Bricks

After a night of dark memories mixed into my dreams and evolved into nightmares, I woke up with an immediate sense of discouragement. Once I shook off the evil little chills and found my bearings, a thought flashed across my mind and I whispered out loud, “Foundations.”

As usual, it was as if my subconscious worked tirelessly throughout the night to formulate for my conscious self what it could not do on its own. I had no foundation left – everything I once planted had all been uprooted by now, for better or for worse. I will need to build from the ground up again and build anew, one brick at a time, small or large.

Bricks – all around me and I wasn’t able to see the signs that were laid out in front of my eyes until now. I shall begin.

Flame, White & Gold – In The Air, Out to Sea and Beneath My Feet

As I continue to practice cathartic releases in the form of metaphorical actions within my mind, I hope that they will cause a physical “purging” from my mind and body. But, since these actions remain within me, I need “witnesses” to bear testimony to them. So these witnesses are you. This is what I “spent my day doing”. The first activity is for Xxx. The second is for Xxxxxx. The third is for Xxxxxxx. Simply because every time I “release” I must release again for Xxxxxxx. After all, it is like a tumor that I can only remove the majority of each time.

Scalding hot and flaming white, I take this sphere and blow on it to cool it down. Then juggling it from hand to hand to avoid searing myself, I wrap this in pink chiffon and tie a pretty white ribbon around it. I grasp it with the full palm of my right hand and, winding up from my waist to my shoulder, I launch this sizzling sphere as hard and as far as my arms have the power to into the atmosphere. I watch it for as long as I can, until the sphere becomes a moving speck in the sky, hurtling up and up into the distance. I wait and I assume it has reached its destination in the clouds because I see a tiny burst of flame and sprinkles of debris. Then a magenta lightening bolt explodes into an array of warm colored daggers throughout the clouds coloring the immediate area with blinding streaks of light as it dissipates outward until the palest of the colors fade into the blurred white clouds. I stand there for a moment looking up at the sky. I feel satisfied. I will be patient now and wait for an indefinite amount of time, sometime into the future, until the energy I’ve released upwards may (hopefully) shower back down on me again in whatever form the Universe decides to re-introduce it.

I am at the beach. The sand is cool and soft and I sink in with every step I take. The texture is refreshing and reassuring. I walk as close to the water as possible without having my feet touch it. I don’t want to be submerged in any way. I take out this sphere. It is white, solid but fragile. It is also very clean. I take out a rag and wipe it down quickly once more. I wrap this in white chiffon and tie it with a white ribbon. I place my right foot back, and grasping this sphere in my right hand, I exhale with one strong thrust of my right arm as I skip it into the ocean. It goes pretty far, with a good speed and skips once then sinks into the water. I watch through the ripples. A large wave comes. It has disappeared from sight. I see no signs of this sphere at all. I wait for a moment. Acknowledging that it must be sinking and drifting farther and farther away, I silently hope that the energy in this sphere will slowly dissolve and work its way through the waters, travelling to wherever it is most appropriate before surfacing again and evaporating into the Universe.

I am at an apple orchard. I walk through rows of apple trees until I find a few trees with powerful looking trunks and roots that appear to be buried in dense, healthy mounds of the earth. I take out this sphere that has been heavily weighing down my pocket. I use both hands to handle it. This is a gold sphere, solid, dense and heavy. It gleams. I wrap this in red chiffon and tie it with white ribbon. I set this down carefully beside me, squatting down to place it on the ground. I remembered to bring a heavy duty shovel. I shovel for close to two hours. I look down at the well I’ve created. It looks ominous as I peer over the edge. I take a step back to steady myself. As ominous as it is, it also has a slightly comforting feel, with the consistent dark brown color of dirt. I walk over to the sphere. Using both hands again I carry it over to the well I’ve dug. I inhale deeply, then exhale slowly and let both hands go, dropping this sphere into the hole. There is a distinct THUD as it hits the bottom. It sways back and forth a bit and, as I suspected might happen, the weight and impact of it causes the sphere to fall right through what I thought was the bottom of the hole. It disappears into darkness. I have released this energy before. It has come back time and again. At this point in my life, the energy has grown and consolidated into the substance that lives in that gold sphere. I am saddened that I have released it yet again, since it has grown into such a large mass. I am immediately overcome with sadness and heartache. But as I kneel over the edge, straining my eyes to see into the darkness at the bottom of this well. I receive some comfort. We are bound to the earth. Good things come from the earth. I have released so much energy into the earth within that gold sphere that I know it will eventually seep out slowly. The energy will rise, latching on to the roots of all things that grow beneath our feet. It will make its way back up to land once more. And so, my last hope as I kneel here, is that the new form of this energy will be something positive and nourishing for all to benefit from.

