When wrong makes right?

Until a restless leaf flutters to the ground, it’s quiet. Instead of luscious green with lively veins exhaling oxygen into a suffocating world, it’s now cracked and dry. Yet even at its death, the burnt orange and raspberry color is stunning. Then my eye catches something else. I sit on the concrete bench at the Botanic Gardens. Today is my birthday.

Gravity beckons the fallen leaves, but like a salmon trying to span, I notice a monarch lifting herself up into the warm air. I wonder where she will go now the visitors hours have changed, the soil goes into hibernation and the once budding lilacs are crumpled and shriveled… I ache to throw the pitiful flowers into a garbage bag, or a gardener to haul them away.

A crisp breeze reminds me that the seventy degrees of perfect weather is a façade…. Soon the sun will set and the chill of any October past will awaken goose bumps that are Colorado. The bipolar state where ugly weather doesn’t just disappear; instantaneously, it becomes glorious. A morning thunderstorm of lightening and hail will flip into a cloudless afternoon where cocktails can be toasted on the patio swing.

And like all birthdays, this too shall pass and the reality of autumn; snowfall and frigid holidays are watching me sit here. And once the first snowflakes fall from the fluffy clouds, then too, the last leaves hanging onto the bare branches, with some dignity remaining, will turn to slush, and people will dust off ski gear.

Driving over here I received a phone call from someone I was very close with on my birthday last year. Oh to waddle twelve months ago and take stock of life. The portfolio of mistakes you paid the premium, and the luck you found dirt-cheap.

Most chapters, the years never have the luxury of completed endings, sure… there are photos glazed with smiling faces, some strangers, some close friends who’ve somehow over the years turned strangers again. There are the farewell fetes and the amicable breakups, the career paths which go rerouted, and the farewells to grandparents… the final kind of goodbye where you don’t get to hear anymore stories of your parents growing up, or advice from eight decades of mistakes and good decisions.

The butterfly lands next to me. I wonder if she knows I’m sitting here. I’d prefer to think that she does. That she has human thoughts, she is excited to unearth a human friend at the Botanic Gardens, because only the birds and the grasshoppers appear visit here nowadays. She sits with me, ready and eager to go down the long stretch ahead dubbed, “memory lane.”

Selling Heartbreak on Ebay!

How starving kids in Guantanamo can benefit from your heartbreak.

Two weeks ago in Dallas.

“Just throw it. Pretend it is a football. It was cheaper than a football anyway.” I encourage my Emma, my dearest childhood friend, who is clutching a cheap porcelain figurine like it’s the crown royal.

“Auna, that is harsh. It’s just so, so, I don’t know….” She stammers, racking her brain for any excuse not to heave the reminder off her balcony. Unearthing nothing…. She sighs exasperated by my persistence. So in order to get me to shut up, she arches her back, winds her arm… and from her third floor condo, hurls the colorful representation of a union-gone-wrong into the parking lot.

We both stare in disbelief as the ceramic pieces fly into the dark night. The sound of smashing startling us both…. She turns to me for reassurance that she wasn’t going to hell of this 90210-type activity. The silence of the broken memento below is purifying and my words are worthless. Her face had transformed from traumatized to empowered. The simple act of destroying something into smithereens reignited vigor, a first step toward dismantling the pain her ex heaved on her two weeks ago. There is something so liberating when something is so busted, that there is no way you can glue or tape it back together. So instead, you pick the broken pieces up off the tarmac and throw them in a garbage bin, knowing they’ll be hauled off to some compound far far away.

Wet mascara is smudged and her nose is runny, but we walk back inside where a large cardboard box packed few of stuff is staring at us, mocking us, daring us to do something totally crazy with its contents. There is a gold necklace, a pair of diamond earrings…. A bracelet from Tiffany’s, and then the books, movies and ticket stubs that occupied Saturday nights. And finally our eyes fall on the framed sketch of her beloved asshole displayed prominently on the table…. But I remind her that luckily that “stuff” doesn’t include mortgages and children and a lawyer.

“I have an idea.” I say, thrilled that my physics has taught me Newton’s principle of energy; it cannot be created or destroyed, but simply converted.

She holds up a ‘Learn Hindi’ DVD in one hand and the diamond earrings in the other, “Seriously, what am I supposed to do? It’d be bad juju to hand this stuff off to my friends. Who’d want it anyway? I feel bad, it was all so, so expensive.” She explains, staring longingly at a pink silk nightie on the on the chair.

“Where are you scissors?” I demand.
“In the top drawer in the kitchen.” She replies, confused.
I grab the pink nightie, “Cut it.”
“What?” She shrieks! “Are you crazy.”
“Clearly. Come on. You know it’s good for you.” Sometimes tough love is necessary.

With a newfound sense of confidence, she begins at the delicate lace, until all that is left is tattered, unrecognizable silk with a la perla label hanging limp. She gropes the leftovers to her chest like it’s some meowing kitten.”

“Garbage bin.” I point.

Next, the jewelry, pulling out my digital camera I hold up the weighty Tiffany’s bracelet, “Do you still have the box for this? It is always better to have it look as new as possible.”

Tears begin rolling down her tender freckled cheeks. I wasn’t being very sensitive. The reality of removing each memory piece-by-piece from her apartment was slowly hitting her. The “getting over” a relationship is sometimes more painful than the breakup itself.

Hell, I hadn’t fallen in love is so many years; I forgot how impossible it is to try and climb out.

I hand her a tissue and pat the space next to me on her white leather couch, “Okay, let’s take a break.”

Weeping, she sniffles “Sometimes I don’t know how I didn’t see it coming. But all the romantic dinners, the flowers, bringing my family champagne, it was blinding. And now a year of my life is gone.” She snaps her fingers, “Signora.”

I’m at a loss. Mostly because I agree with her, I’m baffled how she didn’t detect, or foresee this nightmare from unfolding? She is an engineer. She is logical and doesn’t hurt people. So how someone could cheat on such a kindred soul is beyond me. But this guy managed to not only cheat on her, but he led her to believe that he wouldn’t do it again. Then, did it again. This isn’t something about male bashing, but more about analyzing cheaters and their behavior in general. Are we genetically wired to be either the “good” or the “bad” guy, or can good people do bad things?

But what about the good people who just get screwed over? Are they at fault because they fell victim to something they believed was perfect? I just can’t reconcile it – I mean Emma, she defies innocent and has been abandoned, baffled as to what she did wrong and emotionally crippled. I wanted to rip his head off. But since I didn’t have access to a rifle, nor had access to his address, I decided the best way to retaliate would be to auction off the “loot”.

I begin explaining, “We’re going upload the photos of the jewelry on ebay. And then we’ll sell it to the highest bidders.”
“Wait, wait.” She starts to interrupt me.

I hold up my hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You feel guilty selling this stuff, plus you think the money has nasty karma attached to it.”

She nods.

I continue, “So that’s why you’re going to a choose a charity and we’ll donate the proceeds. For instance, those diamond earrings, easily a caret each, well those will go for at least $1000. Some woman in Detroit will be ecstatic for the deal she scored, and some starving kids in Africa will eat for the next few months.”

Starting to understand the methodology, she is mentally calculating how much she could accrue from the jewelry, but her eyes rest on the earrings a little too longingly for her to be 100% game for this exercise.

She needed more convincing, “And even more important than the malnourished children and the stranger in Idaho, you’ll be free of this stuff. You don’t want his dirty energy collecting dust in your jewelry box! I’m warning you: If you don’t throw the old stuff out, how will you have room for the new stuff that someone fabulous, someone even better, the next person will bring you? Let’s think of your jewelry box like your heart.”

I got serious, “How will you ever have space for the future, if you can’t let go of the past?”

“You can get too metaphorical.” She laughs.

“Yeah, but it’s the metaphors, all that esoteric BS that actually dictates our choices, our decisions, if we’re not emotionally engaged, invested in something bigger than that moment, than why should we care if someone cheats on us, or we made a mistake, or love anyone at all? If eventually hearts will get ripped out of chests. Then why bother?” I frame the rather hypothetically, curious as to what my little nerdy engineer will say.

“Because I don’t know…. I guess I want to believe that the right guy is out there and he hasn’t found me yet?” Smiling, clearly proud of her astute response, she whispered, “You haven’t seen the worst of it yet… he bought me this ridiculous dress. It’s heinous with sequins, some weird French designer, but guess what? The tag is still attached. Watch… we’ll make a fortune.”

Wonder Woman for the night?

“If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?" -Chuck Palahniuk

IDENTIFY THEFT

I’m jealous. Wow. It has taken me twenty-plus years to finally admit that I wish I had the guts, creativity, chutzpah to pull off that flawless, “no you didn’t” “that must have cost a fortune” Halloween thing, but I’m lazy. And I need to go to the gym. The days of leotard and spray-painted bras aren’t gone, but currently in hibernation along with anything smaller than a size 27.

The wooden bowl sitting by the door is empty except for a lone Reses’ Peanut butter cup, which I unwrap carefully and then nibble, the familiar taste that has quenched my sweet tooth for two plus decades melts on my tongue. Chocolate, like a Dave Matthews song, or a new poinsettia is this unyielding time capsule throwing me years away from this quiet moment.

