When I was six years old
I bet my mother couldn't I fly?
And why not grow
wings, feathers, and fly
with so much sky
all around.
And when I was seven, well child?
Why so low?
And why not be low
with so much ground
so low and earth so cold
between toes.
I could only grow
wings so fast you know.
And when I was nine, mother braids
my hair.
Hold still for a second,
you're not going anywhere?
I couldn't care about hair
when it was everywhere
So was I, so fair,
going anywhere.
And when I was twelve,
oh my
how I wished I could fly
and again and again
I was
I was
I was
When I was
Wished
to fly
And why not fly with so much sky?

A Flash

Traveled to Ireland this spring...

Thought I'd share.

rain and cloud days, always

and ocean breezes biting

and everything is green.

Irish doors

beauty in stone and glass

grace...

art, thought on walls in Belfast

and Galway

everywhere.

great institutions, overcome by vines

ruins, worn by time.

she stands protecting

holding out her hands.

Come.

Love and Buzzing

there is an abundance of love on the lake

and buzzing

...

the 

dragonflies 

are 

mating

Everywhere, they 

flit 

and 

flirt

and 

dive

and 

rocket

and 

roller coaster 

along

like 

arial acrobats!

I discover that they are

like ghosts that can't 

     be

- photographed -

...

a few pose for me

I press down on the shutters

only to find they are no

longer in the picture

funny, huh?

Mr. and Mrs. Mallard 

drop in for a visit

they don't see what all the fuss is about ...

they have a much more relaxed

relationship

they nibble on plants

because they like

to stay trim

and the dragonflies whirl around me like I fascinate them as much as they - me, before another dragonfly far more interesting than 

a photo-snapping person 

once again distracts them 

and 

they're off.

Ah, summer love.

Walking

A walk is a lovely thing.
When the Sun's not too hot
before nine
and the air's not too damp and
only feels like a friendly hug and not
an oppresive oppressor.
And most everyone's driven
to work so you're
without the engine growls
and the smell of gasoline
tainting the morning air.
Alone but not alone,
because someone's walking
a big black labrador
and someone's pushing their
baby in a stroller down the street
and someone's riding their bike
with their biking goggles and
gloves and everything
and some construction men
are finally
fixing that roof.
You can say goodmorning,
goodmorning,
morning,
hey there,
and when you can say those
things you're really not alone.
And sometimes
just sometimes
you spy something wonderful
like rabbit's ears peeking
above an untrimmed lawn
or a stack of potted plants
all growing together
with the big ones on the bottom
and the rest tiered up
- how ingenius?!
And that's why a walk is really
quite a
lovely thing.

Melting Ice

The world is cracking and bubbling and gurgling

under melting ice.

Little buds shiver

Cold air brushes the underparts of their leaves

Mild tempered weather

not easily peeved

Winter's welcome.

Imagining Snow

I've long given up the dream of having a white Christmas in South Carolina. While it does snow here sometimes during the later winter months, December sees little of the fluffy stuff.

Coming out of Harris Teeter a few evenings ago, as a light rain misted the chilly air, I looked into the glowing lamp posts over the parking lot and imagined that the glinting water falling down was actually snow. The cold rain gave my cheeks a slight sting, and the way the lights reflected made the droplets look like tiny glowing snowflakes.

I felt warmed through, except my chilled nose, of course. Ah, snow for the season, even if only imaginary.

Well, Here I Go Again

It has come to my attention that I have far too many posts about Christmas. They actually took up a majority of the space in this blog last year at this time. Am I unusually obsessed with this holiday? Perhaps, but only for the sake of having something to write about...
Well, since senior year has christened December as not only the most wonderful time of the year but also the most busiest time of the year, I will allow only one (I can make no promises, however) post concerning Christmas. Here I go again.

Tomorrow the 25 day countdown begins! I'm fairly excited about this year's Christmas - we have our last day of school in the year 2010 on December 15th, and then we're off and running to finish last minute Christmas shopping, realize that we still have a whole other week until Christmas, and sleep until noon everyday. My family is doing things a bit differently this Christmas; my mom works on Christmas day, so we're celebrating early, on the 24th. So, my countdown might be a little off this year, but I'm not terribly concerned.