Distance Hurdler

I am by nature, more of a selfish person than I’d like to be but, I do freely admit it. My selfishness has served me well in certain areas and not so well in others. I am also a firm believer in the fact that God places obstacles in our path again and again until we finally learn the lessons that we are meant to learn. That being said, I know for certain that God has placed you in my path or better yet, led me to you for a myriad of reasons but mostly, to rid me of my selfish ways. Or at the very least, mitigate them before they consume me.

Some lessons are simpler and easy to learn. The people who embody these types of more feasible lessons are the ones who come and go, in and out of our lives because they’ve served their purposes and we’ve learned our lessons then parted ways for the better. Then there are the lessons that take no less than a lifetime to teach. You are one of them.

I believe the lesson here is tri-fold – to love someone truly (without contingencies); wholly (including every flaw, major and minute); and selflessly (giving with every fiber of my being without consequence). I believe that until I master this type of selflessness, which of course cannot be done until I master a higher form of patience, I will never be rid of you. And I know this because, until I learn to act selflessly, I will never want to be rid of you. I will always want you – physically, emotionally, intellectually because I believe that you represent all of the things that I cannot grow to be on my own.

And there lies the ultimate lesson to be deciphered and absorbed in all of its complexity – To be rewarded by receiving nothing. To be become less selfish, I will need to give selflessly to another. The more of me I give away, the stronger I will become – bare-boned and free of distracting entanglements – stronger with less.

So if this is the lesson I am meant to learn then perhaps I have not quite learned it yet. Or perhaps, I am just not done loving you

Wild and Free, Planted and Blooming

We drove from Raleigh through Wilmington, towards Carolina Beach, and we often slowed to observe several cars who had pulled over on the shoulder of the highway to take photos in and around mile long stretches of gorgeous wildflowers. We couldn’t figure out if this stunning, unexpected and seemingly misplaced floral scene was the result of a seed bombing at a nature lover’s whim, or if they might have been strategically planted there to improve roadway aesthetics.

Either way, only one thing was for certain – None of these beautiful living organisms chose to be planted there and they didn’t have a say otherwise. What they did do, was bloom brilliantly right where they were planted regardless of circumstance. And they did one hell of a job at it.

I have no petals, but I recognize that there is an important lesson to be learned here.

F’d Up and Beautiful

I squinted into the sunlight and the white hot glare illuminated a smidgeon of filth in the upper left corner of my left lens. Without thinking, I removed my glasses before crossing the street to polish them when the sound of a truck horn startled me and I dropped them into the street. Bad move. In a panic, and bordering legal blindness, I reached out with both hands in front and took a step forward. The devastating crunch beneath my feet sealed my fate for the day. Stepping backwards in a blur that frenzied me in my world without sight, I bent down to pick up the remnants of the sleek titanium frames and minimal glass that gave the gift of vision. Before placing the salvaged seeing tool back on the bridge of my nose, I caught a beautiful image with its beauty ironically enhanced ever more by my lack of sight: a torrent of red silk fleeing across in front of me, fabric flapping in the wind and what sounded like delicate stiletto heels slamming into pavement. I barely made out the image of a female, distinguishable only by her frail, outlined curves, crowned by a massive wave of billowing blond hair. Unusual and out of place, her presence was not only confusing but highly intriguing as her escape was captioned by a muffled, helpless sob pre-empting some sense of danger and distress in hot pursuit of her red silk and stilettos.

The suspense was thrilling in my blindness and as I whipped my head around to follow the blond hair trailing her body I was gripped with excitement – without sight, my imagination heightened and I strained my eyes to construct what I could not, in reality, actually see: a grisly day time crime scene unfolding; a dystopian fairytale; a story book character who tore herself out of a commuter’s contemporary novel to chase down her love who may have been written to death to soon. Awed completely by the out-of-ordinary and my unseeing eyes, I looked around and wondered in amazement if no one else had been caught in this dizzying denouement of some stranger’s story. Fiction or non-fiction, we’ll never know.

I realized at once, breathing heavily and gaping after the path blazed by my alleged heroine/refugee, I was still on the same street corner holding my ruined glasses, in my painstakingly ordinary pencil skirt and button down, with nowhere to flee but my 15th floor office, no more a damsel in distress than the next corporate climbing, status seeking urbanite. As I made out twinkling green traffic lights ahead, I put my glasses back on and as though the science of optometry hadn’t delivered me beyond and back today, I watched the world pass by through cracked lenses, my new kaleidoscope face-gear, and silently marveled at it all. So fucked up and beautiful as it was, on a scorching, humid day in the city.

