lovely, and a wonderful reminder that even though we have a client-esthetician relationship, she’s human, I’m human, and ultimately, we have more things in common than whether or not my brows were shaped well following our last appointment.  Neva, thank you for being true, and for being real.  You are a decided reminder that as humans, and creatives, we are multi-facted, and we all bring something real to this world.  

Dots & Lines

At my work, I’m able to keep headphones in most of the time, which is a welcomed relief because we listen to the WORST looped Sirius station in existence.  No, really.  It sucks major ass, and plays the worst covers of songs I used to love.  Cripple Creek?  Not a favorite anymore.  Long Road?  Forget about it. 

So this morning, I plugged in my headphones and tapped on Spotify.  Thig hipped me to Spotify a few months ago after I’d been staunchly against paying for a music subscription for years.  The ten bucks I pay for unlimited music is so incredibly worth it because of exactly what happened this morning.  I wasn’t sure what I wanted to listen to, but knew that the covers were going to drive me mad.  Phish?  Tupac?  Erykah?  I decided on the hip-hop radio option and a song from Lupe’s new album came on … Dots & Lines has to be one of the most original, thought provoking and inventive tracks I’ve heard in a long time.  Realizing the Universe decided my music for me, I downloaded his new album and listened to it all day. 

Holy fucking shit.  It’s good.  Like really good.  Makes me think of poetry and love and wonder about the ways of the world.  The beats are perfect, Lupe’s cadence and word choice shows he’s not just a rapper, but a poet at heart.  And, the album gave me pause.

Even though the dental thing isn’t my thing for the rest of my life, it is what keeps me moving right now.  It’s easy to become frustrated and feel stagnant in what I’m doing.  But then, when I hear something like the sheer genius of Lupe’s new album, I realize that it’s not one giant step that will get me from here to there … it’s a series of small decisions that all lead up to the final end.  So thanks, Lupe.  Thanks, Universe.  The combination made so much in my life clear today.

White Snow and Green Buddha

Today’s snow has afforded me the opportunity to finish work early and head home for one of my most treasured activities – an afternoon nap.  Driving in the snow has never been a problem for me, but apparently folks in Cincinnati don’t understand what it means when white stuff falls from the sky.  Maybe I’m just so accustomed to Columbus winters, I’m not sure, but the drive that was supposed to be harrowing and awful was just a little longer than my normal commute.

During the silence of the drive, I was thinking about this statue of Buddha I picked up over the weekend (at Anya's urging to make my space as peaceful as possible!)

I like the way he looks so peaceful, stoic, and in harmony with his life path.  That led me to consider this writing gig of mine and what I really want from it.  Sure, notoriety is a great thing; seeing my name in print is wonderful, and eventually being paid to tap my fingers on these keys would be amazing.  But what I’m really after is having these stories I’ve lived heard, read, told again. 

It has less to do with being some sort of famous writer and more to do with the full-on belief that the experiences I’ve lived have some weight in the world; that the commonality of all humans can see through socio-economic lines, education, or pedigree and find some truth.

So, I came home and napped.  Woke to a call from Logan asking if I needed anything from Home Depot.  How kind and sweet, right?  I said I was fine and went to check my email.  Ye gahds!  An email from an editor ASKING for my work … non-writer folks, this NEVER happens!  Usually, I feel like I’m groveling at the feet of editors, pleading for someone to read my words.  I messaged back quickly asking if the editor had the right email?  A few messages later, my chapbook was off in the hands of the submission editor for a small publisher out of Cleveland.  I’m not sure what that means, exactly.  But I have to believe it has something to do with accepting the idea that my writing isn’t about becoming famous (though that would be boss as fuck) … it’s more about giving my message to the world.

Warrior Woman

At the gym this morning, I was working arms, chest, and back.  Most gym going folks dislike leg day, but that’s my favorite.  Bench press, flies, cable pulls – these are the exercises that are most difficult for me.  Maybe because my nature is one that would rather bear the load than push something away.  Maybe I’m reading too much into it and I just need to get stronger.  