Our Christmas tree is beautiful and marvelously smelly (though not yet decorated - I was born into a family of procrastinators), and tonight we had our first sips of eggnog for the season.

What presents am I getting for my family? This is my question, and I alone can answer it... and possibly mother rabbit.

I'm terribly disappointed that I don't have any pictures to add, but tis the season to use your imagination. Imagine here, for instance, pictures of holly, wreaths, snowmen, sugar cookies, and my dog with a santa hat.

Merry Christmas! or Happy Holidays for whatever holiday you will celebrate in the following month!

Ode to a Web

I have a confession to make: 

I absolutely abhor spiders. 

I think they are some of the 

ugliest, 

creepiest, 

and most repulsive creatures to crawl the planet.

And yet,

I am always drawn to admire their webs.

The intricate design, 

the sparkling symmetry, 

and the fluid strength 

in each web amazes me. 

Then, the Sun hits the dew covered strands just so, 

and I'm completely captivated.

So, even though I may have an aversion to eight-legged things, 

I give a toast to a spider's web ... 

a beautiful creation, 

however disliked or misunderstood its creator may be.

A Puzzle

The first day of school ushers in a whole plethora of firsts:

The first homework assignment of the year, the first new face you discover in the class, the first freshly baked chocolate chip cookies you've eaten in quite a long time.

But even as the new year begins, or what feels like the beginning of the year to me much more than January 1st ever has, I remember things left undone in the previous year. There's a puzzle sitting on a table that is still one-third incomplete. Pieces lie around it, hoping to soon be placed.

I wonder what else I've left undone. The feelings and ideas, the problems and their solutions, what has followed me here?

But I'm not worried by the puzzles left undone. They too, will find their place in the new year, in this interesting season, this young music singing. Echoes of the past will add character to my path, perhaps more rough patches than I'd like, but they won't hold me down, won't keep me tied to yesterday.

It's a puzzling thought I know, but I rather indulge in thinking it. My puzzle is yet undone, and the growing picture is dazzling.

An Eyelash

Sometimes in this bumpy life,
I feel like I've got an eyelash stuck in my eye.
It's a terribly helpless feeling, being blind and in pain.
Just one
little hair...
And as tears come into my eyes, to wash it out, I wonder what's the use of eyelashes at all.
They're supposed to protect,
To keep foreign objects out.
And they keep my eyes safe,
Till they turn and fall into them...


A good friend tells me when
I've got an eyelash
that's loose
and wobbly
and waiting to poke me right
in the pupil.

Sometimes I need to be told that my defenses
the nets I keep around me
are about to hurt me.
That the tiny hairs I trusted
will only cause irritation
That I need to wipe them away
And let the light hit my eyes
Let it in
All the way in.

No Turning Back

At some point in the curve, there's no turning back.

...

Like a sledder on a snowy hill. I inch forward slowly with my boots, the snow crunching underneath my blue plastic sled. Farther and farther I creep towards the edge, until I start to slide slightly. Gasping in fear, I dig my feet and hands into the snow to stop myself just before the drop.

The hill is tall and steep, slippery and terrifying.

I turn around, glancing at the little boy behind me waiting to take his turn. I feel silly. It's just a hill, after all.

Releasing my cold feet and hands from their snowy death grip, I prepare for the worst. But I don't move. I've stuck myself in the snow bank, and the sled won't budge.

I want to give up just then, embarrassed by my fear and afraid of embarrassment.

But ... but that's not all I want. Somewhere, down that hill, something is waiting for me. I want to go there, I want to feel the rush of cold wind and the thrill of falling, and I want to stand at the bottom, and turn, and laugh at the hill that frightened me. My eyes turn once again to the boy behind me.

"Can you give me a push?" I ask, hopefully. The young hero obliges. Crouching, hands gripping the edge, he gives the sled a tremendous push. And I fly. Oh, how I fly.

