First

   March 19, 2014

First Post. Hurray! I think i'll celebrate with an outing downtown, the perfect excuse for a peanut butter cupcake from 25 Main. This semester has been nothing short of healthy; emotionally, physically, mentally. Balance has found it's way back into my life, and as always, with balance comes words. These words in particular came on a Tuesday afternoon at Barnes and Noble. Thank goodness for comfy couches, free words, and warm asiago pretzel's from Starbucks. Happy reading. Happy writing. Happy Wednesday. It's good to be here. 

I am a part of the earth. I belong here. Beneath a sky filled with pieces of light; a painted masterpiece, the finale of 12 hours, pink clouds tracing the endless blue. My hands touch the rough bark of a great oak. The earth’s spirit calls out, perfectly obedient to the will of its maker. So take a breath and allow the hollow tension of a few laps; sunshine will warm your cheeks and my soul, scattering freckles. A voice inside lifts an arm, all 1200 inches of my leg and all at once I am one, like the bark. I am controlled, free of cravings. I fill my body with fuel, my mind with truth. It takes well to the colors; yellow (banana), forest green (bell pepper), brown (whole grain).

I am aerobics and weight training and jazz and triathlon. More than anything though, I am seeking breath. Please fill my body with air. No, I will not be perfect. I can’t. My friends are not perfect, “WE DON’T WANT TO BE.” Excuse me, “We don’t want to be.” We don’t want your billboards and magazine covers, in fact, we painted all of them. Does that bother you? Because I am not sorry. We painted them with the gap in her teeth she has talked through for eighteen years and the way his eyes smile with him, like his entire face and spirit and toes are smiling and suddenly everybody else was, too. We painted them in passports and bled them with airplane tickets. Long Beach, California and Asunción, Paraguay and Atlanta, Georgia and (endless) pails of pure, blinding white. We painted your bill boards with so much light and truth they actually crumbled beneath our gentle weight.

Can I go back and tell the seventh grader? Would she have listened? She was lost in your magazines.

There were times I swayed. I hold my head high and say this though because my story is simple. Something inside called me back; stabilizing, grounding, purpose, direction. That direction is up, by the way, past your fallen billboards. Towards a man who watches. Who teaches through little hands with smudges of peanut butter, through bruised knees and meningitis and cut hair. He teaches to stand.  And I am so, strong.

I still have twelve hours, at least, until he paints the sky with colors preparing for tomorrow. I’ll try again.