the messiness of just being free: the gift my parents gave me of mud pies and staying dirty

What I remember best about childhood was the freedom. The freedom of play. I remember sitting on my tree swing crafted by father. The wood underneath my very tiny boney butt and the two distinctive pieces of yellow rope intertwined together around and around to the top of the tree. That yellow rope was my dad's signature rope. It was on my swing. It was on things he fixed around the house. On our Christmas tree when tied about our blue Volkswagen. And on this swing I would sit and swing and then sit. And just be. Staring outside and up into the clouds. And closing my eyes and taking my legs to my butt and lengthening out past my feet. Over again and again. My eyes closed brought darkness but this light show created in light and movement created colors and shapes. As I moved another show created. I spent time staring in and out and swinging. The freedom of just being there. And doing nothing. But daydreaming and looking and seeing and closing my eyes to create my own freedom of what I wanted to see.

My backyard was covered in vegetables my parents had planted in boxes built by my father. My seeds in with them and the dirt off to the side to place the seeds. And what would happen next. Would it grow? My label put upon a piece of wood and waiting. And in the dirt. The dirt I played. In afternoons of mud pies made for each one of my family and friends. And eaten very quickly and started again. Dumping it out to begin again. The mud caked my fingers and painted on my face and arms and sprayed onto my clothes. The texture of it. The mud. The way to make the perfect mud pie. Grabbing just enough mud and spreading it around the tin. With a design on top. And presenting it to my parents or my friends even if they weren't sitting next to me. The freedom to play in mud and not care if I was dirty. I wanted to be. And no one told me to clean up. They let me play in mud.

And I still like to get dirty. Maybe because I have had issues with spilling. Or it reminds me of what was. And every time I see a parent scold a child for having paint left over from a school project on them or the evidence of an ice cream smeared upon their face. I cringe. Because the freedom of not caring should be given to children. They have their rest of their lives to pretend to be perfect and clean. Let's give them this. The swings and the mud and the messiness of just being free.

What I remember best of my childhood was this freedom my parents gave me. In the chaos that was my home sometimes-this place this gift they gave me-when they weren't in the abyss of figuring themselves out. Somehow I had the freedom and the responsibility of adultness as a child in the worrying and caregiving and anticipating what would be next. And as much as I sometimes wish for a different childhood, I can't ignore what my parents gave me. The freedom to be a child. Sometimes. That allows me to be light and be free still in ways I know that without that swing to be swung made for only me or the mud pie tins filled with mud never needing to be cleaned-I might not have grown and flourished. Into who I became.

betrayed by this good friend along the road of life

hello friends,

thanks for stopping by as always. and don't be alarmed. i am okay. this was written a few months ago after i got some unanticipated test results. i repeat i am okay. but this piece captured the moments of the betrayal of this body.

Unmasked. The unmasked stood before me. I didn't know this. I didn't recognize this. But the unmasked it stood before me. I knew. I knew. I knew. That it wouldn't be good news. I didn't recognize this unmasked barrier of bad news for it was a different kind. But I knew the look. The look of the grayness of the eyes never making eye contact that mattered, the facial figures blending in together, the non-descriptiveness of it all. And inside of me. The remembering of a late night phone call of the worst news. The across country call of coming home because of sickness and fear of death. Starting to pulse in and out of my frame of this body. I knew this unmasked figure. I knew it or he or she was bringing me news. Not the best news as the platter what exposed for me to see.

And I have now crossed over into a place where the healthiness of this body I can't exactly control. And truth be told we never could. We thought we could. It was before the worry of tests. And test results. And genetics. And my ability to make babies. Once I wanted to.

This body, this athletic body, has not failed me once. I didn't always win the race. But it always carried me. But these feet with a high arch and toughness from years of barefoot walking and running had never let me down. These legs. Legs carved muscular through years of sports and running and swimming and now yoga and zumba have held my ground in ways I was thankful. My stomach. My anchor my way of knowing right and wrong was a pretty good team player too. To my chest and heart- the comfort of the heart and know it will beat in and out and hasn't stopped yet. To my breasts thankful that they decided to debut later in life in college but sometimes now wanting to put them on the shelf when not needed. Like when I want to take a run around the block. My arms- my right stronger than the left that has been know to hug and hold and sometimes used in arm wrestling. And these hands. These wrinkled hands of irish inheritance, my hands, my mother's, and my brother's, and a younger version of my grandmothers. The fingers have walked and jumped and spread over papers and keys on computers and the discovering the map of anothers hand or to squeeze an arm in encouragement and connection.