Related articles

• Beauty goes against you! Dealing with it (sellinginstilletos.wordpress.com)
• Wings of Fate.Prologue (sarahsfate.wordpress.com)
• Those Neon Colors of the 60′s (thebestinvintage.wordpress.com)

Starving in the Dark

Our clams on the half shell were a soft fleshy pink, inviting dinner guests to slurp them down greedily one by one. Waiters at Carmine’s NYC had filled our carafes of Malbec and Riesling twice over before we even received our entrees. At the end of the table the men were mischievously snickering amongst themselves and in front of me my best friend doubled over in painful laughter at the girls’ slapstick comedy, much of which I eagerly participated in. It is surprisingly easy to participate by proxy, after I’ve temporarily vacated my body and sit beside myself fidgeting uneasily, confused and annoyed with my confliction. I must have looked back at myself, and wondered, “What are you wasting this moment for you miserable fool?” and re-entered the vessel that was my body to continue being tickled by the highly inappropriate jokes which were so typical of us. After a reunion weekend filled with friends, decades old and months old, enjoying feasts and drinks in total merriment, I was empty inside. In the midst of laughter and hugs, shared jokes and affection, I was anxious and inexplicably disturbed.  My love for those around me battled my weakness for surrendering to the meaninglessness of it all. Alone in the bubble of love surrounding me, I felt like a skeleton, stripped of my vital parts that gave me hope, happiness love and ambition. What was happening and why? I prayed for sleep so my subconscious may answer. . .

It happened again. For the fourth or fifth time in weeks, I dreamt about my front door being left wide open after I repeatedly went back to shut it and bolt the locks. In my dream this happens in all of the houses/apartments I have known: my very first house, my last house, my beach house, my current apartment etc. It begins by me coming home and locking the door. After a series of events unfold I am shocked to find my front door is not only unlocked but wide open again to the world. This, in addition to a variety of seemingly unintelligible dreams, plagued my rest.

Despite my recent, determined quest to accept and become positivity, I find myself tripping over residual tangles of negativity ambushing me like a spider’s web. Bouts of negative feelings drown me under shame, anger, hatred and disgust. Caught in the moment, these feelings multiply like a virus rising from dormancy.  Birthed from regret and failure, they settle deep as failure always does. . .  I am dreaming again. In my dream, I wake up to find my body and my room just as I had left it, having fallen asleep fully clothed with all the lights on. In my dreamy present, I get up to turn off the lights and crawl back into bed when I notice my bathroom door closed with light streaming through, beneath the door. Immediately infuriated over my personal space being violated by an unidentified person inside my apartment, I storm over to bang on the door and demand identification. The door opens and through the shower steam walks my loathed and insufferable former boyfriend. The sight of him enrages me so that surely all my vital organs are boiling in blood. After verbally assaulting him to my capacity and satisfaction I wait half a millisecond for his response before he looks at me, emotionless, almost subhuman and says in an empty voice, “I’m leaving now.” With that, he calmly walks out of my bathroom with uncharacteristic stability and through my front door which he shuts behind him. I finally wake up to reality and know that a good thing has just happened.

I was puzzled, after almost two years of separation, as to why I remained diseased with these emotional ailments. I meditated, sought advice from every source and wondered how I still harbored so much resentment and repulsion. Not one ounce of me regrets departing from this former relationship but I regret intentionally inhibiting my intuition when I needed to trust in it most. I needed to forgive myself. After this twinkling in my thoughts, I began the process of expulsion. My dream confirmed that with forgiveness of my own shortcomings and oversights which snowballed into eventual disaster, I could cure the cancer of resentment consuming me and find release from torment. I could forgive him. Most importantly, I could forget him and all of that miserable time wasted. As my mind purged itself it actually allowed him to leave me in peace finally, as he did in my dream; a restful farewell to all punitive memories. And how succinct my dream was in its delivery: drawing up the image of him departing the most intimate realms of my mind, using my bathroom, the most private sector of anyone’s home, to symbolize the depths of personal invasion I felt (and cringed) from the thought of him.

