a good day

I say a silent prayer to calm my anxieties and brace

myself for the hour ahead. I am greeted by a whirlwind

of hair and smiles, a couple decibels above

my comfort zone. We’re here to make “safe

girl space” but I can’t seem to intercept

every biting word that pierces these hearts.

We’re here to offer what the city calls “tools

of empowerment” and “youth development,” but

secretly, I call it love. We don’t fit in with the harsh

discipline of your school day. The disconnect is too abrupt;

the chasm too incomprehensible. I’m building a bridge

for you, but you tell me you can’t see. Why can’t you see?

When all I see is darkness, how do I know not to run from the blinding light?

I once heard a joke that all who survive adolescence have

an overabundance of material to inspire quality

creative writing. But it’s not funny anymore when your survival

is uncertain. I loathe to do it, but I challenge myself to recall

those years when the world stopped with a single word

from this week’s best friend and started with the subtle hint of

a smile from tomorrow’s new crush. I long to hold you all in

a human embrace and take you away to castles in

clouds, but your young hearts are already skeptical of

the dreams I hold up to your eyes as they roll.

When all other hands come close to strike my raw and bleeding
corpse, where do I learn that your hand offers salve and gifts?

“I am not the enemy.” I am an insufficient human

band-aid on a festering wound with no distinct beginning

or end. A strong silent friend helped me step out

of my brokenness. I gave myself a voice by being

heard. I gave myself a choice by naming

my wounds – making them real, but no more or less

real than me. I am here to listen. To search through this tangled

mass and get a little closer to finding you. Who are you? Will you tell me?

I only hear my name when I’m being told to shut up; how do I know that you’re asking for my voice? Where do I find this voice that speaks my truth and makes my choices?

I’m diving in, but there’s no such thing as swimming. I wonder

if that means we all drown together or if desperate treading is

the technicality that redeems. But everyday, I come back fighting

the sinking weight in my soul; getting angrier and angrier with

whoever is throwing these babies in the river. The questions outweigh

the answers, so we explore further, deeper, longer…

If we come out limbs intact, it was a good day.

If you are here to help me, why do I still only see
bleeding hearts dragged through broken glass everywhere I turn?

no, you're rubber and i'm glue...

Trapped within these walls of (scar)

tissue and pulsing contaminated fluid, I

scratch,

tear,

push myself out of this barely breathing corpse.

Repulsed by layers of obesity marinated

in rejection, disgusted by misshapen and stunted

limbs shriveled under cruel judgmental eyes, I

search rabidly for a voice disconnected from

these corroded lungs and these broken vocal

chords crushed with negativity and un-free speech.

My soul, rejecting her lot, seeking to build a more

“perfect” palace and take up residence, commands

starvation

and

purging – calls it growing pains because

beauty hurts.

I reach for a “self” outside of this decaying cadaver but

every

step

closer is derailed by tangents

questioning the existential possibility of this reality

to distract from the deep restrained pools of

unreleased tears that drown my soul as she

impatiently awaits her moment of escape from

this grotesque prison of flesh.

I lift my head long enough to learn that the source

of my decomposition is external; in my haste

I’ve somehow placed unwarranted blame and

punished an innocent bystander for

uncontrollable disfigurement.

I

burrow

deep into myself, denying any ties

to this broken and listless shell, forcing the limits of

how far one can hide. Misled by the uncommon

calm of this amniotic sac-like darkness, I relax and

explore the unspoken longings of my heart.

and for better or worse, this is week two.

I speak with my clenched fists aimed precisely
at your nose
because it is the only way to ensure pre-emptive
protection from potential blows;
in the blurred lines between fear and respect, I lose
my ability to express this thing called love,
I am told that power is won and nothing
is worth earning if it is easily taken or lost.

I refute with my fingers entwined
in my predator’s hair
because forcing the antagonist into submission is the only way
to mask my shame;
in the whirling fury of rabid eyes and gnashing teeth, I forget
my need for acceptance or affirmation,
I am told that building “street cred” is more valuable than
an “education” in the life chosen for me.

I cry out with the flaunting of my curves and
the flirting of my dance
because the catcalls, whistles, and lewd comments communicate
that people are looking at me;
in my coy glance I hide the tears that
spring up from the well of my brokenness,
I am told that no one will care enough to desire a closer look.

I scream to be heard over the aching drone of
everyone else’s complaints
because your sorrows are not tied to mine and
I am alone in this plight;
in the clear echoes that resonate from
the overtones of my piercing wail, I wish someone would teach me
how we are all connected and tell me I can choose to belong -
I am told I am a leader only of the miscreants and the degenerate weak lot.

I spit biting words like knives or heat seeking missiles
locked onto your deepest insecurities
because making a scene means personal attention when
I haven’t yet learned to share;
in the confusing height of intervention, I silently hope I didn’t
share my dark secrets with you when we were friends last week,
I am told that “words can never hurt me” but I wonder
if “frustration” at your cruel remarks is a part of that paradigm.

