this always always cheers me up...
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
magic box...
Hey wanna know a secret? Come super close because even most of my friends don't know...
Promise not to tell?
Well I believe in a higher power! Now before you get too up in my grill about it please understand I have a hard time even calling it G-O-D because his little followers have sure taken all the fun out of it. They read messages of love and peace and turn it into an excuse to take up arms against others, burn up herbalists at the stake, and bring a baseball bat to extract justice on "the gays".
Nonetheless I think faith is one important concept. And it is hard as a lesbian to find a place of faith that feels like home. A few years back I made the rounds of some churches here in town. If you eliminate the ones that outright hate gays the selection is pretty scarce. One place was too hippy dippy even for me (meditations, changing and group hugs! spare me!), another didn't even mention Jesus, and most were others were only willing to ignore the gay issue rather than come out and support it.
So mostly my faith is a private matter. One thing I do is borrowed from Anne Lamott. It's called a God Box. I have this beautiful container sitting on a bookshelf in my bedroom. When things come up in my life that are too big for me to fix, too hard to carry, or too painful to move through - I put them in the box. Sometimes it is a phrase scribbled on a piece of paper, more often it is a little token that represents my struggle. Now keep in mind this isn't advised for stuff like speeding tickets or overdue credit card bills! But an overriding fear of failing at nursing school, or a bracelet from love lost - that is perfect!
Some stuff stays in there for years...and occasionally it gets to the point of needing a cleaning. I really enjoy reading back through everything. It is like a diary of the darkest parts of my life. At one point I had an expired epi-pen in there. Terrified of every day I sent my son to preschool knowing that a carelessly placed peanut could put him in the hospital.
Somehow, just putting a symbol of the problem away for the box to carry for a while really helps. And the small distance between where I sit at my computer as I type this and where the box sits on my shelf is filled with faith. And it helps me remember that all will be well - even if I can't find my way.
Promise not to tell?
Well I believe in a higher power! Now before you get too up in my grill about it please understand I have a hard time even calling it G-O-D because his little followers have sure taken all the fun out of it. They read messages of love and peace and turn it into an excuse to take up arms against others, burn up herbalists at the stake, and bring a baseball bat to extract justice on "the gays".
Nonetheless I think faith is one important concept. And it is hard as a lesbian to find a place of faith that feels like home. A few years back I made the rounds of some churches here in town. If you eliminate the ones that outright hate gays the selection is pretty scarce. One place was too hippy dippy even for me (meditations, changing and group hugs! spare me!), another didn't even mention Jesus, and most were others were only willing to ignore the gay issue rather than come out and support it.
So mostly my faith is a private matter. One thing I do is borrowed from Anne Lamott. It's called a God Box. I have this beautiful container sitting on a bookshelf in my bedroom. When things come up in my life that are too big for me to fix, too hard to carry, or too painful to move through - I put them in the box. Sometimes it is a phrase scribbled on a piece of paper, more often it is a little token that represents my struggle. Now keep in mind this isn't advised for stuff like speeding tickets or overdue credit card bills! But an overriding fear of failing at nursing school, or a bracelet from love lost - that is perfect!
Some stuff stays in there for years...and occasionally it gets to the point of needing a cleaning. I really enjoy reading back through everything. It is like a diary of the darkest parts of my life. At one point I had an expired epi-pen in there. Terrified of every day I sent my son to preschool knowing that a carelessly placed peanut could put him in the hospital.
Somehow, just putting a symbol of the problem away for the box to carry for a while really helps. And the small distance between where I sit at my computer as I type this and where the box sits on my shelf is filled with faith. And it helps me remember that all will be well - even if I can't find my way.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
the end...
a heartbroken woman asks: does only a fool walk down a path of certain destruction?
and the poet answers: no, an optimist does.
and the poet answers: no, an optimist does.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
snapshot...
true love is :
her skin feels like home
you effortlessly give away your clothes, your heart, your dreams...they were hers all along. From the moment she touched them.
even an approaching storm isn't scary because you have someone to share the umbrella with...and who minds getting a little wet anyway...?
- not needing to shave your legs
- not feverishly cleaning your house
- an empty fridge
- no covers on the bed
her skin feels like home
you effortlessly give away your clothes, your heart, your dreams...they were hers all along. From the moment she touched them.
even an approaching storm isn't scary because you have someone to share the umbrella with...and who minds getting a little wet anyway...?
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
inventory
It is strange to find yourself in a "career". To look around your cubicle and see people in suits and posters with kittens "hanging in there". Attending meetings with power points that no one pays attention to. Business dinners and kissing ass.
Even stranger still is losing that career. Stepping off the treadmill and trying to remember what inspired you all those years ago when you still thought you could change the world.
As I stand facing my last semester of nursing school, ready to begin what NPR likes to call my "encore career" I can't help but feel breathless and scared outta my mind. We all know that euphemism of "encore career" sounds nice but who in their right mind would give up a comfy corporate job to clean up poop all day?! Where one mistake could kill someone?! All that phrase really means is trying to feed your son as the world shatters and rumbles around you.
