Paralyzed but Expectant

The seemingly banal brown box waited patiently on the doorstep for one of us to arrive home. I peered at the return label, and smiled knowingly. I bypassed the card and went straight for the cookies… cookies you can devour, but the words would take time to savor. The first morsel delicately melted in my mouth, and transported me from 2201 to Exit 12.

“Are you lost ma’m,” the forest ranger asked with a slight chuckle and warm eyes.

“No sir…. I’m finally found,” I softly replied while adjusting Jill Scott.

Moments later she pulled into the parking lot, the deafening music silencing reeling thoughts and grounding her in the present. She greeted me with warm practicality.

I surveyed the scene, her and I, each in our version of pigtails, orange shirts, and oversized sunglasses. My eyes drunk in the waves crashing against endless nude-colored grains of sand and the paths leading to the unknown.

Of course we ate first because that’s simply what we do. She selected a secluded patch of sand and we began the picnic process, laying a flimsy foundation of Ikea sheets and beach towels. We unpacked the coolers, convivially recognizing that each of her selections were a perfect complement to my own.

Channeling our juvenile spirits, we spent hours ambling along the shoreline and displacing thousands of grains of sand. We dug holes to the center of the Earth… just deep and methodic enough to bury our sorrows and set free our joys.

Eventually, the sun cast our shadows, artfully reminding us that we were indeed full grown women. We stood and dusted off our bodies, sand falling as freely as the secrets and sentiments did from our lips. I read the same look of despondence on her face, neither of us desiring to leave the wonderland we’d created.

I finished the last of my white chocolate, cranberry cookie and opened my eyes to examine the austere living space.  The moment of security and unbridled happiness were as ephemeral as the taste of cranberry on my tongue.  Back to reality. Back to slow drivers and drawls, to lesson plans, to labyrinthine roads, to impetuous administration, to air so thick it  becomes a burden, entrapping conservative ideals and stifling ingenuity. Is this where I belong?

I asphyxiated the moment of rumination in favor of making a to-do list…. much easier and in some ways, more practical.

• Clean my bathroom.
• Watch puppet master and perfect the dance.
• Pay electric bill.
• Read a book that contains no pictures.
• Come up with a rockin’ name for the Grand Canyon album
• Break the monotony of the day.
• make props for lesson on Tuesday.
• Catch up on Psych, RP, and PR.
• Finish washing and iron work clothes.
• Listen to the 21 new voicemails on my phone.

It seems as if every list I make is predominately composed of ambitious goals and infused with the superfluous… a disproportionate  fusion of my free-spirited past and regimented present.  I’m certain that many of the projects will be neglected, but reading is not one I’m willing to sacrifice.

I read recently that life’s challenges are not supposed to paralyze you, they’re supposed to help you discover who you are. Honestly, right now I, like most in my predicament, feel paralyzed. I hope to be set free soon. Set free from feelings of inadequacy, ignorance, alienation, and cynical thoughts. Scratch that. I need to be set free stat. I need some affirmation that this is where I’m intended to be… amongst the “Yes ma’am, No ma’ams”, the low hanging trees, the Piggly Wigglys.

I have a house, but I’m waiting for the day when this place and profession feel like home. I lie in bed most nights with expectancy in my heart: tomorrow will be the day. But I’ve surmised that until tomorrow comes, cookies and cards will have to do.

Always and forever— Kesh

 

A Promise of Faith, Maybe to You

I read recently that the only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love. I paused afterward, somberly reading, re-reading, meditating, absorbing. The only thing that counts… For better or worse, it’s an exclusive statement. Under this newly found presumption, I guess it didn’t count when you lied to me and yourself for months. And I can only hope that the same rule applies when temptation calls and I perpetually submit to its plea. Maybe, then, it won’t count when I sever ties with you, I don’t expect it to be an expression wholly of love.

At least I’m sure of what does count. Like times spent perusing shops meant just for us and clandestine drives… when the paths of our minds are just as uncertain as our present situation. I’ve also surmised that planned expressions of love count. I remember the rhythmic rise and fall of our individual voices, to the same tortuous, syncopated melody. In a moment of umoja, we lit candles to betoken our souls and watched as our strong facades melted away with the candle wax, only to be replaced with vulnerable faces and promises of a reunion. Should I not forget the 11 pages you artfully crafted in a small metallic journal previously choked with cosmetic remarks? I touched the cream pages and could almost see remnants of your tears; many of joy washing away those of sadness. I remember the ice cream too, coffee, with large silver spoons. We ate to fill the silence and watched as the treat disappeared alongside the minutes, the slowly depleting container a constant reminder that soon there would be no more . Even hair can be an expression of love. I’ll always note your diligence as you two, both defined by their art, gingerly separated what was given from what was purchased. We sealed our circle with a pizza reserved for 3 and several chronicles of lives more alluring than our own. Still more instances of love come to mind. You traversed Detroit traffic for a moment with us; spent in a crowded coffee shop right before a life changing endeavor.