My body. My body I have so much to be thankful for. And we have been good friends along the road of this life. But in the unmasking of results. Test results. Not fatal. Not deathly. But not pleasant. And decisions to be made of next steps. Makes me feel betrayed. Betrayed by this body. Betrayed by my dear friends who have helped me along the way. Betrayed in knowing I can't control it. And never could. And as anxiety sets in I can't help but think I will all be okay. For it always has been. Okay. And a blimp on the radar of health in our modern time could really make the difference in the future in ways it couldn't before. In living in prevention, we sometimes have things unmasked before we are ready. Betrayed I feel but faith in having that this body, this body that has never failed me. Yet. Won't fail me today. Or tomorrow.

inheritance of the luck of the green eyes

I can say it was the luck of the green eyes. The luck of the mistake of green eyes. For they are a mistake. Missing on the punnet square of brown and blue. My father's eyes a deep blue like his mother's. Her Irish eyes became his. My mother's eyes more green and blue changing like the seasons and the ocean. I inherited my mother's eyes too. Her Irish eyes. And for with the luck of the green eyes I have skipped and jumped and jumped and crawled and ran and walked and fell throughout my life. And with these eyes I see. I see the scene around me. I see the inner workings of someone. What they could be. I see the unspoken words. I see the injustice and ask. Why? I see the look in the eyes of another. Letting me know they are there. Right there. Are if they have left and moved to another spot.

These eyes have taken in the secrets from friends and strangers alike. These eyes are my number one complement. I get. I have received. My entire life. From friends. From strangers. From strangers of friends. From family. Even from students. I began to say thanks my mother let me borrow them-they are her eyes.

But really they are mine. I inherited them ago upon my father and mother making me. Opened outside the womb for the first time. Outside I didn't want to leave the safety of her stomach. Late I was. Opened eyes to the world. And given my constant reminder of these eyes. The beauty of them. The drawing in. To speak of them. And look of them. And the reminder of these eyes being from my mother. I can't help but wonder what these eyes mean. What do these irish green changing with my shirt and with the conditions of my eyes glowing even more when I cry? What do they mean? Mean to have something that others adore. Mean to have something unique. Mean to have something that is a beautiful mistake. And as I blink again. And again.

I can't help but wonder about the luck of the green eyes. The beauty of a mistake a mix of brown and blue into me. My eyes. And in looking and seeing I know I see it differently. And for that my own uniqueness of these eyes similar to my mothers. But my own. They are my own. But a reminder. Reminding me. She is always with me. Still.

For the drawing in of these eyes might be the same. The same. But who looks at these eyes. And speak words of truth differently. These eyes are my own. My own gift. My own luck. My own Irish. My own way to connect for it is more than the eyes themselves the colors ever changing. Its about the way I see. That makes this journey and those who speak to me all the more interesting. So my struck of green luck I view the world through them and in it I see it all, the beauty and pain and laughter and a world I dreamt up myself, a world I try and create. And somehow through it all I see the glowing future. As I blink again and the lines around my eyes soften. Thank you, I say.

rejection letters just means an acceptance is in the mail

rejection letters. i just received a rejection letter in the mail. out of 88 plus applicants for 20 something spots, i was not chosen to write, not this time. and as i put down the letter-i was okay. no heart sinking tears dropped from my lids. partially exhausted from spending time in the library- my new home- but, more because i was proud i applied. setting my goal outside my arms outstretched and did it. even if no was not part of my perfectly sculpted plan. and part of me knew that i would get my turn, my yes. there was no devastation.

probably because me and rejection letters go way back. and every time i get one. i have got one. i get an acceptance soon after in my mailbox. harvard rejected me, but a few days later there sat my columbia acceptance- my first lesson in the bittersweetness of rejection and the importance of not being first in line. my first job interview out of grad school was a no, but the next one was a yes. when i got laid off (for the first time), i had the luck to have a new job in a week. when i got laid off (the second time), i was able to explore what being outside a cubicle and tied to computer could feel like. the gift of no, gave me the gift of what i really wanted. when applying to grad school for the 2nd time (similar to the first time) first letter: rejection from san francisco state and soon following a second letter: acceptance from usf.

see some people don't have rejection letters. they don't get them. they don't touch. they don't see them. and if they do they don't talk about them. others have a novel of no's. my rejection letters are proof i took a chance, i take chances. and maybe there is solace in knowing that there is letter making its way now, in a way i don't expect, to me, telling me it's my turn. and on that note, here is my piece on birth, or rebirth as it may seem. all my thanks as always!

