And I Walked

I am currently reading a book called "City Dharma" by Arthur Jeon. It's a conversation about how to stay calm and spiritual in a busy city. It's full of fabulous reminders such as not getting mad at a driver who cut you off. They probably didn't see you. If they did see you, they don't know you, so it isn't personal. Let it go. This all goes back to my sankalpa of surrender. Leave it to the universe, and the universe will reward you with inner peace. So, I've been practicing . . .

I walk a lot. I have found that getting outside and walking seems to shake off the negativity. My adventures walking around downtown Providence never cease to amuse me. The people watching in Providence is amazing. This city holds such an interesting smorgasbord of types. I love to watch them interact, and figure out how it is possible that we are really all connected. Sometimes I can even see the connection for a second before it drifts away. Today, my computer at work decided it hated me. Instead of getting upset that I could not send the mass email that I needed to send to about 200 people, I decided to get up, smile and wander the streets for a few minutes.

First I wandered down Westminster Street to the bank. The bells of Grace Church rang noon as Annie and the Beekeepers' "Sad Boy" came over my iPod. It was an interesting combination that brought tears to my eyes. Church bells chiming over such a sad song of dysfunctional love. I've always thought of church bells as a symbol of new beginning. They always make me stop to listen. It is a happy sound to me. To have it juxtaposed against an equally beautiful sadness, stunned me. Church bells chiming midday; a plaintive voice singing.

Who's there? Sad boy.
Keep up crawling up my sheets
Last night
Saying I don't ever wanna go back home.
I'm so alone there.
So sorry for the things I do.
I really wish I could be more like you.

Kiss me, sad boy.
I'll try to make it better.
I won't ever let you down
When you come to me from the streets
I will fix your bleeding knuckles
and I'll chase you all around
this god damn town.

I don't wanna let you go.
Don't squeeze me too hard.
Truth be told, I still know how you break things.
You can see through my disguise
when I shuffle my hands
and I can't keep my eyes from moving
on and off you, sad boy.

Morning's breaking.
You turn to me and tell me
you don't ever wanna feel that way again.
And you're so scared.
And I think I understand you
like I tried so hard but never could before.

You don't wanna let me go.
Don't push me too far.
Truth be told, I still know how you lose things.
I can see through your disguise
when you shuffle your hands
and you can't keep your eyes from moving
up and down me, sad boy.

I don't wanna let you go.
Don't squeeze me to hard.
Truth be told, I still know how you break things
When you're with me, sad boy.

I'm listening to these words, the sad voice, and I'm hearing the bells. Bells that make me think of hope. That I heard coming out of listening President Obama's Inaugural Speech, and made me think "Yes, we can." Listening to that combination of hope and loss, tears came to my eyes. I stopped to look at the steeple. As I stood looking up, the universe slapped me. The breeze picked up snow and carried it to my face. I suddenly had to smile. There is no better feeling to me than a breeze in my face. I didn't mind the snow so much, but it was cold and reminded me to keep walking. I was suddenly thankful Annie's "Silhouette" hadn't been playing or I would have been bawling on the curb. I laughed out loud at the thought. A man in a suit, walking toward me, clearly wishing he'd thought to wear his coat on his lunch run, looked at me with a strange expression and then laughed himself. Ah, yes, universe. I should be spreading positive energy. Thank you for the reminder.

What I find interesting is that when I stop worrying and leave my issues to the universe to fix, I seem to be surrounded by positive energy. I love that feeling. I feel like I tread lighter. I smile more. The cold doesn't bother me so much. People are just people. Instead of looking around me and wondering where all the crazy people on the bus come from, I find that I am one of them. After all, I'm the one smiling for absolutely no reason, and what do I have to smile about? I can see it in the faces. On the other hand, when I'm walking down the street, I seem to emit, not only a positive energy, but an intense sexual energy. I find this bizarre.