Maybe I will opt for a sparkly mask with feathers and tell everyone my name is Zena, I’m from Ohio and I play professional Billiards for a living. Oh how fun it’d be to take Halloween to a new HBO or a reality TV level. I would reinvent myself. Lately, I’ve been listening to Kelly Howell meditation cds at night… she does manifestation visualizations of being calm, it is the non-narcotic approach to curb UOA (ak: under-organized over-achievers)… who systematically suffer the most with to do lists, mostly because we forget to write them. But why I bring her up: Her distinctly tantric (I say in a calm/mellow/yogi meaning) aids people into climbing into the “subconscious” layer of our cerebral craziness. Only to discover… hidden meanings, lost desires, secrets beyond… that might be the name of one of her audio cds actually.

Not to get too Freudian, but what about the costumes we’ve chosen? Or why we’ve chosen them? Are we fulfilling some childhood fantasy by pulling on an NBA jersey, or covering up those ten pounds we gained over autumn by cutting a pretend snowflake out of mom’s sheets?

I digress.

If so, what would I change? Like beyond Oct. 31…. Who would I want to come back as? Would I turn into a socially inept nerd, who subsisted in a sphere of dusty library books? Maybe a gym rat with the abs of granite, the skin tone of a tangerine. Or maybe a different version of me? A goblin, hamster, princess… shark? Halloween is this weird invention us, Americans, consumer driven and creative bunch we are…. As little kids we consider what we want when we grow up… simple costumes. Doctors, Firefighters, astronauts, you know the occasional golden retriever or witch here or there. But as we grow older we choose themes, or even situations (ak: A guy attacked by a shark), cultural inside jokes (____ in the box), or icons Marilyn Row or Jack the Reaper. And I got to ask myself, have I lived up to those 4th grade Gypsy expectations of myself or rather, have I exceeded them in some unidentifiable (and frankly immeasurable way).

Dying my hair brown was a weird in cognito act out of complete rebellion, but doesn’t quite cut it in terms of the overall renovations (albeit the common boob job) in which I’m referring a la moment.

The sky has gone from chilly to deserted… other than a few stars separating the blackness, I sit in silence on the porch swing at my parent’s home. My condo building downtown doesn’t entice the typical trick-or-treaters… more the normal homeless guys on the side of the road, looking for change instead of Snickers bars. Quasi-political incorrect, I know.

Tonight, there was no snow, so the little ballerinas needn’t need their parkas and snow boots. Children from two-years old to the adults who are staggering home awaiting Monday morning hangovers…. Halloween is this odd holiday, paving way for the real holidays… the days in which deserve calories and days off of work. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and Valentines… I include Valentines because let’s frankly say it, who doesn’t?

While it is easy to recollect your past through birthdays and trips, it is easy to identify through a space suit, or a “jack in the box” or a Steelers’ fan, or TV, or whatever you were that one Halloween where you happened to be the designated driver, or your costume fell apart, or you got stuck in a storm, or met the man of your dreams…. Or the night your best friend was arrested (yes, try Vegas ’07) or when you plain ol’ looked in the mirror and liked what you saw…. And honey, if you were impersonating a pinup girl circa 1950s then that is fabulous…. But I ask you to look in the mirror this Halloween and see who it is staring back? It’s surprising how much someone can learn about themselves through some face paint and Lycra, but to see us through the mask is rather revealing….

The bottom line. Halloween is a special holiday that allows us to draw upon situations and take stock of our lives. Birthdays, sure… but you can’t identify a year by a number, when it is so much easier to say, “the year of the gorilla suit.”

DEVIL's advocate....

God, Politics, Sports teams….

Those “American” things that either rip us apart, or bind us forever… but in reality, albeit Sunday morning church, Sunday afternoon football and what percentage of taxes come out of your paycheck, what gives?

Oh the internal struggle? Prayer, which plays in an integral part everyday for some. Does how we celebrate our GOD, recognize that omnipresent, omnipotent chunk of our decision making really even make a big different in the big scheme of things, or a difference at all? These are questions that ruminate, during the days compromised of phone calls and research, running errands and picking up food. When time is broken apart by being rear-ended or an unanticipated argument. Dissected by the unexpected departure of someone dear to our hearts, or the entry of new friend who haphazardly showed up, or a new baby. You can’t help but ask yourself. What are the prerequisites for a GOD to exist?

What has to happen in my life to believe that in all actuality it never really has belonged to me?

Do people change? Do they ever come to believing in something bigger than themselves? I asked a Christian why they’re so blatantly against atheists and his response was, “they believe in themselves, and that is just selfish.” But is it entirely selfish to believe that we control our own control fate, destiny, that is our individual responsibility to execute this life either with a robust appetite for color and travels, for deep and sentimental relationships, for emotions…. Without God can we fully experience sadness? I only wonder because if we’re truly a product of random molecules and our tear ducts manufacture those wet drops that are associated with emotion, and if emotion is simply a figment of our imagination, a visceral reaction to an emptiness, or some Freudian excuse?

Is there something worth being sad about if the afterlife is comprised of dirt and decomposition? And all that stuff referred to miracles are merely gibberish, coincidence at most, frivolity that is a waste of effort and ambition, and frankly, time?

There is something inherently liberating about living your life only believing yourself... that we're not all "one source of energy" we're "all brothers of Adam and Eve." That actually, what you see is what you get? What you understand is YOUR truth. You’re floating in this present moment, in the now, it is tangible and simple. There aren’t the Ten Commandments to untangle; there isn’t the spiritual journey to somehow aid us in the being unafraid of the “beyond”. To an atheist the end, is very simply game over. There is no judgment, no golden gates and with the possibility of heaven, also arrives the possibility you’ll spend eternity with Sisyphus …. Seems rather monotonous, miserable? And completely illogical.

And what is there to do with the obvious sinners… those who commit abhorrent, devastating and insane crimes, the schizophrenic sinners, who are 100% convinced that their kamikaze ways are in fact sacrificial, an appeasement to their higher being, then what? Then you’ve got the evangelicals, the crusades, and the holocaust. And then the countless periods in history, some so horrific they’re left out of social studies textbooks when religion screwed many of a minority.

There is nature, intricate and delicate flowers…. The weather, powerful hurricanes and tornadoes, you’ve got cancer survivors and innocent children who’ve been ruthlessly murdered. There are the ways of the pagan, the “spiritual seeker”… all the hybrids, the in-betweens who while legitimate still cannot answer the one-answer humans have questioned:

IF you strip GOD of the Koran, Bible, the Torah and every other religious text that is the acclaimed guidebook for the future of humanity beyond planet earth…. You can’t help but wonder what’s left?

Redeye: Denver to Boston...

Month seven on crutches, two months out of the hospital. I was finally allowed to travel.

I apologized to the blond, balding security officer for my overstuffed bag; he was unfazed by the magazines, un-capped lipstick and sticky receipts. But his jaw dropped when he reached the clear zipper bag. This was where I kept my orange bottles of prescriptions, fourteen in total.

Each night I’d brush my teeth, standing like a flamingo on my one leg, since the other leg was defective. With a large glass of water I’d start left to right, slowly swallowing each pill. The color and texture and the after taste reminding me exactly what was wrong. I’d try to distract myself by reading the directions on my mouthwash, but the red pill never failed to remind me of my stomach problems or the white that my blood platelets weren’t high enough, or the yellow that I had premature arthritis.

Crutches are great, but the real hookups were when I was in a wheelchair. My friends took me to a Dave Matthews concert and we were led to the front row. We relished the sweat and the spit of his guitarists. There are the bonuses, like parking in a handicap spot and not feeling guilty. But that’s where they ended.

After getting off the train and making my way to the gate, I had forgotten that handicap people board last. There is a woman quietly sitting in a wheel chair a few feet away from me. Around fifty, her chair was beaten up, with a fanny pack slung around her waist. I collapsed next to her. She said hello and we chatted for a few minutes before the flight attendant waved to both of us, signaling that it was our turn to board.

I took a deep breath prepared to grin and bear the wrath of the punctual travelers, as I was the habitually late, always the last to board. But when my eyes met those belonging to the passengers around me, there was no irritation; instead I was greeted with sympathy.

I had the entire first row to myself, so quickly fell into a deep, vicodin-induced slumber. Until Mr. Charisma showed up.

Mr. Charisma nodded, then took the remaining gulp of his cocktail. “Born in 1981 with two older siblings and Republican parents. They’re decent folks, I promise. They bought me GI-Joe. The boys would rip off their head and slingshot the figurines at the girls during recess. I preferred to dress GI-Joe in my sister’s Barbie clothes.

Pausing to catch his breath, he continued. “Football season in 7th grade, I was the quarterback, great hand-eye coordination, but when Blake Mainer hiked the ball, it hit me in the face. I was too busy staring at his delectable ass. So I had to quit. Imagine facing sexy boys in the locker room everyday? But it wasn’t until my second year in college that I officially came out of the closet. My parents called it a phase, a stage, an act of rebellion; my father was ashamed that I was his son. So I packed up a U-Haul and moved to Colorado, where nobody could remember me as straight.”

“So you’re gay and your parents won’t accept it?” Spilled out of my mouth before I could suck it back in.

“100% tried and true. It’s been several years since I relocated to Colorado. Since then my father has learned to accept and embrace me, sexual preference and all.”

“So what’s so terrible about going home?” I asked.

“Well, I have some news, and it isn’t the type of news you break over the phone.”