Birth. Today as the world birthed a new day. It let the sun it held in its grasp of clouds-darkish and puffy and wind- fast quick and flipping over of things- go. The rain weeped for too long, they held onto it and let it go slowly first allowing it to peek through the companions of the clouds. And then standing on its own- sun gave birth to this new spring day. As the wind from the rolled down window breaths my face relaxed and the music plays. It slows it all down to a pace that is liveable. Sun beating on this car desperately needing to be cleaned, two tables in the back seat- new to me- old to someone else- yoga clothes still mildly sticky shape my body. I turn the mirror down to see my face and as I do I see in the reflection a man staring at me as I do my daily multiple a day check in- what we are facing in this mirror. I quickly feel self conscious. And look away. His bar towel sways back and forth in the movement of his diagonal cross against this street. He turns his face. Covered in sun. And looks at me.

Birthed today was the beginning of the rebirth. Not by choice. Not by accident. But as this new day delivers a new start, a new chance. Again. The flowers begin their outer movement blooming- they have already bloomed this season in confusion of seasons not behaving properly-but the stretch will again begin. And how much easier it is to walk when the sun welcomes you outside. The delivery of a seasonal disorder lamp no longer needed. Lightness I feel as I step and drive.

And this sunny day. Stops me. From the sadness that was. Its not just the sun. We have to practice. And I do know. I started off this morning. This monday morning pressing snooze twice but willing myself to leave the comfort of my bed. Starting with half a piece of toast with peanut butter, ¾ glass of water, and half a cup of coffee and outside to the yoga class. The sun welcomed me home. As I stretched and pulled and breathed and let go where I could and held what I can. Eating an apple in between locations to my therapist. Because seeing the sun. Seeing the light. The rebirthing. The getting another chance takes practice. And practice I do. How to believe in the growth of me. The sun. The spring. The men giving more notice. All help. But empty is this walk of life without the practice and standing on tip toes and falling over.

It takes practice to become who you are. It takes practice to let yourself be you. Practice that can't be read in books or provided in osmosis. Oh but you wish. It takes work. But the sun will push you along your way. And the eyes will smile at you slowly cheering you on. And the hum you hear in your head might not need to be shared. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. The birth of me. The reminder of it. Doesn't just happen on my birthday. But everyday.

changing how it turns out- but i still want another line as i walk upon it

Changing how it turned out. I didn't know how it would turn out yet. But I had pieced together snapshots of scenes in my mini series of my mind. A melodrama of my heart and hope for the future. The qualities I liked in him played perfectly in this short by me. See I have a girlhood crush syndrome that my early 30s hasn't seemed to break. I get crushes on strangers. On the barista. On the neighbor. On the friend. On the dude I made out with once. Excitement from the first time, the first time feeling the taste of infatuation dances around me as I skip on the way home. I can't shake the excitement I feel for someone in the beginning. The beginning of anything. It might be my favorite part of it all.

I guess part of my giddiness is for the lightness I feel for the real thing. The real thing that does warm me beyond the beginning to the depths of companionship. I used to fall hard and fast but took a vacation from the every moving fast bullet train to the very slow one making every stop. And it first it was fine. It was okay. But boredom started to seep in through my pores. I still wanted adventure. I still wanted intrigue. I still wanted to feel my heart pump with excitement. The slow train was slow. And I wanted more. But how to walk of the line of want I want long term and what I desire short term? Can I have both the excitement and stability as I walk on this tightrope of love with my heart jumping in and out of my chest to my sleeve and back again?

I don't know. But I do know. I need vacations. Vacations from the slow train. I pull the stop and jump out and try something new. Unplanned and spontaneous. And so easy just to be. And then I feel the warmth of another around me soothing the need for now. But later as the scenes of the future play out. Sometimes I want more scenes. I want more snapshots. And I can't help but wonder how it will turn out. In thinking about it, can I change how it will? Or the faith I feel in things coming together allows me not to change anything at all. See sometimes you meet someone while on vacation from the things you are supposed to be doing that makes the excitement and wonder grow inside as you think what will be next. For you. For him. And the excitement tastes good and I force myself not to wonder how it will turn out. Or to change the ending. I just want another line. Another paragraph. Another chapter. Of this book.