Either way, I found myself in that mental quiet that comes when I’m lifting weights, and I realized that whatever I decide to do will be the right thing because it’s my decision.  I know I’m a strong woman; I know that the events that have shaped my life have been with purpose and not random or errant.  Anya calls me a Warrior Woman, and I have to believe that.  I have a strong network of wonderful people who want the best for me, who cheer me on when I'm feeling slow, who push me for one more rep.  Perhaps because of the emo bullshit that started Thursday evening, I'm finding myself so incredibly grateful for of these great connections I have with people in this world.  Thanks, y'all.  I wouldn't be able to do this without you. 

Just When I'm Ready

to throw in the towel, the Universe offers me a moment of joy, truth, and light.

It’s no secret that yesterday was a hard day for me.  If I could have called off of work, I would have.  Four am found me bleary eyes and not pleased.  I managed to get through the day; work, a sweat and a new tattoo.  All good things, but my heart was heavy and mind was racing.

I tried to find some sense of solace in lifting.  Did a rigorous and intense kettlebell session that left me more pissed off than relieved.  I was training fasted, which is usually really good for me, but yesterday, it made every lift that much harder.  I know it was a combination of lack of sleep, the pressure of this decision weighing on me, and the fact that some days are just off days at the gym.

I came home and had a nap.  It was short and lackluster, but gave me just enough energy to finish out the day.  Sitting to pages with a glass of wine, I reached out to my friend Z.  Told him what was going on and how I was feeling.  Explained the pain of dealing with something like this.  Z is a writer at heart, and a talented hip hop artist by trade.  Not only did he understand what I was going through, but he offered me a bit of insight, suggesting that letting the light be taken from me was as bad as having to live through it all again.  I felt somewhat relieved, but still went to sleep upset.

This morning, I woke at four, and moved some things around in my lab.  Got a message from Z around nine, which is really early for him since he’s hours behind the Ohio time.  He asked me if how close some street was to where I live.  I mapped it and told him it was six miles away.  Went about my errands, forgot my phone in the car, but came back to a message from him asking if I could be at this random address at 1030 sharp.  I told him I had to be across town at 11 for my nephews basketball game; he said 1015 would be fine – go and give my name, but not to google the location.

Now.  I’m all for a good surprise.  I mean, I love them.  The thoughtfulness that goes into offering another human something unexpected is paramount in my book.  Obviously, Z knows this.  So.  I finished my errands and went off in search of some random street in Blue Ash.  I saw the sign for a florist shop and put it together.

At the desk, I gave my name, and the woman at the counter smiled broadly.  “So you’re Jessica,” she said.  “You have a good friend out there.”  Handing me an armful of roses in a vase, she wished me a happy Valentine’s Day.  My smile stretched ear to ear.

Z sent me flowers.  All the way from far away.  When I got to my car, I messaged him, expressing my sincere surprise and absolute amazement at his thoughtfulness.  He told me that he knew how down I was yesterday, and he hoped the flowers would help.  The card on the bouquet read, “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.”  Thanks, Z.  Today, I'm reminded that even if the midst of pain and bullshit, there are humans in this world who do the right thing, want what's best for their fellow artists, and live life right.  Big ups, kid.

A Strange Moment

Today, I'm grateful for pain and anger.  Not so wild when you consider what those emotions can do.

I received disturbing news yesterday that caused this normally stoic and emotionally reserved writer to fall to pieces.  In the middle of my lab, writhing on the floor, I howled like a child, letting tears flow freely.  The cause of my duress is a wound that's been around a while, and just when I think it's almost completely healed, it opens again to reveal fresh pain.

I called Ghost and he offered me Buddha's parable about gifts and anger.  Just because one is offered something doesn't mean one needs to or even has to accept it.

Last night was rough as shit, and I went to sleep with a heavy heart.  I have a decision to make that will likely impact the way I approach the next phase of my life. This morning, I woke at four like usual and turned on TI's Motivation.  This is a song I return to frequently in life because it reminds me to keep pushing forward.  Bobbing my head with TI's words, I realized something.