But before he could tell me the news, the woman across the aisle, the same woman waiting at the gate with me, who’d been snoring the whole flight, was stirring.

“Oops. We were too loud.” I said.

“Wonder why she got a special ‘handicap seat’. Bitch.” He said.

I pointed to where her left leg should have been. In its place, nothing.

“Whoa. We’ve got a paraplegic on the plane.”

“It gets worse. She lost her leg when she was 24-years old. She was a
swimmer.”

We both stared. It’s impossible to envision her swimming. I estimated she weighed at least 200 pounds. Her hair is mouse brown, an ageless man-cut, perfected at Great Clips. Her apparel consisted of leggings and a sweatshirt that read, “Best Aunt in the World.” I wondered how this woman could let herself go like that? Did she own a comb? But, who was I to judge?

She resembled Roseanne.

“She fell back asleep.” He pointed.

“Phew. So guess how she lost her leg?” I whispered.

He scooted closer.

“Staph infection.” I said.

“Shut up. How do you know?” He said.

“We were waiting at the gate together. Thank God the flight attendants interrupted our conversation before she could ask why I was on crutches. Imagine how’d she feel if she knew I had staph infection too. Only I didn’t need my leg amputated.”

“So what’s your news?” I asked.

He took a deep breath.... he gave me a once over and decided to trust me. “It was the 4th of July. I was visiting some friends in Los Angeles. We were at a posh club. Instead of normally crawling into a corner with my cocktail, insecure and envious of those carefree people on the dance floor, trying to dissect the gay from the straight. I took the opportunity to be extroverted. It was so fun. It was also a mistake.”

“How is that a mistake?” I asked.

“Honey, be patient okay. This is the premise. I’ll get to juicy stuff in a moment.”

“Oh I’m sorry.”

“So there were velvet ropes, bouncers, and exclusive VIP lists. Inside was even better. Plush leather couches, chandeliers, and more exquisite bodies than a summer Vogue issue. The women were all panthers. And the men, oh the men were glorious. Each man a variation of Adonis, this was a heaven of sexual erotica. And I got drunk.”

I nodded.

“Being curious and somewhat confident in my new Versace jeans, I followed a particular group into one of the private VIP rooms. Before I realize what is happening, a tall woman, a glamorous model, a gazelle is introducing me to her “gay” friend. So giddy that there is another, and even more excited because I could tell he was giddy too. Freed from all the straights, we chatted and danced and kissed. He made me feel so warm and welcome and, accepted.”

“Why do I think that this doesn’t have a good ending?” I said.

“Oh Peach, the ending has happened yet. But it will. And soon.”

He made no sense.

“When he invited back to his loft, I couldn’t refuse. I had kissed men before, but I was always too nervous to go beyond. It was an opportunity to finally lose my “homo” virginity. Kissing led to other things. And that is when the night got fuzzy.”

I bit my lip, “Then what?”

“And then I woke up in foreign bed, with a pounding headache and not a soul in sight. It was my first one stand and I didn’t even know the name of the guy. The house was empty, he had left with no phone number, no note, nothing. I grabbed my wallet embarrassed, feeling dirty, and walked to the nearest street corner.”

“Everyone has had a one-night stand. It’s okay.” I reassured him from second-hand knowledge.

“The irony is not that that it was the first one night stand; the irony is that it was also my last. I was diagnosed with HIV about three months ago.”

Through his thick glasses I stared into his eyes. The sparkle wasn’t a natural high. It was desperation to connect, to unearth anyone who could extract value from his disease. He had to somehow logically make sense of the terminal illness, the kind that doesn’t give you a second chance.

“You see darling, you’re not the only one infected on this plane.”

Unsure whether to laugh or to cry, I instead reached across the armrest and patted his arm, “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh Peach. It’s okay. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid because you’re scared. Do stuff because it makes you strong.” He said.

“Deal.” I couldn’t hide the tears I was shedding for this sweet man sitting next to me.

We both heard rustling from across the aisle. The woman was definitely awake. We huddled watching her; coddling our alcoholic beverages.

It was obvious by her large eyes she didn’t want to cause any trouble. She glanced up at the glowing “call” button, but decided not to push it, which would wake everyone up. Déjà vu hit me like a freight train. The constant pride I had to swallow when requesting that my peers or professors or the janitors help carry my book bag or hold my hand in the stairwell. Or at home I would beg, needing assistance with everything, from shaving my legs to putting on socks.

Watching her try to balance her 200-pound body on her one functional leg, I cringed. I assumed her artificial leg was in the overhead bin; she was trying to get to the lavatory. My legs didn’t work either, so I nudged new friend. He jumped out of his seat to rescue the paraplegic.

Instead of being stubborn, she was gracious. He lifted her arm around his shoulders, so he could play the role of her missing leg. It took several minutes to cross the ten feet separating her seat from the toilet. With every second that passed, I experienced less pity, they don’t need it, what surfaced, was admiration.

He stood by the lavatory, protecting her. The few passengers who had woken up by the commotion glanced at him, assuming they were together; he was her son. But the truth; they were only strangers.

Their bodies are so fragile and their spirits so durable. And this indiscernible thing called life hung in the balance.

My new friend plopped back in his seat, “So, back to my story.”

“Yes.” I said. It was 4am and I was exhausted, but I didn’t care.

IRONY'S ugly cousin

Irony’s ugly cousin….

You’re 100 yards from the entrance of Starbucks when you spot a tall, masculine, seemingly gorgeous man reading a newspaper. Even though he is turned away from you, you notice a baseball hat and what appear to be glasses, which screams Wall Street Journal. All near-sighted people are geniuses. Even from this distance you recognize that laid-back look, sporting a button-down polo and khakis that frame a perfectly chiseled ass. Yes, you know the man I’m talking about… he is sans a wedding ring, and his smile illuminates sparkling white choppers. Now only fifty yards away, you silently squeal with delight because he hasn’t moved… A small thought, barely a thought at all…a mere possibility begins to bubble, maybe from the corner of one of his sparkling blue eyes he has spotted you and is gearing up for your arrival (he watched you climb out of your car). You’re checking your ponytail for stray wisps, applying lip glass and wrapping up your cell phone call, so you’ll be hands free when you ask for directions, even though you have the newest GPS system. For where? Hmm. You haven’t exactly decided… "May I have directions to your heart, or even better… can I mapquest your home?”

In less than a few seconds the fantasies include long embraces on the beach, your back is arched, (yoga classes have paid off), there is moonlight, there are waves crashing, oh yeah… there is the faint music of the orchestra from afar. He is whispering sweet nothings in a husky voice; no better… sweet something’s. into the nape of your neck, which double as soft kisses. You’ve forgone your insecurities in your ratty sweatpants because suddenly a few seconds of mystery has concocted an abstract, yet entirely plausible reality… people meet and fall in love all the time, all over the globe. Maybe it’s your turn to taste that succulent fate Hollywood and happy couples boast about... As you round the corner with anticipation, blushing about this soon-to-be salacious encounter.

And before you can gasp… this man, this undiscovered gem of a male specimen who you were so convinced was utterly perfect in every delectable way…is a freaking, lifeless, faceless, mannequin.

Yep. It’s the kind compliment you hear secondhand, that you soon discover was about the “other” Jennifer in the office.

Your boyfriend is watching you apply your makeup with admiration and focus… then you see ESPN in the mirror’s reflection.

The $1000 check on your desk with your name printed in large letters is actually an HR mistake.

After twelve concerts your heartthrob finally recognizes you and is staring into your eyes over his guitar strings. His girlfriend is standing directly behind you.

A beautiful pair of Calvin Klein pants easily zip around your waist, and when you check the tag, you notice it is a size 4, which is a sign from GOD you should own them. Then the saleswoman "happens" to mention it was mistagged and is really a size 6.


Three things happen:
1. You jump for joy.
2. Fall into a pit of rejected despair.
3. YOU FORGET that pre-mannequin, HR idiot and foggy mirror… not of the above mattered, because you didn’t know it existed.


So in a world where international news arrives in twitter updates, we gather local news from our friend’s facebook wall posts, and the Internet adult playground “2nd world” is causing real-world divorces, why the hell should we stop a few fantastical seconds from enhancing our life? Hell… in world driven by over stimulated and immediately validated populous, relish the moment when you believed the above were true, because I’m going to let you in on a little secret…

John Mayer sings, “There is no substitute for time.” And trust me…. Even my hard drive is collecting dust from photographs circa 2004. I’m not worried about the time we can’t get back… the seconds, the hours, and the years that calendars devour with a voracious appetite…. It isn’t that stuff that worries me… it is the emotions we cannot relive. For every sad moment, is a happy moment lost?

Chances, odds and every other indicator suggests that no, you will not win the lotto, but once in awhile your significant other will admire you while you’re not watching, or you’ll be given a bonus or meet your hubby at a coffee shop… don’t sell yourself short, enjoy the maybes…. But more importantly let them go. Don’t gauge your happiness on a letdown that wasn’t ever supposed to be. Am I suggesting you lie to yourself? Hell no… I’m just saying, live a little… enjoy the ride… and just because it isn’t true, in a moment or in a year… I mean let’s face it. Today your lover is alive, but tomorrow he could die in a motorcycle accident, doesn’t mean today doesn’t exist. Are you following my thinking here? For the pure moment you believed something to be real, your brain registered it as real. Now you know that you can’t cash that check, nor can you buy the same pants in a different color, but you can revel in the moment that it, however fleeting did exist.