Squealing from pure exhilaration, I rocket down the hill. Snowy air stings my cheeks as the sled races along it's course. I may have doubted before. There's no fear now.

At the bottom, my sled stops with a crunch, and I flop into the snow on my back, giggling. Then, I stand up, and I do laugh at that hill, at my fear, at my joy. I laugh that I can somehow laugh at all three at once.

...

I'm there now, at the edge of the hill, feeling stuck and unmoving, but ready to go. Ready to fall. Absolutely fall. And there's no turning back.

A Look

If looks could kill, or save, or make you pee in your pants from laughing ... this could probably be one of those looks.

The Last Note

The beginning of a song is - in my opinion - the most enchanting part of music, like the beginning of a romance. With many of my favorite artists, from Train to Coldplay, Paramore to Alanis Morissette, the first few notes and the first uttered lyrics are what captures me. They pull me in, slowly and deeply, until I'm completely immersed. The notes weave in and out of one another, subtly including me in their design. All thanks to a deliciously cooked beginning.

But lately, I've begun to notice the end of songs more, or the lack thereof.

Well, how do you end a song, really? It may suddenly stop, the sharp silence more surprising than any noise. Or, the song may fade into the distance, repeating over and over for an implied eternity. Maybe the singer even whispers one last sentence in conclusion.

Honestly, I can't imagine ending a song in a way that seems right. I don't feel like a song should have an end. It could continue, changing and growing, leaving a trail to follow. I'm entranced, held by the notes, until they end. The music disappears, and I hold my breath, waiting for the next song, new music. It's like finishing a good book that I know has no sequel.

Maybe the ending bites me so because I know, somewhere that I don't often visit, that those stories the music tells, the feelings it reveals, never truly end.

The Beginning of an Adventure

As the dewy leaves drop water bit by little bit into the morning lake, I look out into the sky, at the growing blueness and brightness of morning. The beginning of the day.

The beginning of something is so incredibly beautiful and special, a sense of excitement at what's to come, a hopeful feeling that shivers in the damp air but holds firm.

So often we miss the beginning, preferring to sleep in late or rush through it completely.

But I love beginnings.

The beginning of summer: the first splash in the pool, the first waves of the beach, the first sting of sunburn, and the first afternoon thunderstorm, are as exciting as birthday presents. Why not? a birthday simply celebrates a beginning after all.

But now, summer's not what I'm looking for. Somewhere in the morning air, as I sit by the lake, I sense an adventure about to take place. A new adventure. A fantastic adventure. And I'm invited.

I treasure this moment, when no one knows but me. One day, my hard work will be noticed, my actions written, or my journey recorded, in the middle and end of my life.

But on this morning, only I can truly appreciate ... the beginning of the adventure.

A Bucket

He beats the bucket like a drum, and the rhythms cut through the pollen-filled air.

Music.

Notes that reach the ear of thousands. They pass by with their brief cases and black suits, their flashing cameras and sneakers, their eyes and ears drawn to the man who beats a bucket.

A Color

1

2

3

4

5

Five colors spilled out into the ocean.

Five colors crested a wave.

Five colors drank all the water in the world.

Five colors dug a graying grave.

Five colors only

Four colors smiled at the sunlight.

Four colors spoke to the moon.

Four colors milked the glowing way.

Four colors only

Three colors lay down under branches.

Three colors danced with the leaves.

Three colors only

Two colors hoped for something better

bitter

Two colors only

One color only saved the world. Red.

An Unexpected Resident

The magnolia branches shiver under the sudden weight of a small D.C. resident. Skipping playfully along and slapping the air with his great bushy tail, he looks more like a small, chubby citizen than a half-rabid rodent. Like any upstanding citizen of the District, he pretends to be terribly annoyed by photo-snapping tourists, while in reality, the majority of the profits of his sleazy trade comes straight from their hands... literally.

A cheese cracker, the end of a hot dog bun, or the crust of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich will soon be tossed to him by ignorantly adoring visitors. He basks in the sure deviousness of it all and licks his lips of the foreign crumbs.