This anger and this pain ... humbles me.  Makes me remember I'm human, alive, not a woman made of steel.  Even in the emo-ness of what I have experienced, I'm still moving forward, still motivated to see my goals through to the end.  So fuck the noise and fuck the bullshit of feeling weak.  Anger and pain can be just as strong a motivator as anything else.

Teeth for Life

I’ve been working in various capacities within the dental field since ’99.  What started as an after school job has translated into a formidable career for which I am incredibly grateful.  As I’ve noted in the posts this month, my path hasn’t exactly been well thought out at times, or easy to maneuver.  The opportunities that the dental field has offered me these last sixteen years have been amazing.

Before embarking this career, I was somewhat shy.  It was hard for me to find things to talk about with people I didn’t know, mainly because I’m a very introverted person most of the time.  As an assistant, and later, as the practice manager for my office, I’ve learned the skills necessary to find some commonality with just about everyone.  Not only has this helped my writing tremendously, but it’s also afforded me a certain sense of purpose.  It’s a strength that not everyone has, and I’m grateful for it.  I can talk to anyone now and learn about life in their eyes.  This gives me the chance to see things in a different light, and gives me pause most of the time.  I know that my experiences thus far have been far from ordinary, but there are so many people with more interesting stories than what I’ve lived.  The dental world has afforded me a long term character study of humanity.

To that, I’ve also been offered an amazing experience over these last almost-two decades in meeting so many different people.  I’ve worked the gambit of high and low end offices, so I’ve found a variety of people at each.  Not only has this helped me tailor my ghetto-ness to moments when it will be received in the right way, but it’s also given me writing fodder for days.  I have met so many characters over the years, all who show up in my writing in some way.

Though I had thoughts at one time of going to dental school, I’m thankful that my path has led me back here to my pages and my words.  I can’t help but think that all of this has been part of a greater plan.  If I hadn’t started that job, I never would have learned how to talk to people.  In turn, I would never have developed the confidence to chat up anyone, which would have a serious impact on my writing.  Arnold didn’t have to give me a chance way back in ’99, but I’m sure glad he did.  

Fifty Dollar Theory

I was 23, flat broke, and living alone in Columbus.  I'd started my job the Monday after my move, but pay day was a ways away and I was not a very good planner back then.  I had, legit, all of twelve dollars in my bank account, and pay day was still a week away.
As a kid, my mother would schlep me, Ghost and Efed to the library every weekend.  I thought it was a great way to spend the weekend, and loved leaving with armfuls of books.  What I didn't realize is that was her way of providing us entertainment for free.
Sitting on the floor in my apartment (because I didn't have a sofa; the only furniture I brought with me from the Nati was my bed, my dresser and some bookshelves) I tried to figure out what I was going to do about money.  Too proud to call anyone, I sat in a contemplative sort of silence and just ... remembered.
Flashes of me and my siblings leaving the Price Hill library came to me.  I remembered our gleeful faces, the promise of new words and new stories.  It occurred to me I hadn't been to the Bexley library yet.  So I grabbed my bag and set out - on foot, to save gas.

The Bexley library is small, and reminded me so much of my beloved childhood library.  I signed up for a card and wandered the stacks, picking up a few novels and some classics.  Finding myself in the foreign language section, I randomly pulled out a book on learning German.  I'd briefly looked at the language as a teenager, but hadn't given it much thought since then.  Fuck it, I thought, and added the book to my pile.
Back home, I parcelled out one of the last granola bars I had in my already bare cupboard and started thumbing through the German book.  The book fell open to page 244.  A crisp $50 was sitting on the page, as if it was just waiting for me.
In a way, I guess it was.
I couldn't believe it.

I know, I know.  Two stories in one month about finding money at the moment when I needed it most ... Not sure how or why it happens, but it does.

Since then, I've made a point to stash a few dollars here and there in library books when I return them.  It's a small act, but a nice reminder every time I do it.

The Loving Cup

I was fourteen the first time I met her.  She was standing with the rest of us derelicts on Pleasant View, the street where kids too smart for their own good went to smoke cigarettes and pot before the enduring the rigors of a college prep education.  Anya had short blonde hair, an eyebrow ring, and smoked Camel Lights.  A student teacher, and as punk as a teacher could be – short black shirt, black tights, black sweater.  I was immediately intrigued.