Because this life belongs to only one person. That is you. These moments, the thoughts, the agonies, the blunders that shake us, delete perfect people who while have the best or worst of intentions shared in on “our” time… don’t let what ended up happening ruin what already has. I struggle with this, but I know that deep down this postulate holds true. I was at the gym and noticed this guy from my office who always manages to make me feel dumb. A few machines away I decided to show him who was boss... I pushed myself really hard… I know I’m shallow and competitive. An hour and 1000 calories later I turn around beet red, to prove something. But of course, it wasn't him. It was some poor stranger who was confused as to why he was getting my weird stares. But had I know that.... my workout wouldn’t have been as good….

I’m just saying those little triggers in life explain a lot about ourselves, so pay attention. And now… damn my calves look good. Sometimes it’s the mannequins, the placebos, and the leap years…

Dodging Destiny

I struggle to understand why the children, with their tattered clothes beg us to take pictures of them, with them… Sure, their innocent smiles warm even the most frigid of travelers, and similar to the American 7-year-olds, they have few missing teeth, but no tooth fairy in El Crucero, there aren't even pillows. Maybe they assumed we needed photographs to prove of our benevolent efforts; parade around our experience to get the kudos from Americans back home. But why would the innocent children jump for joy when pointing a lens their way. Another poster child of poverty perhaps. Maybe they subconsciously were aware that we were slowly collecting data, proof of their malnourishment, or maybe they just wanted to be remembered.

They knew if we, brought photos of them back home, posted to the internet and maybe to print for a hardcopy handout, that their faces wouldn't be forgotten, their existence not lost in the shuffle of the Nicaraguans who never see inside the outskirts of Managua.

But as their small fingers point in delight at their own image on the screen of the small digital camera, I realize it isn't about capturing a memory, it isn't even about their relationship with Americans. It is quite simple…. These children haven't seen their reflection before, they're seeing themselves for the first time. The children don't squabble, they share and play together peacefully. They don't have the luxury of crying or wanting or needing.

Inside the clinic I stand in the doorway watching the heavy rain pound the already muddy ground. Steam rises and the faint outline of the ocean is breathtaking. I'm holding a little girl about six-months old, rocking her back and forth, she flutters her chocolate brown eyes and I cannot help but kiss her soft jet-black hair. Her pink outfit is dirty and her feet are bare and my heart is breaking as I become gravely aware of the journey ahead of her. Until she is five or six she will play with the little boys, the other children, she will be hungry and sometimes sick, but she won't be cognizant of this hell. A few years later she might see a television with Dentine commercials and kids playing with brand-new toys. Hopefully she'll dodge incest, but she'll most likely become pregnant out of wedlock. She'll live on welfare, the welfare of a corrupt and crumbling government. She probably won't know how to read, and if so… it will be just enough to get by.

The genetic makeup of this little girl contains so many stories… is she the product of lovers or from abuse? Poor farmers or criminals maybe? The odds will work hard against her, and the chance of choice is one and a million, but until the vicious cycle generations before her, in this exact country, in this exact place begins again, she is pure, she is just another baby born into a confusing, chaotic, but often beautiful world. The rain has slowed and the butterflies dance in the fields not so far away. The little girl has woken up in the arms of a stranger, she coos, she is unafraid… I feel goosebumps because as a capable American I feel powerless, helpless… so I hold her tighter, knowing for at least a moment, I can protect her from her future.

When your eyes lock with another's for the first time… you absorb infinite amounts of information. The adults whose eyes reach my own all tell different stories. Some full of shame, others abundant of joy, some have found Jesus, others' haven't. It scares me to think that if I lived amongst this poverty if I could believe in a God. How can God exist in this pain, this hunger for the right to live. I was told this antecdote about a cabdriver. His wife who was eight months pregnant with his first child had an inoperable tumor in her left breast. It was malignant. She was going to die soon. They didn't know if it would be before or after the baby was born. This is normal here. THe pain and anguish is normal. And just as the children's feet harden against the jagged gravel, and their skin thick to the mosquitoes and their stomachs no longer growl, even when empty… Do their hearts harden after they've been worn thin since they were children?

The teenage girls are giggling and whispering in Spanish. We're tearing the rappers off of the hard candy and sitting on a large rock together. One is wearing leftover sneakers from the 90s, the second a ripped sundress and the third a jean skirt with a dirty Laker's shirt. They don't feel embarrassed. They don't look at my new khakis with jealousy, however they do take turns trying on my sunglasses and holding onto my hand, as though I were a blind person taking turns leading me around the grassed area. They point out cousins or friends and explain in foreign tongue, the El Crucero dialect, that even with my semi-impressive Latin background I fail to comprehend. They're not unhappy, but I cannot understand their minds…. their world is so small, it is comprised of fifty or so people they've known since birth, beautiful landscape and four walls covered by a tin roof.

All the thoughts that pass through my brain… the To Do lists, the worries, the angst, the memories of a perfect date, a delicious conversation with a parent, a lecture I attended that stimulated my braincells, and the thoughts comprised of all the education, travels and eccentric friends alike - media, literature, opinions…. my brain could never be emptied of rich and vibrant streams of various forms of consciousness. I'm not assuming their minds are blank, or their thoughts trivial, or they're unequipped since the day they were born.

At church later that night a Spanish pastor all of twenty-four utilized a theory on Space and somehow, metaphorically tied it back to God's love for us. It was so interesting because I had just purchased the latest "Science Today" monthly publication… the feature talked about how the galaxy could be potentially losing energy, something about light pigmentation and its transformation is none like we've seen. Sure I've memorized the order of the planets and have a rough understanding how the whole "star" thing works, but this pastor, who from this village and yes, by the will of God found some nice people to take him in, to help him out, to give him the confidence required to go after dreams….

He basically talked about what is important to us…. Ak: our values, problems, likes and dislikes… then showed us how big we are in compared to the 300,000,000 star galaxy that the milky way is puzzled into… and then used that to explain the unbounded love that God has for us, and then Sarah jumped in to finish up his message. An American from Kansas, she arrived with the Peace Corps to teach Spanish several years ago. She fell in love with a native and since they live in a home and between teaching and schooling and feeding the poor, she tutors people like this pastor. She explained relativity, and even though we might feel insignificant in comparison to Saturn's suns, our problems and the size of our problems never change… and that stuck with me, and all of the attendees from El Crucero. Seated around me were people who had never walked fifty miles beyond this place, and yet they synthesized and understood that they are small compared to the stars, but their problems are still big to them. And even though my problems and my worries are so different from theirs, and maybe insignificant in comparison, they're still my own and I cannot change that.

And then I didn't feel so bad.














7/4/2010 ...

July 3rd, 7pm.
The sun has just set and the haze from the volcanic ashes make the few stars that much more enchanting. There are eight American children standing in a makeshift church in the outskirts of Managua, Nicagura; surrounding them are several dozen children from the small town of El Crucero. An observer can easily separate these children into two groups by the color of skin, the language they sing and their quality of their clothing, albeit these differences, there is something that all of these children share in common, a dedication to make the streets of El Crucero safer, healthier and a more promising place. That, and their love for the Lord.

This isn't the type of church that includes a Sunday school and a choir, there is no crowded parking lot and brunch at the Pancake House afterwards. A small dirt road will carry you thirty minutes into the mountainous terrain of El Crucero, the lush hillsides are misleading, with a population of only several thousand people, the poverty is fierce. A town running twenty kilometers long has less than a handful of homes with running water. This is the second poorest country on earth, and this is its poorest town. This is the stuff you find on the Discovery Channel.

The Trip:
Between the hurricane in Houston and a faulty engine at DIA, the fact we arrived last night is a miracle in itself. Two vans took Sean and Laura Tonner with kiddos Regan and Hunter in two, Then there is family number two; Sara and Jamie Hendren with kiddos Taylor, (along with her friend Jen), Abby, Jaelyn and Ellie… and cousin Ryan from Dallas. Then there are those from Phaseline, who have as much commitment to this project as the Tonners; Monica Owens, Liz Ryan, Jess Leyba and then there is a journalist, Ak: moi. For most on the trip, this is a familiar airport, they hug the van drivers hello, and for several on the trip this country, and the people are foreign… We lug the duffel bags into the motel, with its simple layout and picnic tables outside, we're eager to crawl into a bed, hopefully not an infested one. However, two of the girls (age 10) discovered a worm in their bunk… again, this is no first class accommodation. We're here as a group to provide medical care and hopefully some infrastructure in a struggling community. That said, these kids know that their idea of work is a few hours during a summer vacation, the kids that we'll see tomorrow morning live in an unending summer where school isn't an option and while some work for a meager penance, many go to sleep in dirty beds, unfed, some with fevers, and many don't know their parents and many will become parents far too soon from when they're ready.

While the photographs depict paradise, I've realized this is anything but….

So, I'm a journalist. I was brought on this trip after editing an article about The Project in El Crucero last summer for Denver Magazine, and since I've been intrigued, albeit the tragedy in Haiti, the sores in Nicaragua didn't occur over night, but have worn through the corruption, the poverty has withheld a civil war and the Red Cross handouts, but for some reason this village doesn't seem hopeless. So not in an attempt to save the world, but rather to quench some curiosity I packed my bags and my bug spray and prepared myself for the unknown.