I speak with my fists.
Why is no one listening?

a little bit of inspiration never hurt anyone

The other night, as we talked about the daunting challenges of social injustices and the apathy of the people around us, a friend asked me how I still believed in positive change. I realized, despite... well, everything, I have never stopped believing in the resilience of the human spirit, especially in the face of adversity. Today, a humble yet passionate advocate and leader by the name of Greg Mortenson exemplifies the epitome of that unwavering compassion, I would swear is innate in all of us. Tonight, I completed Three Cups of Tea, jointly written by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, with tears in my eyes and joyous celebrating in my soul.

In a news world that increasingly champions the superiority of fact over all else, reporting those facts completely devoid of all emotion and forcing a slow and discreet severance between mind and heart, Relin begins this book with a disclaimer - a rush of reality: firmly claiming that it is impossible not to care, explaining the contagious and addictive nature of one man's passion, and clearly dispelling all misconceptions about the range of one person's efficacy in the world at large.

In 1993, Greg Mortenson tried to climb a very big mountain in Pakistan in a effort to honor the life of his sister with epilepsy. Due to a series of unfortunate events, he failed and taking a wrong turn, stumbled upon a small mountain village that took him in and cared for him until he could travel again. He had studied neurobiology and become a nurse in efforts to care for his sister and learn more about her condition; so he used his skills to provide services in the village which suffered from a severe lack of care as well as practically non-existent access to resources. One day, he asked to see the village school and discovered 82 children writing their lessons from memory in the frozen dirt, out in the open. This town of Korphe had no money to pay the dollar a day for a teacher, much less a school building, so they shared with another village. The teacher came three days a week, and on the off days, the students simply reviewed on their own what they had learned. Mortenson was appalled and moved by this fierce desire to learn that reminded him of his sister, and so without a plan or any resources, he promised to build them a school.

Mortenson had no idea where to start, but through random connections (isn't that how it always works?), he found a benefactor who would fund his first school for $12,000. He went back, ready to build, but was side-tracked by various other villages who tried to con him into building his school with them instead of in his promised mountain town. When he finally got back to Korphe , they told him that they had considered his offer, but before they had a school, they needed a bridge that would connect their village across a very dangerous ravine to the main road. Mortenson returned defeated and sulked until a friend of his benefactor told him to just ask for more money. He was granted his request and proceeded to build both the bridge and the school in fulfillment of his vow. Seeing his passion and ability to follow through on his tasks in addition to the great need that presented itself, Mortenson's benefactor endowed the Central Asia Institute to allow Mortenson to continue building schools in rural Pakistan.

His journey has been far from easy. Mortenson faced constant setbacks due to local political corruption and lack of financial resources. His projects have expanded to vocational centers for women as well as installation of plumbing and electricity. His work became increasingly difficult and important after 9/11 when "a village called New York" was attacked and refugees flooded Pakistan, fleeing the undiscriminating violence of both the Taliban and the American military in Afghanistan. Through the CAI, Mortenson provided immediate relief efforts, focusing on the importance of education while also developing long term plans for his programs. Over the course of ten years, he has managed to plant 55 schools, and is extending his work to the rural destitute regions of Eastern Afghanistan.

Mortenson, who grew up as a missionary kid in Tanzania, is a simple guy with a big heart. He has vision and courage to serve a unique need with all the energy he can muster. He literally has a magnetic personality that draws like-minded people into his inner circle and they serve and protect both him and his work with the same vigor and hope that distinguishes his efforts. His cultural sensitivity and relevance puts everyone in his presence at ease and his genuine manner earns him undeviating respect, allowing him to build life-long relationships and invaluable cross-cultural bonds.

I started reading Three Cups of Tea on the L-train, and I couldn't hold back the tears that rose from even the first pages. It wasn't brilliant, moving prose; it was the content. Here is this man who lives an unmistakably extraordinary life. It's so easy to laud him as "one in a million" or as some hero who we can idolize; but that's the beauty of this story. He's just a guy who found a need, made a promise to fill it, and gave his everything to keep that promise. He doesn't asked to be praised; he wants to be an example. And he is; his compassion, drive, and focus are the embodiment of a universal human spirit, one that rises up in all of us and takes us with purpose and intentionality to those wrong turns where we learn how to make things right again. So I will continue to hope and wait for the day when that which seems "extraordinary" becomes part of our ordinary lives.

...but i do believe in sole-mates.

Every American girl wishes she could take the next good looking guy on the street and turn him into the perfect, caring, wise husband of her dreams. And I suppose it's possible that some man could see in a little girl the makings of the woman he falls in love with and marries. Actually, that's always going to be pretty creepy. And yet in this intensely realistic tale of promise and patience, of foresight and trust, of a fantastical, yet practical love that doesn't seem to have a beginning or an end, it just works. Audrey Niffenegger creates the perfect relationship in her debut novel The Time Traveler's Wife, not because they live without problems, but because they have a picture of how it all ends up, and in the end, they love each other and everything just feels alright.