A lowly underclassman, I didn’t get to experience Anya as a student teacher; she was busy working with the drama teacher at school, but I’d run into her from time to time and always give her that knowing kind of nod … it was if I knew our paths were meant to be congruent at some point.

Shortly after her arrival at that elite college prep school, I dropped out.  Over the summer of that year, I landed a job with a non-profit group here in Cincinnati that encourages kids to embrace their art – writing, drawing, dancing.  She was part of the writing team and I couldn’t believe I’d run into her again.  Summer quickly passed as we sweltered in ‘Nati humidity in makeshift tents at Eden Park.  I started at another school that fall, hell bent on being a real writer, and lost touch with Anya once again.  That school didn’t pan out for various reasons, but in my final foray into public education, I landed at a very urban school and lo and behold, there was Anya, rockin’ out to Tupac and teaching English to kids who didn’t know there could even be a difference between a modifier and a misplaced one. 

At sixteen, I thought I knew the world.  After becoming estranged from my birth mother that year, I was lost in a sea of teenage angst and real life choices.  Anya helped me to understand that the only way I was going to make something of myself was … to make something of myself.  Her favorite expression in those days was, “C’mon, I don’t have time to get to the engraver; hurry it up already.”  That sort of urgency, immediacy and need for action shaped and fully altered the ways in which I approached life then, and still do now.  Her students, unaccustomed to a woman so strong and resolute in her beliefs, took to her.  We, her Pickles (as she lovingly calls us) flocked to the truth and light that she brings to the classroom and to this world.

At that very urban high setting, we started The Tracks, a literary magazine in a school that boasted only a forty percent graduation rate.  We spent hours on that magazine, pouring over submissions of poetry, artwork, short stories.  I began to see myself as a writer, and knew that at some point my dreams would come to fruition.  She encouraged me when the world around me was full of dirt and grime.

It happened that I had to drop out of school once again.  I went to Anya in her classroom in tears and told her what was going on.  She hugged me and told me to keep on keeping on.  We managed to stay in touch for a few years, but her life took her far from the city and mine did as well.

I searched for her for almost a decade, googling every variation of her name I could find.  Nothing.  It wasn’t until I put it out into the Universe that I was ready to really start on my writing career that we finally connected.  I found her!  Sent her a message and said I was entertaining the idea of graduate school for fiction.  Immediately, she flooded my inbox with suggestions, ideas, constructive ways in which I could begin to shape the life I was only beginning to imagine.

Over these last three years, I’ve been blessed to visit with Anya at her pond in Kentucky many times.  We sit in the sunroom, or near a fire, looking at words and discussing life.  She offers me insight into the world I am exploring, suggestions for ways to advance myself – as a human, a woman, and a writer, and is very much a pillar of truth in this changing landscape of life.  She’s gifted me more than just my first feature reading, or invaluable insight into my words.  Anya has gifted me the dedication of a human who has no motive except that of being real. 

In Hungarian, Anya means ‘mother’ and it couldn’t be a more fitting name for her.  She calls me DD – short for Darling Daughter.  I am blessed, grateful and honored to have her in my life.  

#speeding

Over the weekend, I drove to Columbus to rejoin a poetry workshop group that I’d been away from for an entire year.  On Friday, I’d stayed out too late and my alarm Saturday morning was not well received.  No matter, I made a strong pot of coffee and vowed to make the best of the day.

As soon as I got on 71 to head north, traffic slowed to a complete stop.  A car flipped over and smashed to pieces was on the shoulder, and a driver was being rushed to the hospital.  I felt for the driver, but I was impatient to get to Columbus, to say Hello again to my writer friends who had been absent in my life for so long.  I turned up Tupac, loud, and tried to stay focused and not fret about the possibility of being late.  I abhor lateness. 