The Day:
At The Clinic: Inside the small square building there is exposed brick and cement, and not the type people pay half a million for lofts in Lower Downtown…. and there were holes in the ceiling, a toilet that needed to be replaced, measurements and moldy dry wall to be torn down. But Sean, Jamie, Ryan, Taylor, Abby and Regan went after it and accomplished more than they planned. With some of the children of El Crucero helping carry the bits and pieces out to the trash, today they're rebuilding one of the walls.

At the Feeding Center: It took no time at all for Hunter to find his friends, many of the children whom stare at us, the white Americans with confusion… but when they see Hunter's open arms and kind eyes, they rush to him to play soccer and to have fun. The small children, the little girls and boys, those who needed laps to sit on, and hair to be played with, took quite a liking to Monica, Liz and Jess. I hung back with the teenage girls who took turns trying on my sunglasses. They devoured the rice and beans with hungry tummies and packed away more in plastic baggies to bring back to mothers and fathers.

Back At Church: After showering and putting on fresh clothes we all made our way back to the small town of El Crucero where we were greeted with Spanish music, a kid on a keyboard and another on the drums made harmonious music that yes, was quite Christian, but I'd be a liar to say it didn't entice me to dance some salsa. The elders held our hands and greeted us with the most grateful gestures as we left the small building, a square building put together by bricks I don't think we've felt closer to God.

As the day closed and we put the last of the cheese and pepperoni pizzas in our mouth there was a sense of peace and serenity. Far away from the bustle and stress of our day-to-day To Do lists, the highways and the car pools, the conference calls and deadlines, we're glad. But never for a moment are we not grateful that we can return to the chaos and the safety that is the United States. So as we embark on a 4th of July in the poorest country in Central America, and nearly the world…. we're never prouder to be Americans.

Is falling in love an American luxury?

In America we're blessed with deodorant and toothpaste, regular showers, and time to lollygag, and tenderly stare into each others eyes… Generally we're not worried if we'll be stopped at gunpoint, or a harmless influenza strain will kill us…. In America we fight over the remote control, and when it comes to food should get Mexican or Indian, or takeout… Generally, our lifestyles afford us the luxury to flirt, to tempt to allure, and ultimately manufacture the dream. The 2.7 children and homemade dinners and years of memories created inside a safe, white picket fence. Is this a product of necessity, no? But rather, amour? No…. we get to enjoy the luxury of choice.

It's 2:23 PM. I'm on a plane. I'm flying six-hours south of Denver, beyond the American boundaries, cell phone service, and entering a country where my tax dollars don't help anyone… Chances are that the couple my age in El Crucero is mid-twenties is trying to feed five kids… they're both undereducated and malnourished, they live in one-bedroom and have rotting teeth? Can they afford to fall in love?

I'm seated in the exit row, so I have plenty of foot room. It's a full flight. There are teachers, school teachers, engineers, mostly caucasians sipping on Coca Cola and eating muffins, I'm surrounded by the typical Americans. Most of them speak English, most of them have ridden on airplane before, I assume they've all seen Larry King Live… I can't help but ask, who will be the people to cross my path tonight.

I've been told as soon as I step off the plane to remove my jewelry and makeup. It will 100 degrees plus, it will be dusty and the streets smell like urine. I'm unprepared for the parentless children, there are those who are really sick, too sick to be saved. Those who steal, those who without choice, thanks to an unfair upbringing, are soulless.

But I'm most afraid, when I look into the eyes of a child who has never known her father, an old man who has never experienced hope, or a mother who has bore the children; from a rape…. Sure, there are the exceptions, those who slipped through the poverty and while still starving, survived. When I look into the eyes of these people, I'm terrified. Who will I see?

The Discovery Channel, the stories on Dateline, the anecdotes church goers bring back to dinner tables… I guess this is a "mission" trip, but what exactly is the mission? To bring America to Nicaragua, or bring some Nicaragua reality back home? Sure, i guess i've had a little experience. There was the summer spent in Brazil when I was sixteen. There were monkeys, ironically our long-lost cousins? Ha. The snakes and the cheerful songs of toucans that float amid the plush canopies of rain forest; foliage that supplied ample photographs…. vibrant flowers, the petals large and fragrant. And sure, there was poverty, but it was veiled under the mysticism of the tropics, the tribal traditions, and so…. it wasn't as tragic as I could fathom.

Demographics cut us into neatly organized boxes, where we can via identify hair color, religion and socioeconomic bracket. And somehow we calculate how much a person deserves. Whether that be from a fiscal standpoint or reverse discrimination. A chunk of America survives on our tax dollars and our empathy. But today i'm reaching outside consumerism and general hospitals, shopping malls and fast food, embarking outside the definable lines where my salary no longer gets to help people. The people in the poorest rural areas of Central America subsist on trash and handouts, the Christians and NGOs can offer… these people aren't even aware of pop culture and MTV and all the desires that catapult American's into that "dream", but we shouldn't be in denial that it is often these same things that are to blame for the eating disorders and the phobias and occasionally endorse the antidepressants. In an American spectrum where consumerism and comparison and competitiveness are capitalistic verbs, the drivers of our lives, what have we gained? But more importantly, when it comes to capitalism, what have we lost?

The ability to be human, perhaps?

Sure… they're helpless in many senses, but the photographs of the barefoot children depict something I don't notice when I flip through the Facebook photos, where my friends are shining in bright dressing, sharing steak and vacations to Europe. In America, we pull our children away from video games and TV in hopes they'll learn the required arithmetic; it is inarguable that children in third world countries are eager to learn, albeit an existence beyond the chains of poverty, is and that will always be a mirage. But, beyond the crime an the senseless acts of violence, you can find an unfamiliar life, one where the women have to support each other, the men spend days in the fields providing for their families….they don't have access to Advil, let alone antidepressants. Maybe survival levels the playing field, an existence void of standard and expectations, maybe it's simply simplicity.

Is this a first class guilt trip in which I've volunteered?

It is 4:30 PM. The plane is in a holding pattern because of the hurricane in South Texas. The pilot over the loudspeaker has alerted us that we will be late. The travelers are grumbling, without access to cell phone and email, they cannot reach their family and friends; some are annoyed that they'll now face the monster of holiday traffic, or the nuisance of rerouting flights. I get it. Spending an extra hour squished next to a bunch of strangers isn't my idea of a desirable Friday afternoon. But as I sip out of my Aquefina bottle and my manicured hand reaches for the valve to twist open the air conditioning, I immediately feel the stream of cold air. A small pleasure in the midst of designer clothes and new shoes…. my body is still human.

I don't look down at these fellow Americans whose feathers are ruffled because our Continental flight is taking longer than expected. The pilot cannot change the weather, the flight attendants can't appease every crying baby. Are we spoiled in our lavish lives, or are we deserving of our hard-earned efforts? I don't have any answers. Only many questions. What equalizes human? Is it the five senses… taste buds met with spices? Our bodies touched delicately, or maybe hearing the sound of enchanting music? Our bodies experience pain, heat, frighteningly cold air. I know some bodies are built for different conditions, but are all of hearts built the same?

As I shut down my new Apple laptop, I close my eyes… and I whisper a very selfish prayer. Not that I can help these starving kids, or sick babies, or orphans… Not even that I can offer them a helping hand or a glimmer of hope. I already know there isn't much hope. They're destitute and ill and uneducated and I don't know what a few days and a few Americans can do to change that, at least for the long term anyway.

These people don't have passports, they don't get to runaway… I get to go back to my world with healthcare and limitless opportunity, safe streets and delicious food and intellectual banter, and yes…. choice. And I guess I pray that I don't feel too guilty afterwards.

Happy Hour

A waitress in a cocktail dress sets a steaming pepperoni pizza in front of three women, two are wearing sneakers and sweatpants, and the third is touting a dainty black dress with three inch nude heels. Retelling escapes from the workday, they’re clinking glasses; watching the rain through the large glass windows. Twenty-something and thirty-something’s are perched flirtatiously, the restaurant is crowded with that desired chaos; suits and sundresses are recovering from a hectic workweek…. The three think they're alone....

Until a familiar button down waltzes by..... Watching this man carefully, they expect him to join the group of routy guys shouting at the TV, but he walks past the men, snaking through the mess of people, he makes his way to a blond women. She is wearing straw sandals and not much makeup.

And before I can turn to my friend, my own heart sinks… but before she can force a smile, she closes her eyes for a brief moment. I reach for her hand, but she recoils; her entire body is in a freeze frame, because a nightmare just came true. She stares at the scene unfolding, straight from a 90210 episode with awe…. Almost as if she had been waiting for the moment it would all unravel… for the moment she could prove it was all wrong.

The man who walked by the three of us, the man whose eyes are locked with a complete stranger is the same man who was whispering sweet nothings not but 72 hours before. To her. In his bed. His back is turned toward us; he has no clue that we’ve has spotted him. The blond woman’s body is leaning toward him, she tilts her head back in laughter, and her recently conditioned locks sway in perfect feminity. And I’m pretty sure all three of us are going to vomit.