Over the next few days, other long suffered (very long suffered) afflictions slowly began its evaporation. All of a sudden, on my couch one lazy evening after a grueling day of meetings and deadlines, the darkness left me. I felt it leave as I lay on my back dozing off. I was fully aware of its absolute absence around me. After having finished half a decade of mourning over a previous ill-fated and star-crossed love from my undergrad years, (yes, I understand how this may seem a running theme in my life) I’ve carried on with life and nurtured a void inside; a void left by a heart torn out of its cavity and the pulsing remnants cauterized.  During the same time I was planning escape from my recent debilitating relationship, I learned of my Unrequited and his new life with his new woman. No matter how adamantly I lived my own life, the thought of their presently and oh-so-perfectly shared happiness has always gouged open deep wounds that even cauterization could not prevent. However, after my small-scale, self-performed exorcism of my former boyfriend I felt (most miraculously) freed of the chains which bound me to this other man as well; the one big love of my life thus far, who was bigger than life. Without realizing what was happening, I  was able to bear the thought of him without the aching and think back fondly of our time together. I was suddenly happy and grateful for having spent years of my life with my Unrequited. It happened and I was there. I was the one he turned to during those times and I was the one he shared much laughter with. I turned this over and over in head, wondering if I was lying to myself, persuading myself or, growing.

It seems my suffering always departs instantaneously, unexpectedly, all at once just as an epiphany would arrive. It wasn’t even until the darkness left that I realized how much light there is now. Light that I did not miss before because I was so convinced this darkness would be finite for me. Retrospectively it makes sense as I realized I had been thinking myself into migraines over current circumstances and rationalizing what didn’t need to be, or couldn’t be rationalized, trying to relate, trying to fit love, life and all its complications into equations of math and science. I was left stunned for a bit in disbelief, suspended in between, vulnerable still, since a certain amount of pain will always be present in memory, sore when probed, and hardened over years into a jagged scar but, around this bend, I am no longer left open to the fear that my wounds may bleed at the slightest disturbance. I am open for healing this time, not for hurting. Aches and pains come along with healing, this goes without saying but, we all know the road to healing is a good one though not an easy one.

Remembering the recurring dreams of my front door agape, I wondered if it was a foreshadowing to this entire therapeutic process. The dreams, as I recall, are not menacing but quite perplexing as I overcome the shock of seeing the privacy of my home displayed through my open front door. I felt naked, unprotected and scared. No malignant force ever enters though, and I always stand there in confusion staring into the openness before I reach out to lock it again. Could it be that rather than being afraid of any evils walking in to terrorize me I should instead be contemplating walking through it and arriving on the outside victorious? Perhaps my front door is persuading me, inviting me to step outside and greet the world with a new face instead of rejecting its offer and hiding inside behind locked doors where I feel safe to nourish my woes. Perhaps.

Surviving these past years of turbulence and decadence, my heart must have revived itself from wreckage, first as a tiny ember, burning dull beneath the ashes left by a barrage adversity and then to a sprout, then a bud, and now leaves and a petal have sprung. The positivity inside me that was fully defeated over the years but never vanquished, whispered first then spoke and hummed itself into a song that sang and sang and sang until its echoes reached my ears and bellowed into my head, purging the darkness out of me with its voice. Just as one can never ever kill truth no matter how many times you shoot it down, you can never vanquish hope for survival or deserved happiness. It needs only the slightest sprinkle of desire, a tiny, tiny idea of survival before it incubates a fully armed legion deep within you to rescue yourself from your plight. I had prayed for darkness to leave me and the darkness left with the hope of my conscious and the help of my subconscious. Light always prevails over darkness but, you have to find the light switch buried leagues beneath your subconscious and you have to want to find it and you have to want to survive, three times as strong in your survival, after you’ve built up your immunity and intuition. I remind myself constantly that it always gets much, much worse before it gets better – like an infection of any sort, but such is life. With this on my mind I won’t even think into the future. For now I’m going to enjoy this moment (and hopefully more moments) absent of darkness, listening acutely to my dreams.

Related articles

• Strange Dream (peace4me521.wordpress.com)
• Can You Please Interpret My Dream? (socyberty.com)
• New day, new lessons (karunamettacat.wordpress.com)
• Why do we dream? (swetharamkumar.wordpress.com)
• My Dream (mizkuukua.wordpress.com)

So Brave And New

I left his apartment and it was still drizzling. I looked for a cab, slightly annoyed but determined. Me, the perpetual commuter, always en route: new destination, home base, spontaneous adventure, dutiful visits, home base, next destination, etc.

Spring is playing hard to catch and I’m just sick of it. I march on everyday stubbornly in my colorful palate of spring skirts, jackets and accessories in rebellion of the gloom, rain and cold hoping to seduce the sun. The same time last year, flowers were in full bloom and outdoor patios for bars and restaurants were buzzing with life and excitement for even warmer months ahead. I’m not sure who to blame for this year’s lack of re-birth. The recent tsunamis? The patterns of global earthquakes? Has our atmosphere abandoned celebration of the changing seasons? This concerns me but I am not shaken. I am working on trying not to place blame.