I’d just passed the outlets and knew I only had another fifty minutes or so left in the car.  The speed limit is only 65 on that part of 71, but I was trying to make up for lost time and going over eighty.  I saw a Trooper on the other side of the highway but didn’t think to slow down.  He cut through the median and immediately came up behind me.  Fuck.  I was fixin’ to be pulled over.  I slowed down so he could catch up with me, and as soon as his lights went on, pulled over. 

As he approached, I turned off the Tupac and tried to not be nervous.  Sure I was getting a ticket, I was mentally kicking myself in the ass for being so careless with my speed.  It’s one thing to drive fast, but something entirely different to drive stupid.   

He asked for my license, registration and insurance.  My hand was shaking trying to find my insurance card, and I think he saw that.  In the middle console, I had one of Rubin’s Mason jars full of tea.  The trooper asked if it was moonshine; I flashed a smile and told him it was too early for all that.  He asked why I was travelling to Columbus, and I explained I am a writer, and was heading to workshop.  I peppered in a lot of “No sirs” and “Yes sirs” as much out of respect for the officer as because that’s just how I speak.  He looked at my license, and then back at me.

“I’m going to let you off with a warning.  And I want you to know why.”

“Thank you sir.”

“I’m letting you off because I didn’t have to chase you.  You saw me and knew I was comin’ for ya.” 

“Yes sir, I sure did.”

“So, young lady, slow your ass down and drive carefully.  Good luck with that writing.”

He handed me back my documents and tipped an invisible hat.

“Yes sir, I sure will.”

Talk about a moment of gratitude. 

This, an anniversary of sorts

So.  A year ago today, I woke early and realized it was the first day of the rest of my days.  MOVING DAY!  Time to get the fuck out of the north and go my ass home.  The move was a long time coming, and I was ready.  Or at least, I thought I was.

In the morning, I picked up the Uhaul, and waited for Ghost and Buck to arrive from Cincinnati.  Snow began to fly and I was such a jumbled mess of nonsense.  The life I thought I’d been paving for the last almost-decade was over, and that’s a hard realization to accept.  I called Anya and she talked me off the ledge, reminding me that my actions were needed and necessary.  That helped.  A lot.  I messaged with Efed, and she called to mind the moments that helped me make my decision to come home. 

Feeling better, I returned to my suburban house and vowed that it would be the last time I let the weight of the expectations of others best my own desires and goals.  Ghost and Buck arrived and we loaded the Uhaul full of plastic totes, my life compacted into what I deemed necessary to bring back.  Ghost remarked that when I moved to Columbus eight years prior, we used a small trailer on the back of the Willis’s Jeep.  That I needed a 24 foot truck seemed to suggest some progression, he told me.   I couldn’t agree more.

Ghost drove the truck and I followed behind in my Honda.  At his house in the burbs, Buck, Ghost and I made quick work of unloading the truck.  We stowed much of my life possessions in the basement, but I kept out what I thought I’d need to sustain my new life.  Buck left, Ghost had to tend to the kids and I was left in the nursery converted wayward bedroom wondering what the fuck I was doing with life.

Unpacking my totes, I landed on my Ganesh statue, my journal and a few pieces of raw rose quartz.  These items reminded me two things.  Firstly, staying humble is paramount to any kind of progression in life and secondly … everything I’ve ever needed has been right here, all along.

Today, I’m cautiously optimistic that this first year has happened the way it should.  I’ve managed to write a novel, complete two short story collections and two poetry manuscripts, and see a bit of the world.  Not too shabby for three hundred and sixty five days.  I’m so excited for what’s next.  I return to this day as an example of a moment of pure gratitude.  Not only did Ghost open his home to me with no questions asked, but he offered me the foundation I needed to begin … again.  

Court Street in the Afternoon

There’s a little spot on Court Street that’s nestled between a bridal boutique and a hair salon called Cincy Workshop.  It’s a former butchery that’s been painstakingly remade into a sort of creative chill spot, and it’s a place I go often to find a little space in my writerly world.