Why? I could go on and on, rehashing stories similar to this with vivid detail, the untold and still secret stories that could rip apart colorfully designed futures packed full of diapers and engagement rings. And yes, do I like the fact that men and women go around crushing each other’s hearts without second thought? Heavens No… but I’m no idiot to matters of the heart. And for once I ask myself… why can’t we just go around the world and be honest with each other… about our intentions, our objectives, agendas, whatever motivates us in life… but it hit me last week, before we can be honest with each other, we must overcome the challenge of being honest with ourselves. Often I see people with baggage – oh all sorts, designer, second hand, some light and others’ in desperate need of therapy running all over town into the arms of somebody new every night. They justify this romping with the hope of locating, “the one”. With great confusion and utter despair they believe unearthing the ying to their yang will solve all their problems. But it isn’t two halves that make a perfect pair… people need to be whole before they can give half of themselves (and their baggage) to anyone else.

But oh, it is so much easier said then done… to saunter into a first date with blown dry hair and a sexy grin and a few witty lines? Then, it’s easy to imagine perfection. Whenever a student walks into a class - they all have A’s, but we’re tested. Then arrives the trials and tribulations – accept or deny, pick up the phone or hit ignore, and finally arrives the “vulnerable”. The discovering of the messy vehicle, whistling in the shower, an addiction to ice cream. Oh.. The months that you tiptoe into the bathroom and tinkle quietly because God forbid he find out you’re human.

Let me tell you… there is nothing worse than standing at Nordstrom, in front of a full-length mirror, the kind with bright overhead lights, completely naked… why? It exposed every detail, flaw, scar or scratch…. And isn’t it so much more fun to dress in body-friendly threads? So often, I think that I’d prefer to hide under the covers, but wouldn’t it be sooo liberating to be completely accepted? Ass and all?

And not that my dear friend failed to accept…. we all knew a nasty secret…. She did something far worse… far more fatal than not risking it all for what appears to have lasting potential…. She knew, deep down that he wasn’t right to begin with – sure he was about 90% okay…. He was attractive, successful, considerate, and funny… but he was missing that 10% critical ingredient, the ache. That ache when you want someone so much that you don’t want anyone else.

She always left one eye open for another male specimen.. Could it have worked out? Maybe… Should she have left him alone without barraging him with interrogating questions? Should there have inherently been more trust? Or rather, was the 10% missing the breach of trust to begin with? When we know something is wrong, or more importantly not right, do we go out of our way to locate the 10% in no man’s land… do we try to conjure it up? So we bridge the missing ache with babies and prenumps?

I don’t have any answers…. Only a suggestion. This is coming from a woman who is a hopeless pragmatic and a diehard romantic…. Wrapped up in a commitment phobe’s frame of mind. Try to ditch the to do lists and resumes prerequisites and be honest with yourself. And most often you’ll realize that this next date, the next dinner, the next whatever isn’t’ going to suddenly mold into amazing… the rule of holes, stop digging. People need to give up when they want to be in something so badly… and it simply, won’t fit.

But then there are the times that you push it away… too afraid that maybe; there isn’t a real reason to fake it. And maybe sometimes if you’re honest with yourself, and honest with the other person, after you’ve endured the ice cream and the messy vehicles, the late night banter and the confusing details of our pasts that really make no difference at all, You realize that you’re not fighting for something to suddenly happen, waiting for the moment to trip across them at a bar, flirting with someone else, and make you feel like dirt… you’re not spending months making that 10% “right”…

You realize that you’ve been waiting to make sure that that 10% was never wrong after all.

You Write?

Like drool. Vowels and consonants slip off my tongue splattering on the page. I love it.

His blue eyes are glistening like polished glass, reflecting a youthful energy. A small man with a hunchback and a khaki beret is sitting at a corner table. He can’t be younger than 75. Sipping on his coffee, he is devouring the sophisticated dialogue around him with a blue felt pen and a black leather notebook. He blends into the Tuesday afternoon, he is invisible.

A romance writer in a wheel chair, or a war veteran scripting anthologies about peace, we’re telepathic. Unassuming, we tuck our vernacular in our back pocket and hide behind laptops and headphones. Just another nobody flittering away on a keyboard. But any real writer will recognize when they’ve crossed paths with another.

I watch his wrinkled hand dance across the lined paper, and without hesitation he flips the page. For a moment he lifts his brow and glances at me, acknowledging my presence, before he quickly returns to his scribbling.

Sure, some say that photographs capture a moment, and they do. But words seize emotions and detail, time is imprisoned in a snow globe. Words can be carried across oceans and centuries and languages. From a parent to a child, a leader to his country, a lover to a lover…

Chances are his words will be found in a dusty cardboard box by a nephew and tossed in a garbage bin. But maybe in a hundred years, his journals will be discovered by an aspiring poet and studied in high school English classes.

That is the beauty of words leftover, they allow strangers to climb inside of the pages and experience life from the eyes of Anne Frank’s attic, or a psychologist’s study on biometrics, or the dungeons of Harry Potter. Sometimes great stories can manipulate us into believing our boring lives are boring. Sometimes they inspire us to do great things.

I hate to stereotype (okay, I don’t hate it so much), but TV personalities, musical artists, chefs, whomever… those creative personalities tend to be predictable. But writers, this is why I love to meet writers, they arrive in all shapes and sizes and demographics. Writers are unpredictable.

What is that single quality, which has united writers? Is it narcissism perhaps? The joy we experience when rereading a perfectly constructed sentence? I once assumed it a curiosity; a need to contemplate or analyze, obsessed with solutions and enigmas. But throughout my contemplation I haven’t an answer…. While all writers succumb to the universal, unequivocal, equalizing sport, and our identity is veiled behind semi-colons and imprints. There are no real rules and all is fair game.

I used to believe that I wrote purely for the intent of my content being read. MY content was specifically designed to cater to the woman running on a treadmill with Attention Deficit Disorder. I’d consolidate quotes and minimize statistics; I abandoned color, leaving stories lifeless.

Staring at the hardcover books collecting dust on my bookshelf, I attach a feeling to each title… Even though these books haven’t been touched in years, their guts still make me shudder… I close the pages disturbed or enlightened.

The Internet and blogs are riddled with political dribble; it’s temporary, so transient. Sure, stamp a date on history. But do all these opinions (which I’m equally guilty of imploding) tug on our emotions like tweezers to a stubborn hair follicle? No, we extract a decent catch phrase, but we’re still unaffected. We forget.

Good books don’t condemn or congratulate humanity, but rather examine it carefully. Writing that ignores the brain and instead penetrates the heart is an endangered species. Amazon is bleeding paperbacks with authorial entitlement, outlined with clear and concise arguments – handpicked to coincide with movie releases. But the litanies that trump movies and songs and other art forms aren’t written in a hope to change the world.

These books are simple. They’re just stories about life.

Alone: Joan Didion picks apart the meaning of her husband’s death, and life with honesty.
Denial: F. Scott Fitzgerald reveals the power of denial through pitiful and heartless characters.
Exploitation: Truman Capote investigates his own experiences and destroys relationships to give the world disturbing and exciting stories.
Forgiveness: William Styron created Sophie’s Choice, explicating describes how a mother could logically face her most terrifying fear.
Acceptance: Jean-Dominique Bauby built the The Diving Bell and The Butterfly one blink at a time. He left the world with the thoughts he no longer could say.

I know… I’m selfish. I’m not a super hero, or a starving orphan. What about the tale tailored for the American girl, who is faced with normalcy? Trust me: I'm plagued by safety and education.... I'm spoiled with pop culture's reassurance that I'm executing that "twenty-something" dream.

But, when all is said and done, after my flu shots and vacations and I’ve fallen exhausted into my duvet, I cannot hear quiet…

I’m ravenous, still starving for more. And then I'm reminded that I'm just one of millions... When in the middle of the night I'm stirring and restless and cannot locate stillness with an ambien and a red glass of wine, I put pen to paper and empty the blank pages until my hand aches and I can think of nothing more...

Unlike real estate or accounting or artistry, I realize there is something all writers share.

Writers are hunters. The world is a forest and a plot is the prey and the bullet is our final sentence.

Throughout the centuries and countries and languages I understand that writers are nothing more than nomads. We struggle through unnecessary terrain and question things that have long since been answered. We're stubborn and prideful. But we love, and we love hard.

The old man slowly stands up and tucks his leather journal under his arm. With his watercolor eyes he glances my way, and tips the brim of his hat. I do not know where it is he is from, or where he is going, as I watch him wander away.

The wrong type of luck...

Ralph Lauren’s model Nacho Figueras can be spotted weekly, Madonna vacationed here last summer; there are stories of Prince Charles, presidents and movie stars. A whole gammet of influential people really. It’s invitation only when cameras and gossip columnists are permitted at 3667 120th Avenue South. The address belongs to the International Polo Club.

My naked toes sink into a thick carpet of Kentucky blue grass. I sit on a blanket far away from the grand stands, but the sounds of muscular bay and chestnut horses galloping at full speed on the acres of manicured fields reach me perfectly.

I don’t know that later tonight a handsome guy in his twenties will be driving home to celebrate his sister’s birthday. His name is Scott Wilson. Also tonight there is a much-anticipated fete where the polo elite are expected. These parties last until the wee hours, until the valet pulls around every last porsche. And then the polo players and girlfriends and grooms stagger home. My sister is one of those staggering home with juicy stories and sore feet from dancing.