Causality is rendered obsolete, perhaps because its application would debunk the notion of "love" in the story, as the reader tries to piece together this "chronologically challenged" narrative. We're given no explanation for Henry's time travels that break all natural laws. Often triggered by stress, he disappears and appears - naked, because he can't manage to take anything else with him - in unpredictable places and times for an unknown duration. For another unknown reason, Henry is able to visit his future wife, Clare, many times during her childhood. This is where the story get tricky: Clare meets Henry as a child, falls in love, finds him in her present when she becomes older, and becomes his wife. Henry knows that Clare is his wife when he meets the smaller version of her, but she seeks him out and loves him later on because of her initial experiences with his older self. Henry's influence on Clare as a young person greatly influences who she later becomes; while Clare's image of Henry as an older man gives her hope and guidance with the younger, more volatile version of her husband. They both change the person they see in front of them into the image of the person they have in their minds (and have experienced in some form) and this is precisely the concept that I find difficult to label "romantic" and simply digest.

Clare, especially, is put in an incredibly challenging situation. Her life is built around her own patient waiting - for Henry to visit her as a child, for Henry to grow up into the man she knows him to be from her childhood visit, and finally for him to come back from his various inexplicable and incalculable trips. She endures all this through the love she develops for this man who teaches her about life and literature, while even taking great lengths to defend her honor. Clare suffers through the hardships of every relationship because she loves the untapped potential in the man she's dating to become the man she marries. In real life, people with these misconceived notions are scoffed at and talked about with disgust or elitist sympathy during sadistic dining rituals.

Henry and Clare's lives are intertwined in a way that evokes a shudder like one of revulsion from jaded cynics walking in on a conversation about soul mates. It's almost too easy, that this couple survives years of pain and fear, intermingled with passion and acceptance; because, they know how the story ends. Real life doesn't give us the happy ending so that we can pull through with the knowledge that any unhappiness is temporal. Every day, we re-evaluate and choose to love the people we love, to commit to the people we relationship with, to see what they can be but still care for who they are. And it's the choice to share that uncertainty, not knowing where we're going or who we're becoming, that sweeps me off my feet.

behind these lattice windows

Everyone loves the mysteries of a secret world, locked away in some parallel universe that we often neglect to recognize as our own. We love to hear the whispered stories of shielded lives behind walls and screens. We live for the rush that we get when we learn something previously hidden, accompanied by the soft pattering of our hearts as the realization of having gained a special trust sweeps over our bodies and settles softly in the peaceful parts of our souls. And that is precisely the effect that Lisa See creates when a reader is bold enough to delve into her acclaimed novel: Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.

Recounting a lifetime of ardor and emotion, Lily's detailed narrative allows us to enter into a place that shines with a glimpse of paradise that stands guard against the social oppression that makes such a place a necessity. This sacred utopia - in a culture where a woman is worth nothing more than the sons she can bear - is the highly coveted and fiercely protected intimacy between women. Some create small groups of "sworn sisters" within the local community who act as support systems for one another, but even these exhibit loose ties when compared to the bond shared between laotong, "same olds" - a relationship fostered from childhood, formed and revered to be more binding than family or spouse, because it is a relationship of equality and choice in a world functioning on the rules of responsibility and indebtedness.

In an effort to possibly justify or redeem the choices she has made in her life, Lily explores her lifelong journey with Snow Flower, her laotong. Communicating through nu shu - "the only written language in the world to have been created by women exclusively for their own use" - the two young women create for themselves a world of dreams and promises that attempts to shut out their bleak shared realities. As a middle daughter neglected by her family, Lily finds in Snow Flower a genuine human connection as they both plow through life's hardships in search of an affirmation that will establish a self worth innate in their nature as human beings, independent of their bride prices. Lily runs from paradigm to paradigm as she reconciles various manifestations of love in her life: "mother love" that beat her with a stick while she broke the bones in her feet to create the perfect 7 inch "golden lilies" that would ensure her a good marriage; her husband's love, often childish but sincere, that bridges the outside world of the man with the inner sphere of the home; and her laotong love that encourages Lily to recognize and share the deepest most real parts of her self, but also leads to the darkest, most excruciating pains that Lily will carry for the rest of her years.

In this clearly vulnerable account trust, betrayal, and forgiveness, we are called to wonder about the walls of dishonesty and anger we build around ourselves in an attempt to bury our own insecurities, even when faced with the scrutiny of love. How much do we really believe in this idea of unconditional love that Lily expresses in the opening pages? Are we doomed to be daunted by our unwillingness to extend it? Or is the real fault in our inability to trust in its existence and simply receive it? I believe that See, through Lily, documents this life filled with regrets precisely so that we can believe in a life free of them.

intimacy

words, sound, expressing.
.....whispered screams;
.....screams;
.....whispers - expressed.
letters, symbols of expression.

safe in my cocoon of verbalized emotions, tangible
ideas, suffocating beneath everyone else's perceptions. a need
to be understood without my own grasp on... shhh.
.....be still.
..........shhh.
...............endure the unraveling silence.
..........shhh.
.....let the quiet undress you.
..........shhh.
...............stand naked before yourself without shame.
..........shhh.
.....the words will come when you stop trying.
..........shhh.
...............and listen to the calming sound of...
..........shhh.