Cincy Workshop’s purveyor and owner, B Weeze, is a family friend.  Over the years, Cincy Workshop has housed art, been the location for surprise parties, baseball game grill outs and general hanging out.  It has a wonderful vibe, mainly because of the time B has taken to cultivate a welcoming environment.  After I moved home last year, he graciously offered me the option to come and go as I needed, as much to get away from the world as to dive into it.

As the name of the street suggests, Court Street runs right into the Hamilton County court campus, so people watching at Cincy Workshop is prime.  Last year, I found myself returning to the shop in warm weather, opening wide the garage front door and … just thinking.

The people I saw and the interactions I witnessed sitting at that little round oak table were a nice reminder of every reason why I love being in the middle of a city and why suburban existence is just not for me. Last April, I started writing down the one-liners I heard from folks as they passed by the shop, and have amassed a collection of “Cincinnati-isms” that are just hilarious.  I also wrote some of my best pieces of the spring at that table, and now I find myself itching for warm weather so I can get back to the open air freedom of thought that comes from the space.  

Shortbread Cookies

It’s no coincidence that my brother is one of my best friends.  We’re Irish twins, just eighteen months apart, and we’ve done pretty much everything together for as long as I can remember.  Over the years since we both left home, I’ve lived with my brother longer than I’ve lived with anyone else.  He is, in so many respects, my foundation, my rock, and my sounding board.  There are a million moments that make my heart sing for Ghost, his path, and what he’s doing with his life, but there is one night in particular that I come back to whenever I need a reminder of how far we’ve come and where we’re going.  

Shortly before I left for Columbus, we shared a super ghetto apartment in Norwood, which is a very blue collar neighborhood in Cincinnati.  It was similar to the neighborhood we grew up in, and I think that’s one of the reasons we both found some comfort in it.  Coincidentally, it's also the neighborhood I live in now - but I'm on the other side of the tracks (literally) so it's not bad at all.  However, the apartment Ghost and I shared was for shit.  Terrible carpet, awful insulation, everything that screamed poverty.  Neither of us minded much – growing up poor makes one fairly impervious to those kinds of conditions and we sort of saw it as an upgrade from the Section 8 walkup in Mt. Auburn. 

Ghost had just returned from his job at the rim shop, where he was the only white boy installing custom made boxes for sound systems and oversized rims on the cars of dealers.  I’d finished my dental obligations for the day and we were both spent.  The apartment was a converted one family, and we had the top floor, making the layout of our space somewhat strange.  The ‘living room’ opened to a long hallway that led to the kitchen in one direction and was always really dark.  I came in and Ghost was on the futon sofa staring at a blank television screen.  I asked him what he was doing, and he held up a box of these cookies.

"Fixin to eat this whole box of cookies," he told me.  "Want to help?"
Fuck yes! 
We turned on Aqua Teen Hunger Force, chowing down on cookies and started talking about the future.  Neither of us had finished undergraduate degrees back then, and the idea was like a far off dream.  Quickly finishing one sleeve of cookies, we opened the second and that's when the conversation got real.  Ghost told me that he would know he'd made it when he'd done something with his life making him worthy of a statue.  The image of my brother's likeness in bronze has stuck with me since that night, as much because of his far reaching dream, as for his motivation to break the poverty cycle.  Now, he's an engineer, working on his MBA, and has four wonderful children and a beautiful lady.  He might disagree, but I think he's done more than enough to warrant that statue.  I return to this evening often, whenever I need a reminder of gratitude and grace.  Thanks, Ghost.

The Forest for the Trees

I have recently completed a full length poetry collection called Learning to Find. It is a work that has taken me many years to write mainly because of the subject matter.  I chose the title because I feel like I am always learning to find … something.

In seeking out gratitude, and moments which have made my heart sing (for one reason or another) I am beginning to understand that learning comes in all forms.  Maybe it’s not exactly a specific moment that triggers a feeling of thankfulness, but rather, a conglomerate – a complete set of actions that encourage me to step outside of whatever nonsense of my world and pause.  Give thanks.  Be present.  Learn to find the moment.