He just may be D.C.'s finest entertainer, and certainly it's most loyal citizen.

A squirrel.

A Shadow

The light dances away from the sun in waves and particles. It shoots into the atmosphere and blazes down to the surface of the lake in my backyard. Bouncing, jubilant little waves catch it and toss it back at the sky and into my eyes, making the sun's reflection roll and twist in front of me.

But when the light hits the wooden dock, it ricochets back like a ping pong ball, no dancing involved. The dock is flat, hard, firm. The light hits it and leaves it at a perfect angle without fail, revealing the textures of the grain and the tired faces of the aging boards. No distortion, one direction.

Then I notice something. No wait, it's nothing. As the light hits me, it splinters. It can't go through. It bounces off of me first, never reaching the smooth wood of the floating dock. No light touches my outlined form, no light is reflected by the dock so that I can see it and it's devious shapes.

The lack of light isn't a something that I noticed, it's a nothing. A shadow is nothing, a non-existence.

A shadow is whatever I can't see, whatever I can't discern. Do I fear my shadow? Perhaps I would be more afraid if I had no shadow and the light could see through me... Then I would be open, clear, completely visible, vulnerable.

Terrifying, isn't it?

A Ripple

It wakes up in the sky somewhere, stretching and shaking off a sleepy daze. Slowly moving, awakening to the sensations of other air currents, it dives into the river of wind and air swirling around. It's tossed and carried along like a plastic bag on a windy day. Then, in the distance, it spies something marvelous: a lake, so pristine, glimmering faintly in the early morning light, so inviting. It wants to, it could; no, it must!

It shoots towards the water's surface, pulled towards the delicious sight by some unseen force.

It pauses for a moment, hovering just above the water. Stretching out finger-like wisps of itself, it barely brushes the stagnant skin. The water moves for the fragile fingers, ebbing away and apart, giving them room, creating ripples. Ripples. It gasps at the wonder unfolding and folding in front of it. The little waves continue, rippling and growing wider and wider, farther and farther.

There's no hesitation now. It reaches across the entire lake and splashes like a child, frolicking on the surface until the whole body of water is covered in delicate ripples. It chases them and turns them this way and that. It breathes, blowing on the water, watching it move, feeling it yield beneath it. Pure ecstasy.

When I dip my oar in the water, pulling the water toward me, pushing it away, it watches. It rushes past me, whispering,

More, more, more ripples.

It's Polite

It's a courtesy that's not widely recognized in America (or maybe the world) much anymore, a thought that has slowly rusted and decayed, shrunken and withered away to something small, optional, unnecessary. Yet, I remember it well.

I casually glance over my shoulder to see how closely someone is walking to me, gauge the distance. I reach the door and without hesitation, fling it open, stepping to the side and gripping the handle as I do. With a practiced flip of my head, I turn and smile and the stranger who's about to go inside, whose suspicious face only makes the act more exciting. Yes, most people look at me with a mix of surprise, annoyance, disgust, and mistrust when I open the door for them, but someone has to break the ice, right? They hustle through the door and try not to make eye contact, mumbling a quiet thanks and continuing on their way. I slide in after them, grinning.

On some occasions, I'll open to the door and be thanked heartily by a kind soul who understands the gesture. Their face lights up and their smile stretches out till it touches their ears, and they eagerly walk through the open door. Maybe it's people like them that really keep me going at it.

Even more so, I love it when people hold the door open for me. I feel like a queen, a star. When someone opens the door for me, it's as if they're acknowledging me as a fellow human being, a dear person who deserves to be cared about. I instantly start to think, I must be beautiful, I must be sweet-looking, I must have the most amazing smile if someone would bother opening a door for me. It's such a little thing, such a small act of kindness, yet it touches my heart so deeply.

Who holds open the door to love, so that we who are burdened, carrying the luggage of the world, and cannot hope of reaching the handles, may enter into love's sweet presence? Who opens the door?