A memory comes back to me some nights recently. Poised on the edge of my senior year of high school I was beginning the long process of applying for colleges. I had a 4.0 GPA, was captain of the volleyball team and didn't even know what a lesbian was. Ahhhh simpler times, right? I had sent off for three applications. Princeton, Yale and Duke. As I opened the packets I was awestruck immediately. I had never even seen fancy card stock printing and felt special just writing my name on the top of the applications. My parents weren't paying any attention to me - nor had they even asked about the process. The deeper I got into the paperwork, though, the more they noticed.
They stood over me and watched for all of 10 seconds before starting to tear me down. They criticized my penmanship, the mess I was making as I spread out on the table, and I braced myself for a fight. My Dad paced the kitchen saying that it was out of the question for me to even apply to ivy league schools. He wasn't going to be able to give me one cent towards tuition and thought somehow I was rubbing his face in his middle-class values by even applying. Ever idealistic I told him I could get loans, grants, tuition waivers! If we were as poor as he said I would easily qualify, right?
The discussion turned into arguing and culminated with him taking all my applications and ripping them up. He was insulted those fancy schools even wanted money just for applying and thought "those kinds of places" weren't for "people like us". That beautiful paper was ceremoniously thrown into the garbage as he told me how much better off I would be at the state college in town.
Well I was mad. So I refused to even apply for the stupid schools in town. My mother filled out the application to Florida State and of course I was accepted. My senior year spiraled out of control. I spent most days at the park and only showed up for tests. I refused to even walk in my graduation and I could have cared less about Florida State. So my college experience lasted about two weeks as I drove to campus, parked my car, lit a joint and watched the cute girls walk to class. I never stepped one foot onto campus. Luckily I also never got busted for weed ;)
I think about that moment at the kitchen table from time to time. I wonder what would have happened if my parents would have just given me a shot.
For all the wonderful things my father did for me later in life...he was a total dick those days. And I can't even imagine what happened to his soul that would make him rip up those applications. I used to joke that he had a blue-collar chip on his shoulder. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from what he thought would be catastrophic failure.
I am not sure a girl from Macon, Georgia could have made it at Princeton, but it would have been amazing to try.
Even stranger still is losing that career. Stepping off the treadmill and trying to remember what inspired you all those years ago when you still thought you could change the world.
As I stand facing my last semester of nursing school, ready to begin what NPR likes to call my "encore career" I can't help but feel breathless and scared outta my mind. We all know that euphemism of "encore career" sounds nice but who in their right mind would give up a comfy corporate job to clean up poop all day?! Where one mistake could kill someone?! All that phrase really means is trying to feed your son as the world shatters and rumbles around you.
A memory comes back to me some nights recently. Poised on the edge of my senior year of high school I was beginning the long process of applying for colleges. I had a 4.0 GPA, was captain of the volleyball team and didn't even know what a lesbian was. Ahhhh simpler times, right? I had sent off for three applications. Princeton, Yale and Duke. As I opened the packets I was awestruck immediately. I had never even seen fancy card stock printing and felt special just writing my name on the top of the applications. My parents weren't paying any attention to me - nor had they even asked about the process. The deeper I got into the paperwork, though, the more they noticed.
They stood over me and watched for all of 10 seconds before starting to tear me down. They criticized my penmanship, the mess I was making as I spread out on the table, and I braced myself for a fight. My Dad paced the kitchen saying that it was out of the question for me to even apply to ivy league schools. He wasn't going to be able to give me one cent towards tuition and thought somehow I was rubbing his face in his middle-class values by even applying. Ever idealistic I told him I could get loans, grants, tuition waivers! If we were as poor as he said I would easily qualify, right?
The discussion turned into arguing and culminated with him taking all my applications and ripping them up. He was insulted those fancy schools even wanted money just for applying and thought "those kinds of places" weren't for "people like us". That beautiful paper was ceremoniously thrown into the garbage as he told me how much better off I would be at the state college in town.
Well I was mad. So I refused to even apply for the stupid schools in town. My mother filled out the application to Florida State and of course I was accepted. My senior year spiraled out of control. I spent most days at the park and only showed up for tests. I refused to even walk in my graduation and I could have cared less about Florida State. So my college experience lasted about two weeks as I drove to campus, parked my car, lit a joint and watched the cute girls walk to class. I never stepped one foot onto campus. Luckily I also never got busted for weed ;)
I think about that moment at the kitchen table from time to time. I wonder what would have happened if my parents would have just given me a shot.
For all the wonderful things my father did for me later in life...he was a total dick those days. And I can't even imagine what happened to his soul that would make him rip up those applications. I used to joke that he had a blue-collar chip on his shoulder. Or maybe he was trying to protect me from what he thought would be catastrophic failure.
I am not sure a girl from Macon, Georgia could have made it at Princeton, but it would have been amazing to try.
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