A few months ago, I went hiking in central Kentucky with a writer friend who is an arborist, a lover of the land, and an all-around wonderful human.  In the blistering cold, we hiked for hours, up and down hills, over crests and ridges, on the path and off of it.  Most of the trees were bare, but there was something decidedly beautiful about the starkness of the trees against the sky.  Even for Kentucky, it was freezing, but there was something so freeing about being out in the open air, near the water and the trees.  And even more, being with someone who genuinely loves the land enough to take the steps to keep it sacred.

Since November, I’ve returned to the moments of that hike, as much for creative inspiration as because those hours were so pure.  There were no constant cell phone checks, no text messages to send, no emails to read.  It was just me and E Rock, putting one foot in front of the other for hours on end.  It was simple, sure, but it was real.  And it was one of the closest times I’ve come to being completely at ease in as many months as I can remember. Maybe the lesson of that hike, and of the friendship I share with E Rock isn’t so much that it’s the constant motion that creates moments of gratitude, but the symphony of footfalls in the winter forest of my mind.  

Language Love

In 2003, I had the wonderful opportunity to backpack through the EU with three friends.  Two of these friends had just finished their mandatory service time with the Finnish army, and they were both happy to be out of the service and getting back to real life.  I was excited to see the two, and even more so to be travelling!

So to be as economical as possible, the four of us were using Eurail Passes that provided unlimited travel for one total cost.  But, there were only so many spaces to fill in the dates of travel on our passes.  As any 19-something years olds would do, we started fudging the dates to extend the pass ... fours became eights, fives became sixes ... and we thought we were getting away with it.  Until we were on a train heading into Madrid for a connection to Portugal.  The ticket checker man sniffed us out and knew exactly what we were doing.  In the middle of the night, he demanded our passports and our Rail Passes, and told us we'd get them back when we could pay the fine.  I don't remember the exact number, but it was something to the tune of 300 euros.

THREE HUNDRED EUROS.  That was way more than any of us wanted to spend, and frankly much more of a fine than I think our transgressions were worth.  So we had to regroup and figure out what to do.  Stuck in the train station in Madrid without a passport is a scary feeling.  Not knowing where we were going to get the money was even scarier.

The guys I were travelling with decided the best approach to the situation would be to drink beer.  Because, yea, that makes sense.  So they went for a pint and I headed to the restroom on the lower level of the train station.  There were two restrooms to choose from - one on the left and one on the right.  I chose the one on the left because I'm left handed.  Went to the last stall in the first row and sort of just collapsed onto the door and sobbed a bit.  What the fuck were we going to do?  I let it all out, and then looked down.  There was a wad of euros on the ground.  Wait, what?

I opened the stall door as quietly as I could to see if the money was some kind of set-up.  No one else was in the restroom with me.  Thought about what I should do for all of four seconds and swooped up the cash.  I put it in my bag and went to leave the restroom.  And the door was fucking locked.

My mind racing, I decided it must be some kind of weird sting operation set up by the Spanish transit authority, and I was going to be stuck in Spain for the rest of my life.  I started pounding and kicking on the door, calling for someone to open it.  After a bit, a restroom attendant opened the door.  She looked as surprised to see me as I to see her.  I guess I'd missed seeing the sign that the restroom was going to be closed for cleaning.  Instead of saying thank you in English, I said Merci.  I don't even speak French!  It was the first word that came to me.

Money in my bag, I rushed to find the guys, and told them what happened.  They were in disbelief, but when I showed the cash, they knew we were saved.  I have no idea who lost that money, and I'm sorry that you did.  But thank you so much for saving me and my friends and our trip.  I'm still so very grateful to you.  If you're reading this, send me a message and I'd be happy to refund it!

Ezzard Charles Drive

After dropping out of high school three times, I sat for my GED test on a cold day in January in 2000.  My class would graduate the following May, but I wanted to get a jump on things.  So I signed up for the test, didn’t study a lick and figured I’d be just fine.

The only test center at that time was in the middle of the ghetto downtown.  I’m no stranger to hoods, so the location didn’t bother me any.  I just wanted to get in, sit for the exam and get on with my day.  I had trips to plan, things to do.  You know, everything a seventeen year old girl normally does with her life.