This summer, I couldn't walk down the street without a man stopping for directions to a place in front of which he was standing. I couldn't go to the grocery store without someone offering to carry my bags. I had two men try to hit me with their cars to flirt with me. Cat calls become commonplace. Men stopped to watch me walk past. And not just run-of-the-mill men. Beautiful men. Intelligent men. It was disconcerting. I've never been that girl. That energy calmed down, and life was peaceful for several months. Now, it's coming back. I'm not sure what that means. Over the past couple of weeks, it has all been happening again. Boys have asked my friends for introductions. The stopping me for directions has begun again. I'm allowed on buses first and doors are held open for me to pass through. As I was walking down Empire Street, back to my office, a man pulled his car over to the first available spot, called me back, frantically ending a call on his cell phone. I walked over to ask him if he was alright, only to be informed he'd just wanted "to admire my beauty." I informed him that I needed to return to work, and kept walking against a backdrop of Ryan Adams' "Mockingbird" and this man yelling for me to come back, let him give me his card, please take him out because he's new in town. Another man who works on the block and who everytime he sees me tells me to smile, said "I told you you have a beautiful smile." We had a laugh over that, as I kept walking around the corner. I was thinking how this energy could really work for me in my new position . . . "Here's my card," she said in her sexiest voice. HA! And thank you for the commission.

By now I was in my office and ready to face another several hours of soul-crushing sales work. I'm about to begin my first corporate push for "A Raisin in the Sun." I choose to look on the bright side of being forced into a sales position. I will now aquire an entirely new skill set that will make me marketable to development offices. I will meet a new set of people. It's all new. It will be fun. I can do this!

Two hours after I should have left the office, I finally made my way up Washington Street to Kennedy Plaza. I sat on a bench where, according to a friend, I was sure to be shanked, and I began to write to pass the few minutes until my bus arrived. The bus was full, and I had to sit next to a young man who clearly wanted to be alone. Halfway up Hope Street, he started asking me for directions.

When I arrived at the Pawtucket stop, I stepped off the bus and into the cold air. As soon as I crossed the street and began my walk home, one of my absolute favorites, Jeff Buckley's "Grace," came over my iPod. "Grace" is a song that never fails to put a smile on my face and make me grateful I have the gift of being able to hear. "It's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die . . . Oh, drink a bit of wine we both might go tomorrow . . ." The refrain of "Wait in the fire" and the sound of the guitar in this particular song. I'm not educated enough to describe it. I just know it moves me. I was listening to "wait in the fire" as I made my trek through frozen streets. And for some reason, the combination brought to mind Judas frozen in a lake of ice. What made Dante decide that the lowest level of hell was a frozen lake where tears shatter and we can't move? And then I thought of my entire day. Walking, moving, riding, driving, going, and how happy it makes me to be able to move around in the world. I guess that was all the answer I needed.

Tomorrow, I have to drive my car to work. My schedule won't allow the bus. I think I'll park as far away as I can. It's supposed to be a lovely day. I think I'll walk.

My First True Love (Not a Note About Boys)

My grandmother used to love to tell stories about me. One of her favorites was about me when I was three, maybe four, years old. I was staying with her while my parents were off somewhere, and she had to take me to the dentist. I sat in the waiting room while she went into her appointment. When she came back to the waiting room, I was singing to myself. I saw my grandmother come in, ended my song, and everyone in the waiting room applauded. I hadn't even noticed they were there.

When I was a child, I would sing everywhere. I would sing in the grocery store. I would sit at my grandmother's piano and make up lyrics as I slowly picked notes on the piano. I imagined the hearth of her fireplace to be my stage and I would sing to imaginary friends. When I got into school, I sang in the school performances. Somewhere, there is video of me singing "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth." Yes, my front teeth were missing.

My father, a musician among many gifts, always encouraged my love of music. He gave me a tiny guitar to practice on. He would let me play his pipes and recorders. He would let me play his drums. By the age of 14, he had me recording demos of songs he'd written because I had a stronger voice than the woman who fronted his band - I just couldn't get into bars. I sang everywhere else though.

Somewhere, that all stopped. I stopped performing. My voice shrank. Instead of being powerful, it is now pretty. For a long time, I stopped connecting with music. More and more, I find you can't leave behind your first love. It won't let you. At sometime in my tiny toddler life, music carved a place in my heart. My love for music may have slept for a bit, but now it's wide awake. There are times I turn off the lights and lay on my bed and just let the music make love to me. There are certain pieces of music I cannot make love to because of the way the music makes me feel. I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like my body isn't my own and it moves how it wants to. I close my eyes and I just feel every vibration in the air.