I get into the cab and order them to my neighborhood over the 59th Street Bridge. On little sleep but, satisfied after a long night of fun and conversation, I decided to take this cab ride as a mental prep for the day ahead of me. Another mundane day in this life which has become stagnant but, this day just as any day, could be the beginning of the rest of it all. We cross Times Square and I wince at the thought of rushing back here for my morning meeting in less than two hours. The deli workers and breakfast shops are well into their day, moving effortlessly through the early morning mist. A little Jewish boy adorned with yamaka and all, was blowing bubbles at an intersection. (He might have belonged to one of the deli workers.) After each large bubble he blew he screamed, “GOODBYE, I LOVE YOU!” And repeated this happily. He too, understood transcendence at this early age.

We drive past Will Ryman’s larger than life flower sculptures scattered across Park Avenue uptown and this electrifies me inside. The size and ardor of Ryman’s roses rising into the city fog halted me for a minute and suspended me in my dreamlike state as I was transported between my present and my future in a New York City cab. I tried to roll down the windows and snap a picture but the lights changed and I wished it goodbye and thought, I love you.  I intend to visit these roses again.

Will Ryman Roses Sculpture from Paul Kasmin Gallery Website

Melting back into my thoughts I felt the churning again. For a long time now, I’ve felt a deep, powerful churning within the pit of my stomach that radiated outwards to my bones until my entire body was trembling and begging for metamorphosis. The process continues and the evolution will be steady and paced, I’m sure, but inevitable. This yearning has manifested itself upwards towards my thoughts and outwards in my speech until every action and opinion of mine projected large dosages of transformation unto the world around me; changing my perspectives on routine, hobbies, people, diet, destinations, ideas. A steel rose blossoming from a concrete garden; my world is changing.

I had a nightmare the night before.  I was among my best girlfriends and all of a sudden, as I stood a dumbfounded bystander, a massive assault ensued as each one wielded a weapon and preyed on the next. The victim would die and to my bewilderment, before I could digest the trauma they came back to life and continued to pursue whoever was still standing. Now if you ask them they might find this hysterical coming from my mind that they know so well but, of course to outsiders this insinuates a twisted, violent subconscious at bay. In my defense, after reflecting on it consciously, I realized the randomness of the massacre was formed by my mind trying to grab at anything it could to interpret what lay heavy on my shoulders each day behind layers of distraction: impending change.

“Paleomammalian” – Lost within my own depths. Pastel by Margaret Wang

At this point in our lives, our days were ripe with engagements, weddings, pregnancies and new families. Massive changes were taking place in our midst and as intertwined as our lives were, one friend’s life change affected each of us and we were all moving forward en masse, closing chapters of our friendship behind us and letting us each grow into the next chapter, together. Hence the systematic “killing” of each other and the people we once were, to the reincarnation of each and their newfound paths. This, coupled with my deep sense of unrest confirmed my readiness to tear down all that I knew and rebuild from ashes. Successful change results from sacrificing ways of life you have always known. As a Scorpio and a master of adaptation, I was ready for the challenge. Rise, Phoenix, rise.

"Phoenix" - Reborn from ashes. Pastel by Margaret Wang

After these recent years spent living for reaction, living for someone, living to fall into something whether it be love, wealth, happiness or stardom, I’ve realized with sadness (but empowerment) that these were years lost and along with the years were all the identities I had assumed until now. I am no longer an undergrad, a dancer, a sorority sister, a girlfriend or whatever else I once proclaimed so confidently. But I recognize this as the perfect opportunity for me to shed the shells of these images like old scabs and be reborn in an amplified form of myself. (Recognition is an understated and powerful weapon in life.) For this, I am very excited. Massive, determined action executed with conviction will surely propel me forward. I’ll take any path as long as it’s a new path and I will carry my vulnerabilities within me.

How will I keep composure with my weaknesses embraced, you wonder? I will examine myself closely; physically and psychologically. I will know all of my strengths and shortcomings. I will admit them to the world and be free of judgment and vanity. And if I should waver, I will pray: Dear Lord I pray, these three things you’ll take away, my envy, doubt and fear so I may gain peace and insight here, in the darkness and underwater, to think freely, breathe deeply, walk slowly, live surely again. Amen. Like a house, I will build first then fill the rooms. With the right pieces adorning the insides and outsides, hopefully I will attract the right energies and people who will admire it. If I ask I shall receive, and if I believe my dreams will be conceived.

Looking back, in the darker times of my 26 years, I desperately searched for light, no matter how dull or small the beams were. It wasn’t until I learned (rather recently) that in those times I was the light, filled with light, made of light that I was delivered from my fear and doubt. Life begins again slowly, blossoms surely and everything everywhere now is brand new once more. I got out of the cab and walked up to my apartment. I still need to confirm my 9:15 meeting on this wretched work day. I will lead with my best pedicured foot forward and march towards my deliverance in my finest metallic italian leather stilettos.