The morning of my test, I treated myself to some hot cocoa from that company that sells overpriced coffee and has a green logo.  I was also wearing a fresh white hoodie.  Folks who know me know I’m not the most graceful at times, so wearing white was a kind of silent message I wanted to send to the Universe at large.  Not that I intended to spill anything on myself, but more that I was ready to take on whatever the day would offer.

So fresh hoodie and a cup of sweet, sweet cocoa in hand, I drove from Clifton downtown.  Sipping the sugar, listening to some nonsense, (likely Tupac, though it could have been UGK or 36 Mafia) and not really thinking about what the test was going to entail. 

I turned off of Ezzard Charles and found a side street to park the beater I was driving.  Put the car in park and reached for my cocoa.  The lid must’ve been put on wrong because it spilled all down my Nautica hoodie.  What the fuck.  I swore, cursing the world, but resolved to make the best of it.  Blotted it with another hoodie from my back seat, finished my drink and got out of the car.  Signed in to the test center, the only white girl there, with a giant stain on her once-fresh white hoodie. 

The first section was supposed to last three hours, and the second two more.  I finished the first section in ninety minutes, turned it in and was told I had to wait for the remainder.  Ok fine, I’ll just go to my car, I thought.  Searched in my bag for my keys and realized I’d left them in my damn car.  For a while as a youngster, I was notoriously locking my keys in my car.  Fuck.  Like fuck of all fucks.  So I tell the test admin that I’d locked my keys in my car, and asked if she could call someone.  She looked at me with disdain but called the police nonetheless.  And then told me that I couldn’t leave until I’d finished my second section of the test, handing me a thick booklet.  Worried that someone was going to break into my car, I raced through it, it was English, literature and comprehension, and turned it in in thirty five minutes.  The admin asked if I was sure I was finished.  Well obviously I’m finished, I just turned it in, is what I wanted to say, but didn’t. She sighed and took it.

Outside, there was an officer waiting at the end of the street.  He asked me if I’d locked my keys in my car, and then opened it with one of those magic things that pops the lock from the window jam.  I thanked him profusely, got in and drove off.  For some reason, that moment has stuck with me during my adult life.  The cop was gracious and kind, and I’m still grateful that he came to my aid.  He could have just as easily ignored the call. I could have had to break into my own car (which I ended up doing a few months later when I (yet again) locked my keys in the ignition).  He was human, and kind.

Four months later I received my results – aced it J

The End of the Line

I’ve been a runner for most of my adult life.  It’s a solo sport, and that’s one of the reasons I like it so much.  On my runs, it’s just me and my thoughts.  Nothing to distract me, or vie for my attention.  It’s great! 

Running half marathons is something that I’ve recently fell in love with, as much for the challenge of running 13.1 miles as for the medals.  Medals!  Who doesn’t like a piece of something tangible that shows an effort completed? 
For all of my runs, I’ve never had anyone waiting at the finish line.  I don’t mind much; I’m not running for anyone but myself, but there have been twinges of wanting someone there on occasion.  Usually, I just put it out of my head and start planning for my next race.

This past autumn, I participated in Cincinnati’s inaugural Queen Bee Half Marathon.  It was good race, somewhat hard course, and I was happy to be running it.  The weeks leading up to it, I was vocal about the race to anyone who would listen, as much to calm my nerves (I was going for a personal record of 90 mintues) and because I just wanted to talk about it. 

While talking with Nicole, I said something about never having anyone waiting for me at the finish line.  It was an off-handed comment, just a part of the conversation, but Nicole latched onto it and selflessly declared that she would be waiting for me at the finish line.  I told her it wasn’t a big deal, and she didn’t have to do that.  But she insisted.

So I ran the thirteen miles, and as soon as I crossed the finish line, there she was.  And she wasn’t alone, either.  Voyin’s mom came too.  The act brought me to near tears, thankful as I was that they took time from whatever they were doing on a Saturday morning to come support me in my endeavor.  Whenever I think about that run, Nicole’s action comes to mind.  I didn’t get my PR, but that’s okay.  I had someone waiting at the end of the line.