Right now I’m watching the last chucker of a twenty-goal tournament. Wisps of afternoon cloud are nearly invisible against the sapphire sky. I observe the battle with fascination. Gripping reins in one hand and swinging a mallet with the other, each polo player wears a brightly-colored jersey. The player and his horse are both sweaty and determined; they also share an equal love for the game. They move together as a single weapon.

This is no child’s play… this is the sport of Kings.

Scott is a soon-to-be engineer. He is kind and responsible. Police regularly patrol Wellington, Florida. The quiet streets are lined with gated communities and horse farms. The Wilson’s live in a safe neighborhood.

100-yards from where I’m sitting I spot the magnificent stands overlooking the polo fields. There are champagne flutes smudged with pink lipstick, and caviar spit out on linen napkins. The women are in white capris and hold onto the elbows of men with salt and pepper hair, who are smoking cigars and standing in penny loafers. My sister is with my brother and father – they know all these people. I don’t ride horses like everyone else, I’m just a curious bystander really… The palm trees sway with the cool breeze. This utopia hinges on surreal.

At 1am Scott will pause at a stop sign at 120th Street and then his car will be violently hit by a drunk driver.His car will flip over and land in one of the canals that snake between the walkways and driveways. The metal and rubber will drown and his body will be found buckled in the front seat tomorrow morning, on his sisters’ birthday.

But for now I’m just a spectator, my legs are outstretched on the blanket and I'm massaging my calves with lotion. I'm wearing a hat and sipping on lemonade. I’m one of the thousands of people who have had great fun at the International Polo club. The place is at no fault, the people here are at no fault - it is still as enchanting as it has ever been. A mistake and inexplicable luck is all that happened...

I might be exploiting a story by delving into its emotions face first, but I don’t care… breathe its angst, digest its lessons. Lately shit has happened. Sad stuff that leaves you hungry for understanding. The stuff that leaves you strangled with despair and eager to believe that there is something greater than us, A God - watching our back. But with this shit? How could it be so? So then we succumb to Darwin, or something else who convinces us we control our existence. We operate as mammals; fretting about this damaged earth. Animalistic in logic and emotional with irrationality, we try not to kill each other and ourselves in the process. We try to better the planet, smile and locate laughter whenever the comedy channel can be found. Oh there is glorious stuff; the home runs, relaxing over a candle lit dinner, or playing golf on a Saturday morning. Or blowing candles out with your loved ones singing around you. I must to unearth something to learn from this wretched blog post, or the disturbing articles. Even if it's just one more designated driver, or cab ride home next Saturday night.

The man who hit Scott left that party a little early. He put his key in the ignition and sped out of the parking lot and with one run of a stop sign, he changed hundreds of lives. He is a wealthy staple in this tight-knit community– his face is familiar and welcomed around Wellington. He is a gregarious and generous fellow – he is a father. Many extending far beyond Scott’s family will be deeply affected by this split-second error, an intersection of lives... the irony. The scars from shame and frustration – a missing parent now in his children's childhood. Almost self-inflicted in a way. Those wounds are tragic, but they still scar. It is unnatural for a parent to lose a child... that pain never heals. To know your child should never have been stripped of a plentiful and rich future was, dozens of years too early. That has to hurt.

There were countless people who survived 9/11 by chance, they were supposed to be in those buildings. They had dentist appointments, or chose a different route to work … experienced a little mishap, one of those that make us run a little bit late, the annoyances we curse until we realize that teeth cleaning or that iota of stupidity is responsible for saving our life. But what about when there is no mishap and we’re led directly into our own demise? They don't call it bad luck for nothing. Can we navigate our way around misfortune, can we?

What was the reason, if there could even be a reason? For now I'll watch the polo ponies knowing that nothing bad could ever happen in this chunk of peaceful, manicured land - the people around me, who live in these homes are responsible and nice. Here I believe, I'm far from violence.

At 1am the streets will still be empty of cars – restaurants will be closed and it will be too early for people to leave the nightclubs. Only stars and barely a sliver of moon, will leave the night pitch black. How will it be that the only two cars deserted on this road manage to find each other?

I was in bed during the car crash, but if the drunk driver would have left five minutes earlier, it might not have been Scott. Someone else was on the same road five minutes earlier... the person killed could have been my little sister.

The phone rang too early

... for it to be good news.

Crawling out of bed about to face a day, which I’m fully aware will be comprised of phone calls and emails, conversations with family members with whom I haven’t spoken to in years, repeating the sad details, planning the services. And then the long silences shared with my immediate family, holding hands, an empty tissue box, unsure what to say or mumble, because words cannot sew, or tape or glue together the void… facing a day like this is hard. Don't worry.... this entry will get happier...

People say losing grandparents happens, and it does, all my friends
have – but the hard part isn’t my loss, yes, I am grieving, but it’s
watching my mom lose her mom. My grandmother was in her seventies, she
was in pillates class a month ago, she was traveling to New York, and
she was sassy and full of life. She was too young to leave us – too
young even for the US Consensus, but for her the time was right.

There were too many obscure occurrences in the last 48 hours to
believe that her frail body couldn’t take any more IVs, or that she
quit fighting. Her body never gave up, but around 4am her spirit let
go.

People say, “She is in a better place, she isn’t hurting anymore…”
These statements are all true. Death is the predictable part of life,
right? The event we can count on, but can never prepare for. My mom
left Houston only two days ago, after being told that my grandmother
was on the road to recovery – there was scientific proof we were
allowed to hope. Enough so to give my mom permission to fly to Denver
only for a few days. She arrived home late at night, the next morning,
well this morning, she had an appointment scheduled, a day of laundry
and catching up and then she was scheduled to fly back to Houston to
root her mother on while she did physical therapy, to drive her to
doctor’s visits, to help her heal.

My grandmother had many visitors yesterday; she was lively, telling
stories and joking with the nurses; she convinced everyone she felt
well. She spoke on the phone with each of her children. She ate French
toast. For the first time in weeks she didn’t take anything for the
pain. We were convinced that she wasn’t suffering. Nobody thought
anything different than she was getting healthier. My grandfather
received a phone call around 2am. He drove to the hospital and he sat
next to her for two hours. She told him she loved him and then she
promised him she knew how much he loved her. And then she stopped
breathing.

When I heard the shaky voice over the telephone receiver this morning,
my first reaction was; when is the next test? What is the next
procedure? The new prognosis? But when I pressed the “End” button; I
realized there are no more nexts. Death is game over.

My mother has always said, “The day I lose my mother will be the
saddest day in my life. I don’t know how I will get through it.”

But as I type this, my mother is upstairs and sleeping. We chuckle
because she drives the same as her mom and pokes around in her
nightgown, she makes the same facial expressions and she loves us more
than anything – she is her mother’s daughter. My mom is curled up with
her head in my father’s lap. He loves her so very much. How can we
ever be sad when there is so much love? My brother and sister and I
have taken turns scratching her back and bringing her tea and kissing
her forehead.

Today is now over. Tomorrow there will be flowers and more phone calls
and funeral arrangements. There will be cleaning of closets and
heirlooms to divvy amongst the cousins. And then there will be
photographs to organize and photographs to frame and then we will have
choices.

Why her? I wonder… I’m a person who refuses to accept something
without attaching wisdom - a lesson, a skill, some takeaway to store
and tuck in my back pocket for later use. The phrase, “sunk cost”
doesn’t exist in my vernacular. Experiences and situations and
hardships must have meaning – I seek value. And even with all the
horror in our world, I have trouble understanding why my grandmother
had to leave us, so soon, too soon.

You see....My grandmother was at peace. She had closure – she was the
strongest and that's why she had to go first. Like most matriarchs who
keep traditions alive, who don't forget birthdays and the names of
boyfriends, she scolded us and she spoiled us - but she always
accepted us. When we think of her we're flooded with a desire to make
things right, tomorrow we can say “I love you” to all the people who
can pick up their phone.

She was more than a mother and a wife, she was also a philanthropist,
an only child, a Houstonian - she has friends from every walk and
every chapter of life - from the opera to the ballet, from bookclubs
and the Hillcountry, all the way down to the Christian halfway home.
Her family always came first – she came through with flying colors -
she was cheering - attending graduations, dances, weekends away - she
tended to us when we were sick and she threw the parties when it was
an occasion to celebrate. And although her calendar was abundant of
new acquaintances and old friends, overflowing with big trips,
organizations and charities; her life was still very simple.

Every moment she spent, she spent well. Every person with whom she
spoke, felt heard. A little woman of 5'2'' made so many hundreds of
people feel loved.

In a few days the extended family will fly in from around the country
for her funeral and we will grieve. We will witness everyone at his or
her most vulnerable place. Men will cry and the children will wear
dresses and suits and won’t understand the eulogies until years down
the road when they will hear stories about the grandmother they cannot
remember. Her death has left a hole in our family and the only way we
can fill it; is by loving each other. We will have to take it upon
ourselves to organize family reunions; remind cousins of birthdays.

She took great joy in gift giving - it was a way for her to show
people she knew them, their needs, how she could communicate - and
the gift she left us with is time. There is enough time to love harder
than ever before and let go of the things that hold us down – that
waste our moments – that prevent us from relishing and experiencing
and enjoying the very stuff that life is made of – each other.

People keep saying that although my grandmother has passed, one day
we’ll join her in heaven. And while I believe that is true and that
will bring comfort to most; heaven still seems so very far away.

