rolling down the hill with eyes wide open

Rolling down the hill. The nostalgia for childhood wrapped in the reality of adultness. The feel of the pace slowly at first but reaching a speed beyond my own imagination. Me painted in oshkosh pink or green corduroys overalls and probably a striped shirt. Sometimes head first. No worries of protecting my brain or body. Other times engaging in child research of what happens when I roll on my side. For the exhilaration is the goal. And no connections of wires to worry or experience to say what happens if. The rolling down the hill of my childhood has crossed over through the jungle of adolescence and the earth turns into and through adulthood.

The roller coaster of life is now my own rolling down the hill. Into a relationship. Into a possibility of one. It has been that way since the beginning. The fast pace and not knowing what will happen next the excitement of what is to come and what is beautifully played out in my smiling expression upon my face. Just letting go and descending down the hill not knowing what will happen but it will be fun. And I might get hurt. But still chasing what was. And what will come. The exhilaration in the pit of my stomach of jumping into the water without easing in. But it hasn't always been pretty. My trips down hills of lust and love and everything in between. I have skinned my knees and stopped mid hill wondering what happened to my speed and sat at the bottom of hill in many pieces- with no one to put me together but me. No nursery rhyme to save me. Because I am no longer a child and now know the risks of rolling down the hill, especially a san francisco one, that I decided I had to stop rolling down the hill at a pace too much. It was fine. Fine until now.

As I stand before a hill. With both anticipation and hope and knowledge of what could happen as I begin this descend down this hill. Can I change how I make my way down and still enjoy the ride down? Can it happen without a trip to the er? Can I begin again without the surround sound of the past playing on repeat? Can I do it? Roll down this hill. And not let the excitement to take me over into a place where a child can only live. You got to travel down this hill. The hill onto what will be next.

But this time I stand staring over the horizon of this beautiful city, water colored into a way paint by number could ever dream of, I take it in. And think. Before I feel my head hang down and my hands touch the grass swimming in water and the excitement moves down from the depths of my stomach champanged to the top of a growing smile. And in thinking. And in seeing. In rolling down this hill. Might be at a pace. That I can live with.

this time when i wore the black dress of second chances

This time when I wore the black dress. The black dress breezy and light and full of potential. It had risen from the bottom of my closet to the surface of the water to find a hanger. I see it there. Bobbing up and down on top of the water. No longer sinking. But now floating. And I pick it up. And push my head through the opening. Buttoning the buttons up that live along the ruffles. Me newly showered fresh after the yoga of sweating and pulling and pushing and breathing. My cheeks still flush- irish glow. With relaxation. And release. And busting my ass. I can't find the right shoes. Oh well. Out the door. The skirt waves in the wind and choreographed to the sway of potential again.

To school. I drive. Through the maze of the lines of the urban river. Quickly. For I have a small window to get to financial aid office. For they screwed up my loans. Again. In driving. I decide. To leave it up. To the world of friday traffic if I get there. My hand gently loosens the grip on the wheel. I park. 5 minutes and counting. And run in the dress up the flight of stairs. Please. To get there with a minute to spare. Buttons coming undone in the running. I beg. To the man closing the door. Please. And he lets me in.

Scene change of the black and white break to drinks later. For I had worn the dress again. I had to give it another try. Believing. Because I hadn't in a long time. And I wanted to replace the scene that happened last time with something else in the film reel of memories that plays in my head. I fast forward and rewind and pause. I wanted the dress of heaviness to be light again. I wanted to feel the buoyancy of potential. Of given it another chance.

And as I sit. Sit with friends. At the bar. I feel someone moving me. In my bar stool. Twirling me around. My dress waves in a circle. And there stands someone I don't know. Somehow in this bar. Of helping someone get drinks. Things stopped for a moment. To talk about life. And what we do. But not in the typical CV way. Not in a booty call fashion. But in a way that you desire to talk more. About the realness of it. All. I am intrigued. Can I buy you a drink? I wish but my parents are coming early. How about a raincheck? And then the formalities of information exchange follow.

The best part it was so easy. No trying. Just happening. The dress wraps me as I float on top of the water and look up. At the sky above. I am floating. The best part was the dress of potential of second chances was light again. And so was I.

pushing through the middle school doors- without the footsteps of the past beating in my head

I think it is hard to live in the present without the footsteps of the past beating in your head. That is the best way to explain pushing through the doors of middle school again. My own experience of being a middle schooler long ago walks along side of me. I didn't like middle school.

When I went it in the early 90s with big bangs and pegged jeans it was junior high. Although I went to school in the safety of the suburbs it was the scariest place I have ever been. And this urbanite has lived in 4 cities. Flashes of girls hitting other heads into lockers, crowds surrounding fights and no one stopping, the cool ones partaking in sex and drugs and I barely had a period and held a hand of the opposite sex. I got asked out through friends of friends and held notes with such words, and found dancing partners as I slow danced in the beginning of puberty.

I was not a leper. But I was scared. I went to a school where violence and following the mob mentality the norm and at 80 lbs and under 5 feet tall when I had started ( a growth spurt pending)- I had little choices. Other than to be nice to everyone and hope that one of the prettier popular girls wouldn't want to beat me up. I found solace in school (getting into accelerated classes) and running track- if you were good it give you protection plus lots of teammates as a buffer. It got better. Towards the end. And then high school allowed me to breathe. And most of my own work has centered around high school. And I have loved it. I dreaded being in a middle school. Because of my own experience with it. The young girl who became too scared to speak up, too scared to be herself, long ago was reincarnated back to living. I didn't want to go back to the old days of fear of others. Fear of myself.

But as soon as I sat in the office- watching the movement and pace of the counseling office- in this middle school-I felt more comfortable-at ease. My first day jitters drifting away with the young girl who was. Was before. As I saw the faces of the students and how this counseling office existed in the world of the school. I felt the hallway underneath my feet, the middle school students wanting to talk and actually seemed to want to talk longer than I anticipated. The deep thinking of a 6^th grader is surprising and simple in unison. I walked around talking to 6^th graders during lunch and no one gave me the look of despair due to an adult talking to them.

Two girls with the same exact hair style with barrettes choreographed perfectly reminds me of what was. Still is. In middle school. A boy laughs at someone for getting hurt. Her friend. Stops without skipping a beat sticking up for her. I feel a smile growing inside of me. The young girl of before roots her on. And there was a hope. That grew. Excitement and anticipation grew inside of me while dread had lived. I was excited to be in middle school as an adult. It could be different. And it might be different for the students I would see walking down the halls.