Spring Heels. . .blossoming.

Related articles

• The Roses on Park Avenue by Will Ryman (laughingsquid.com)
• Park Avenue Flowers (homedesign.marthastewart.com)
• explaining ‘Brave to Be’ (callendrellist.wordpress.com)

42 Charles Street

When I was young, our first house was a solid, stoic colonial built in the 1930’s. It was cozy and comfortably worn in and it’s walls held decades of secrets. I liked to imagine that if I pressed my ears up against them I could hear all the family stories of generations past. This house, unlike our others, was a happy one and I was sure everyone inside it before our arrival was happy too. The house loved me and cradled me like a grandparent would.

My bedroom had a window that faced east and it was all too easy to dream of laughter before the sun light reached in to curl its fingers around me every morning. My favorite thing about our house was its location. The railroad was outside my window, behind our house. I pictured the disappointment and perplexity of the families back then, as they were constructing this railroad, horrified at the noise pollution and the introduction of metal, electric and speed throughout this potato farming town. But I loved it. Absolutely loved it. Each day, at all hours, I could be reminded that I was never alone. There were always people travelling to and from, with places to go and people to see, for business, pleasure, love and adventure. And I was lulled into a deep sleep listening to the dulled roars of passing train cars, wondering what kinds of people were inside and where they were headed.

Memories of that house are a pure sensory awakening. When I close my eyes and let the visuals multiply against each other, I begin to smell our miniature maple tree, hear the cicadas’ vibrato and the deep bass of the firehouse horn bellowing humbly, calling the town’s volunteers to an emergency. It was a small town but it was vibrantly alive in its roots, with its residents and establishments like the tree rings of a redwood.

It was also here that I acquired some of my favorite lifelong hobbies. I “people-watched” for hours and hours, while walking to and from school, sitting in my front yard, sitting in my backyard or even up from above through my bedroom window. I watched everyone I could and hypothesized on their circumstances in life. I then began to recognize them throughout the town in stores, restaurants, parks etc. I took note of every part of their life if I recognized their face and I remembered them and interpreted them. An odd hobby for a pre-teen child to have but, it was filled with mystery, intrigue and suspense. I learned who people were and how they conducted their day and in this way, I formed my own perspectives on the world, as large and as brand new as the world was in the eyes of an 8 year old child.

When we left that town and our house, my childhood stayed with it. If you peek through the windows now, you may still see shadows of my brother and I romping around inside. And within my memories, it is always sunny outside and the house is always warm inside. Maybe the innocence of our spirits illuminated the property while the unbroken ties then, and constant home cooking during those years, warmed the wooden beams. There was much laughter, with occasional chaos, and perhaps just the right amount of insanity for the sane.

For years afterwards I would have recurring dreams where that old house made its appearance reliably, night after night, each time displaying a different scene of my early life locked away inside its doors. Those doors, which held years of Me, would open and my subconscious probed, toured and breathed in an old life.  However, unlike my conscious memories, dreams by my subconscious were quite the polar opposite. The house appeared against darkness and the inside had a coldness that descended and settled as goose bumps on my skin. Often these recurring dreams consisted of me, at any given age, stumbling upon the doorsteps whether by intent or accident and entering only to find overwhelming emptiness and a sense of detachment even in the most intimate rooms.

The loneliness I felt in this estranged shelter within my dreams inhabited itself deep in my bones. I almost always felt betrayal first; betrayal or abandonment but, who or what was it really, that abandoned me? Betrayal by my own hands for losing those times that I loved within this house, and then abandonment by love in general. . .  Since our departure from there, it was difficult to find and feel that familiar, genuine love of something, someone or some place as I hiked onward towards adulthood.

The emptiness fed my fear of being alone, of being left behind or left outside and I carried these fears through adulthood. My senses of attachment and detachment were amplified and I built barriers around me. These barriers carried me through life so that I was in constant contact with the people and the world around me but they formed a comfortable pod so no one person or place could reach the fleshy insides, and I was prepared at any given moment to abort mission, cut ties and jump ship unharmed, to start over and begin anew in my pod. My pod was my survival. It was my nest of rebirth and solace from pain, a perpetual cocoon where I was always evolving, using hardship as a catalyst for metamorphosis.