After all of these years, the only thing that really counts is faith expressing itself through love. I’m relieved, but somewhat nervous with a bit of remorse. And in this moment, as the suburban breeze blows through my toes, I have faith….in what, I’m still not perfectly certain. But I do know that I have felt the expression of faith through love and it’s stunning. And as I prepare for this new adventure, all I ask is for a little faith; I don’t think that’s too lofty of a request. I know I’m deserving and what’s really important is that you are too. I might have said this before (or maybe you just know)… I’m usually not much for promises. Life has taught me that even the well intended are too easily broken. But in this moment I desire to make a promise to you, a select few:

• the first with hair as firey as her soul and another with a heart as golden as her curls
• a third with a focus unparalleled and yet another with skin as bright as her future in education
• one called to be extraordinary despite her present sentiments and another with a voice as beautiful as her demeanor
• one with more work than she deserves and still another with admirable determination
• and a final one that believes coffee unites.

I promise here and now to always have faith in you and to work endlessly to express that faith through love. Faith in your ability to lead, to educate, to save, to communicate, to rebuild, to change lives, to live remarkably. With Love that conquers pettiness and drama, that stimulates spiritually and emotionally, that speaks wisely and peacefully and that is a stronghold.

I have faith in you. I love you. And for me, for now, that’s enough.

–me

 

I lose everything, but I need this back

Recently, I had a dream that I misplaced my words. Actually, it was more of a nightmare than a dream and I’m just realizing that it could perhaps be a reality.

It’s been a week for losing things:

• keys [x2]
• security
• undies
• free time
• headphones
• sanity

The loss of my words is most upsetting. I want them back. I demand them back. Zora once told me that there’s no agony like bearing an untold story. I feel them, my thoughts… desires… emotions…. moments, building up in me… filling every extra space. It hurts, but not in a burning kinda way. Instead it manifests in a spectrum of desires. I want to giggle and JuMp and weep and SCREAM and dance and feel and soak in the moment. But my housemates wouldn’t know what to do with me…so instead I sit here staring at a large fabric leaf. Typing, deleting, texting, hoping that Pandora surprises me.

I was hoping that this would help me to find my words. Like a use it or lose it type thing. I’m not sure that it is, but I’m comforted enough in the thought that it might. Thanks for listening….I think you helped the most.

Always and forever— Keshia

 

2 for 1, Like a Bad Christmas Sale

I made a pact last night with someone more perspicacious than myself.  I promised I would write here and in return, she would routinely pen her thoughts about the world.   I’m finding this task more arduous than I anticipated, but I don’t believe in empty promises.  As of recent, my thoughts have been scattered, kinda like Too Much Light.  An ever changing, honest, silly, disconnected, meaningful, incoherent, underdeveloped, too long, too short, abruptly ending set of notions.  Don’t expect much from the words that follow.  You might not understand it, but that just means I don’t yet either.  I’m okay though, lets press on.

This will be two in one.  Partially because I’ve got thoughts that flirt and court, but never quite make it to the point where they fuse together.  And partially because I’m too lazy to come up with another post title.

So, this will be two or maybe even three in one.

Guilt Complex

“You’ve got a guilt complex,” she commented after a pause.  I added another jingle bell so that I had an excuse to not answer right away.  There’s no denying it, she’s right, guilt.  But why?  Possible reason #1:  overcompensation.  I involuntarily and unknowingly left part of myself in 501 and on the 3rd floor.  Not just any part, but the defining bit.  As Bertha moved west on 94, the wind stripped away small wedges of my spirit and carried it back to where I belong.  It didn’t even hurt, at least right away.  Just like 20 times before, my little blue car effortlessly advanced into the parking lot.  I unloaded only the essentials, everything else would come in time. The elevator stopped at 2 and I followed the cinnamon scented trail to unit 209.  I matched the island key to the proper lock and greeted the quiet emptiness.  On the first night you only have to unpack the necessities…and I knew it was missing then.  I felt strange and uncomfortable, even awkward standing in the sage hallway.  The silver, oversized mirror taunted me.  Somehow, I had managed to elude myself.  Way to go.  Not long after, a phone tree went out.  “This may sound strange, but do you feel odd?  Like you don’t know who you are or fit in any way?  It’s okay if you don’t.”  Why yes, yes I do.  It’s nice to know that me, where ever (whoever) that might be is in the great company of at least 3 others.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of 501 was there.  

There’s always something distracting during these 5 weeks:  a job, a charity, a man.  But not this time.  I feel guilty for not having appointments to keep, commitments to fulfill.  And that guilt is manifesting itself in odd ways.  This year, I sent more Christmas cards than I have friends.  I cook every evening.  I shop online.  In the mean time it feels better to send Christmas cards and pack lunches than it does to figure out who I am and who I need to be.  Guilt.  Other possible reasons for it?  I don’t know yet.  And as long as there’s a gift in sight with no mistletoe, I don’t have to figure it out.

 

I love you… it’s just a reflex

You call every night… and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  ‘Cept last night.  I lay beneath the cream and chocolate cloud and thought about you, imagined you.  I heard the rhythmic rise and fall of your voice.  I saw your lips form pledges of security and commitment.  I felt your heart keeping the pace of your thoughts, slow and methodical. Connected we were and you swayed me to my place of peace, of red suede couches, of peppermint mocha twists, of pepto bismol-themed rooms.  There I floated, calm, void of obligation, and above guilt.  I found my phone and reread your words.  That’s why I love you.  Just a reflex right?  2 times…3….4…no, still a reflex.

 

Okay.  That’s enough I think.  I considered writing about intentions, but I have a greater desire to eat chocolate cake.  I’m sure you understand.

 

Always and forever—Keshia