This morning, after the phone call and before I crawled out of bed, I
closed my eyes and prayed. I took a deep breath and felt her presence
protecting me, helping me navigate the future; I envisioned her
laughing and heard her telling me the sweetest things that put a song
in my heart. Now, whenever I miss her... I close my eyes and she is
with me. And that will last forever.

An Empty Suitcase

The war in Afghanistan, the unemployment rate in America, and the never-ending battles men and women endure to somehow find “the one”… all of these subjects intrigue me greatly, but I’ll admit however dismal a theme; I want to stick with “life”. Notice I don’t say heaven or hell, choosing the life of a pagan or a religious zealot, or death.

I’m a person who inherently doesn't believe in putting too much emphasis on the variables outside of my control – not that much of life is in my control to begin with, but I’m naïve enough to protest – that free will is driven by our choices, and more than anything how we choose to respond. Our character is gauged on how we act with the rest of the world – our family, friends, significant others, mentors, enemies, allies and the strangers on the street, who only intersect our lives for a milisecond, but the impact they make can affect us forever.

I received some beautiful emails after my last entry… and so I’m grateful that my words might resonate… I have never doubted the strength of language, however I write this with hesitation; I’ve never been quite convinced that my own words could make a difference. I type with a fervent desire to not just be heard, but for every person who reads to identify…. And walk away feeling understood.

There is great power in feeling understood.

I have a limited window of time in which I can contemplate the “cycle of existence” from afar. For the next three days, I don’t have to have closure… this whole “Death” thing has been put on pause. But the inevitable will arrive- I will wear my black cashmere sweater, there will be eulogies, and conversations consisting of weather requium. But until then I can observe life from a distance. I know come Tuesday, this calmness, this almost analytical approach in how peaceful I am could change dramatically. And that is a reality I’m trying to prepare myself to face.

Death brings out the softness in people… just like alcohol is truth serum, death draws emotion – it allows vulnerabilities to surface. And there is something terribly liberating and also terrifying about that.

Life arrives in a pretty standard format; we’re born, we learn how to walk, we attend elementary school, and we have guitar lessons and soccer practice. We undergo adolescence, we reach high school, we discover the joys associated with the opposite gender, unearth our interests, go to college and dive face first into a career… a vocation in which we’re supposed to pursue fearlessly, and we evolve into adults. Then there is the significant other, the white dress, and the mortgage; there are 2.5 children and a picket fence. There is tuition then there are caps and gowns and throwing graduation parties for your kids. They leave to start their own beginnings and you’re supposed to rekindle the sparks with your spouse and leisurely enjoy the years and compounded interest leftover. And then it’s over.

That’d be the skeletal outline… the required curriculum. There will always be the electives, the addendums, the stop-outs, the unusual diversions, the opportunities, the hells… sickness, awards, relocating, divorces, 2nd marriages, the unanticipated events that redirect our course of action. There are the lives ended abruptly, those that linger for more than a century, misfortunate, success… some born brilliant, other born with more challenges than a medical textbook could diagnose, but we all share something….

When we’re born we’re genetically wired to survive.

Some more so than others, some lives so tainted they choose to exit early, but the bottom line, the common denominator is we as homo sapiens persevere. We will ourselves to stay alive. My hope is that we fight death as a civilization because we have something valuable to offer humanity. Some skill set or ability that separates us from the masses, each of us will make a definable, a measurable difference.

But often I wonder if it’s a fear of death that keeps us running toward the future….

Sometimes sprinting so fast we don’t have time to stop and catch our breathe. And by the time we slow down, it’s too late to look in the review mirror, to carefully consider choices, to say the correct words, to be kind, to remove ourselves from toxic relationships, to learn how to cook, read enough literature, to feel wet sand between our toes? To stare into the pink and yellow and azure of a sunset until the stars are twinkling in the sky - and to risk everything in order to attain that mystical and enchanting, westernized version love. The category of love where resumes and rulebooks don’t matter…

A love to paint, to sing, to engineer something? The love to travel the world with a single suitcase, to abandon worry and forego the “status quo" … and strategize anyway possible to give that love, that dream, that feverish desire that leaves you weak at the knees a chance. The kind of love for something or someone that leaves you exhausted, empty of energy and overflowing with the rush of endorphins you can't stop grinning? The kind of love that odds and statistics and logic say - impossible... but your heart whispers, "Yes, yes you can."

There is the idiom, “Youth is wasted on the young.” … insinuating that humans are not equipped to grasp the meanings, the how-tos, the supposed-tos until we’re weathered and wrinkled. And this argument frustrates me… I want to do life right, right now.

And so I wonder if there is anyway to live in a way, in the present moment, so when we exhale for the last time… We can smile knowing there is absolutely nothing left?

A Simple Prayer

The sound of a pin drop echoes throughout the corridors, against the
white sterile walls, where doctors and nurses try to heal sick people.
Families and friends sleep in uncomfortable chairs, holding onto the
hands of the people they love, the people lying in the hospital beds,
riddled with IVs and fear.

The polished floor is cold, my knees are curled up against my chest,
my eyelids are tightly closed, I’m staring into blackness, and never
before have I prayed such a desperate prayer. Inside the quiet
hallways I hear the soft hum of machines, monitoring oxygen and blood
pressure, the shuffling of a nurse exiting a patient’s room…

To imagine the thoughts that have lived inside of these halls, the
elevators, even the parking lots… memories playing over, regret there
wasn’t more joy, regret for words said, or worse, never spoken. Then
the pleading to a God, maybe a God that person didn’t believe in just
days before… but when someone you love is sick… Sure people depend on
technology, specialists, medicine, relying on those who understand how
human bodies become ill, immune systems break down, but they’re
supposed to know how to make them healthy again, but sometimes
surgeries and chemotherapy cannot fix what’s wrong. That’s when you
pray for a freaking miracle.

Miracle has turned into a fictitious word, cultish, reserved for
children’s books and bibles. It’s so easy to drink wine around a
dinner table and profess our belief in carbon dating and evolution.
Hell it’s almost fun to scoff at the possibility of a higher being.

I can say firsthand that being sick is better than being the one
sleeping in the uncomfortable chair. The one who endures the scent of
stale flowers and morphine drips. The one who has to fake a smile, who
calls the rest of the family to give everyone updates, convey horrible
and depressing news. The one who is ushered out into the hall only to
be told that the test came back positive, the treatment isn’t working,
the infection has spread, the one who is told that this hell will only
get worse.

The parents of sick children, the children of sick parents, no, there
are no pain medications for those sleeping in the uncomfortable
chairs. There is a priest who will stop by your room, there are
counselors who can give you textbook suggestions, but there is no
remedy, time nor money can save a breaking heart…

“An August afternoon in southern Texas I was with a group of friends
from the army, I heard a distinct laugh from across the room, as
beautiful as church bells. I navigated through the people, following
this sound and discovered a woman with dark brown hair and chocolate
eyes, and red lips. And that summer day changed my life. I would come
home from work in a wrinkled shirt and beaten briefcase, with three
kids to feed. Some nights so stressed and frustrated, but when she
would wrap her arms around me and smile, that smile gave me a reason
to wake up in the morning, the woman I would fall asleep next to every
night. Her laugh was musical, is still…” He corrected himself.

“I had been in the Air Force, a WWII pilot and I never believed I
would settle down; born to be a bachelor. But then I met Ann… and well
my plan changed. I had only cared about myself, but now there was
someone in my life who I wanted to make happy. And we got married six
months later.”

A powerful CEO of a steel company at nearly eighty, he’s never spent a
single night in the hospital, he defies odds, he chuckled at fear… he
wasn’t one to be reckoned with… he’d point his index finger to the
sky, having a solution for every problem. He was the man who taught me
how to be brave. He was tough on me; he had high expectations and even
higher standards. But sitting next to me right now isn’t my
grandfather.

He is no different than any other man who just been told that the love
of his life is dying.

At 24-years old I’ve never experienced death firsthand. Counting
myself lucky that I’ve made it this far without losing anybody close,
I’m not a fool… mortality is the one aspect of life, in which we can
rely, cannot dodge, or run from… life will kill us eventually, it’s
just a matter of where, when and then the nasty reality of how. I
didn’t think the “not losing a loved one” wouldn’t change, or not yet.
I had too much left to do before I could lose someone close to me.

There are weekends as recent as last month that I chose a charity
event, a movie on my couch, I chose the things that would always be
available, instead of time with my parents’ parents. Not only are
these the people responsible for my genetic makeup; they’ve survived
wars, watched presidents succeed and fail, they’ve witnessed
generations of their own blood grow up. There is so much knowledge to
gleam, there is so much left to absorb, they weren’t frail or fragile,
or sick, but it’s so easy to forget that death doesn’t normally give
us warning, it shows up at our doorsteps uninvited when we’re
unprepared and unready.

Dancing the waltz, toasting champagne and laughing; her unmistakably
beautiful laugh, a woman vibrant with life less than a week ago is
dying in a hospital bed fifteen feet away from me. Her complexion is
pale and her body is aching and when she has enough strength to open
her eyes, they do not belong to the woman I know as my Mother’s
mother. The soft and gentle eyes belong to a patient who has been told
she has run out of options.

The seconds are passing so quickly and time will not seem to wait. And
I know that I am no different from the hundreds of people who have
whispered prayers throughout these same hospital corridors. However my
prayer is very simple, that one day I can tell people, “It was a
miracle.”