Since those times, I have lived in three states, four houses, four apartments and none have felt like home. No shelter has been filled with my emotions and any temporary comforts have been wiped clean as I prepared for my next move. But I keep the old house with me and carry it through life so I may recognize that type of comfort and familiarity should it cross my path once again. Through the years I have taken to comparing the chapters of my life to my changing addresses, and realized that what I sought in life was reflected within the shelters I sought. My fantasy circumstance would be coming across a place of residence, no matter what corner of the world I’d find it, that “felt” right rather than swaying me in appearance. Within this type of place, I could park my pod and simply expand it. I would take everything I carried within this vehicle (as I’m sure by then it would be heavy and packed to the brim with physical and emotional valuables I’ve hoarded) and begin filling and forming until the walls of my pod stretched to meet and weld against the walls. Then out from within this pod would walk the people that I loved and the life that I’ve built. The pod I travelled with, evolving myself in over the years, would finally birth the climactic chapter; and the denouement – it would be as solid and stoic as any 1930’s colonial.

Related articles

• Starving in the Dark (stuckpigink.wordpress.com)
• A Writer’s Notebook: The Writer’s Toolbox, Protagonist Game (snoekbrown.wordpress.com)
• The Pain We’ll Never Know (hiwaychristian.wordpress.com)
• Wow, I Didn’t Remember We Had This….Opening Packed boxes (workthedream.wordpress.com)
• When Dreams Unfold (workthedream.wordpress.com)
• “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer (upsidedownbethlehem.wordpress.com)
• http://eof737.wordpress.com/2011/07/09/reflections-on-early-memories-intuition/

Beauty in Destruction and Rebirth

There is beauty in destruction; in fire, weapons, and war depending on how you view this type of passion. Destruction is necessary in order to regain balance. It is the imbalance of power which causes combat, whether with another party, within yourself or with a current circumstance you are compelled to rebel against. Sometimes you need to set it all on fire, watch it burn and emerge in the purest form of yourself, after all the afflictions have boiled away. The negativity of destruction depends upon its final outcome: some wreak havoc to breed havoc, some wreak havoc to rebuild, and there is nothing more noble than rebuilding from ashes. Those who fail to see beauty in destruction are blind to beauty in its’ various forms and are therefore blind to the future.

Project Domestication: The Different Woman

For years my culinary resume consisted of the likes of grilled cheese, cereal, french toast and ramen. You better believe it: I could pour a mean bowl of cereal. I was never quite the chef in the kitchen as much as I was a glutton in the kitchen. Despite my protesting, my girlfriends who practically departed the womb adorned with aprons and bearing spatulas have continued to encourage me, persuade me, and beg me to tap into the domestic sphere of my brain for my own betterment. As I’ve come to realize, there are certain things I lack a solid grasp on. These subjects are: math, science and domesticity. My brain refuses to connect the dots when faced with projects of, or pertaining to, the above. Is it true that no righteous man would wed a woman lacking in these areas? Is there not more they can look to for confirmation that they have a competent and faithful wife? Must my cooking skills and cleaning abilities be equated with my intellect, strengths and faithfulness as a woman? In short, is there really a woman who perfectly embodies all the roles of housekeeper, career woman, mother and wife simultaneously? I dare say I don’t believe so. For some time, due to an unfortunate and unidentified chemical imbalance in my brain, I dated a man who was really a 3 year old trapped in the body of a 6’4, brutish caveman with stunted mental developments. In my vulnerable state, recovering from the aftermath of a 9.8 on the romance Richter, I blindly walked into this new relationship hoping that it would heal me and nurture my growth. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. But anyhow, in the interim, as I carried on blissfully ignorant to the landmines that lay ahead, I suddenly thought, why don’t I give this domestication gig a try? I had a guinea pig and as his weekly visits increased from 2 days a week to 4, he began depending on me for nourishment as well.

As he lumbered about my studio apartment, reminding me every minute of how oppressing this relationship was becoming, I began to distract myself from his insolence by experimenting on new dishes. I refused recipes emailed by my girlfriends and boycotted cookbooks. If I was going to try this I was going to do it on my own terms armed with imagination and gusto. I started with salads, then appetizers and graduated to a few pasta and fish entrees. Couscous concoctions were plated with stuffed avocado halves, I placed my own spin on baked tilapia, tested different marinades on grilled salmon, and even experimented with a few homemade sauces after I grew tired of several variations of sausage, peppers and onions. What I learned was that my creativity and innovation did in fact carry over into my culinary adventures. I viewed this endeavor as an experiment just as we did with science projects in grade school. I also learned that when executed under my own conditions, cooking became a past time with an enjoyable amount of challenge.

After a few weeks of this, realization began to creep. Dish washing began to feel laborious. The studio began to stink of oils, spices and grease. I began to feel like a plantation slave in front of the heat of the stove. It was clear: I had not needed cooking as a new hobby at all; I was only seeking refuge from the unavoidable. I needed out. I needed a new life, a new perspective and freedom from my rotting, dead end relationship. Not a distraction from it. And with that, it was over. I kicked him out of my apartment and threw some tupperware after him, packing up the last of the tuna salad I whipped up for the next day’s lunch. By crushing my spirit and nearly murdering the person I was inside, he forced me to channel my energy towards things that I felt I still could control. And with that, I sought structure, discipline and tradition which was what led me towards Project Domestication. With new life breathed into me and the rotten boyfriend and leftovers discarded, I got my mojo back.

Having closed the chapter on my brief detour into the world of condiments and basters, I wondered: have the women in my life been encouraging me to excel in one area of womanhood over others? Or were they instilling in me the need to become a “better” woman? If so, is there a standard of domesticity to be met which qualifies me as a successful woman? Why do they believe such things and furthermore, why don’t I? Am I defective because I don’t find baking a peaceful past time? Am I less intelligent because I don’t collect recipes? Though I’ve always been quite content with my hobbies of consistently sharpening my talents; nurturing my mind, body and soul; maintaining a stellar closet; and ensuring that my hair, skin and nails are always photo ready, I can’t help but wonder if these ‘other’ women believe that I am less of a female for not adhering to their planes of thought and not feeling enlightened by such a lifestyle. After surrendering with my defeated spirit and playing house for those miserable 10 months in what seemed like an alternate reality for me, I’ve concluded that unless you are a female with a self made empire who can come home from the office, enthusiastic to cook a five star meal, 7 days a week while dashing back and forth in Louboutins, still fully accessorized in your Chanel suit and be able to clean the house after your family is fed and wake up each morning with radiance glowing through your skin, then I do not envy or admire you nor do I find your perspective on the necessities of domestication to be substantial. However, if you are such a woman then I bow to you for your praise worthy skills in time management and your zest for life. What I am guessing is that women who look at me pitifully for not being eager to dream up a good meal to put on the table are also women who don’t dream big; beyond the motherhood and housewife career. I don’t have babies in cradles and cleaning products dancing around my daydream bubbles, I have dollar signs in bank accounts and my own personal freedom instead. Perhaps it is a difference in dreams then? Would life for my husband and children be any less comfortable if a chef were cooking and a housemaid were cleaning? No, I think life would be quite comfortable, if not more, if I were able to provide these services and ensure a golden lifestyle for my family. Hence why my dreams have always been to build a solid financial foundation rather than a domestic foundation. Maybe happiness cannot be bought but domestication sure can. And it’s quite simple actually: you exploit your freedom, tap into your resources, build your empire, make your profits, pay for the services to keep your household clean and you will live happily, beautifully, wealthily and teach your children the importance of chasing happiness, independence and wealth rather than the importance of being on your hands and knees scraping away mediocrity and unsupported perceptions of female normality.

I would not be opposed to revisiting my cutlery and assuming a position in the kitchen once again but, it would have to be during a period where I have the luxury of taking up a new art form, where I can view kitchen capers as a study of gastronomy rather than a chore to toil away at. It would never hurt to birth a new talent but, for the majority of the time I’d much rather be enjoying the secrets of gourmet dining than creating it. As the ultimate minority in this day and age, a minority within race, gender and thought spheres, I can say that I am, and forever will be, a proud individual. I know this because no matter what society demands, and what the world becomes, there are three things I will never be afraid to admit: my ethnicity, gender and opinion.

With a naturally competitive spirit (while I may never convert my perspectives on domesticity and the female’s role to that of the more traditional or stringent perspectives of other females) I am not against improving myself, nurturing and broadening my skills to new found areas. I believe that growth is necessary in all aspects of life and I also believe that domesticity is currently an uncharted land for me to discover. Once charted, I would be able to customize this arena to my liking with my own personal style. There may be intriguing sides to domestication to be found, such as personalities like my inner Martha Stewart but, not because I have to and not because it will make me any more of a woman than I already am. If my blog survives my maternity, I don’t doubt that there will be many more entries to be chronicled. Stay tuned and in the meantime, keep a clean home and nice smelling kitchen.

Related articles

• Home training (justjoxy.wordpress.com)
• Domestic Me (ggiblog.wordpress.com)
• Star cook Nigella’s husband ‘prefers breakfast cereal’ (bbc.co.uk)
• Hay Festival 2011: How to Be a Domestic Goddess is an ‘important feminist tract’, says Nigella Lawson (telegraph.co.uk)
• So long as it’s not Pedigree Chum (stillnonethewiser.wordpress.com)
• Lily Allen living in domestic bliss, awww! (heatworld.com)