There is a particular song that moves me in a way I can't remember a piece of music ever having made me feel. I want a man who can make love to me like that song sounds, which is precisely why I will never have sex to that song. If I play it for someone who I believe could live up to making me feel the way my song sounds, and he fails, the song will be forever linked to that man. More importantly, my song will be forever linked to his failures in comparison to my song. On the other hand, I am terrified of the man who can live up to the promises that song makes me. I know I'll love him. I will love him for making me feel like my song does. While I think it would be a beautiful thing to fall in love with and to, I also feel like I would be cheating on my first lover. In the movie of my mind, the perfect man will make love to me to a soundtrack of this song and I will fall in love with him and he will love me and this song becomes our song together. Our bliss. How often does that happen though? If he can't or won't love me back, I will be left with his connection to my song. I am terrified of lying in bed, alone, in the dark, trying to connect with my song and remembering the way that man would make love to me to this song. I'm not terrified of falling in love. I'm not terrified of losing someone I do love. What is terrifying to me is to lose my song, my bliss. I'm too protective of my true love to ever let that happen.

The Elimination Round

I look back at who I was, and I think I've spent most of my adult life in an unhealthy mental or emotional state. Family issues from at least age 12. I was always my own toughest critic, whether it be in academics, as a performer, being the best reading mentor I could be. I put myself through college, balancing a full time courseload with a full time job. I was in a terrible marriage. I became a single mother. I moved 500 miles away from everything I knew. So, I look at the person I was, and I see one big ball of stress.

I was a mess. From the age of 12, I began to get more and more emotional. By 17, I had IBS and migraines and had made it through a round of mono. By the time I left my husband, I was a complete emotional wreck and convinced I was insane. By the time I moved to New York, god help the person who looked at me funny because I would lose my mind. Screaming was not unusual. More often, I would cry. I just couldn't handle anything life threw at me.

Then, I moved here to Rhode Island. I drove here with one suitcase for three people, a box of toys, and a sob story a mile long. I thought things were magically going to change. Still, the stress didn't end. I felt like things were never going to get better and it didn't matter where I lived. The people were still going to take advantage. Men were still going to reject me. Jobs were never going to recognize that I was more valuable than just answering phones all day for $9 an hour. My car was never going to stop breaking down. My health would never get better. I would never live in a good neighborhood. My children would never see me because I had to work two jobs all the time. I just knew they would grow up to be drug addict serial killers. When they were on trial, they would cry and blame me for never being around to check their homework or buy them a pony. I could see it all.

Finally, I really could see it all. I started realizing that I was the only one who could fix anything in my life. I had to stop saying "If only this would happen, things would be better." It was a long road, but I finally pulled myself together. Last year, I allowed too much stress back into my life, and had a relapse. I weathered my mid-life crisis, and emerged stronger than before.

The difference this time is that I have yoga in my life. At every class, my instructor says not to judge yourself or other people. He reminds us that we need to listen to our bodies, every practice is different and just because we could do something last week, doesn't mean we can do it this week. We are instructed to observe, to feel sensation, to not react, to breathe through it, and to not judge ourselves. The longer I practice yoga, the more I feel myself doing this in daily life. I feel and I observe without judgment. I have learned to know myself well enough to know when I will have an adverse reaction and breathe through it. I have learned to observe, to take time out, to reflect. I have learned to respond later. I am not always successful, but when I do react, it quickly passes. I do not spend hours upon hours upset over a small thing.

Today, I realized a big, gaping hole in my zen zone. My friends.

Right before Christmas, I felt like my circle of friends was falling apart. There was family stress, financial stress, deaths, car issues, children issues, school isssues, work issues. You name an issue, I had a friend going through it. I was touched that they felt they could come to me to talk about it. I'm always here for anyone I love. However, I'm sure they are all rethinking ever coming to me again. Why? Because I worried about them. The beautiful people in my life came to me to just talk, and we talked. Then, I emailed them to let them know I loved them. I texted them to make sure they were okay. Every five minutes. I wrote a big, sappy note on Facebook since most of them have accounts there. None of them of have really talked to me since.

Then came yesterday. I was home from work, and received a call from a friend from work. She'd been laid off. Call number two comes. Another friend, another lay off. She gave me some information from her talk with upper management. She was worried about me being laid off as well. Within 30 minutes, I went through the following reactions: I'm laid off. I'm gone. Oh dear god, where is rent going to come from? I'll have to move . . . Oh, Leann, shut up. Here's what you'll do. You'll apply for unemployment, go to some temp agencies, and get all of your yoga and personal training certificates done . . . You know, if you're laid off, you could enjoy some time at home with your kids. Hell, you could even finish painting the kitchen! . . . There is no sense worrying about anything until you have something to worry about. One foot in front of the other. Whatever happens, it will be for the best. The universe knows where it is sending you . . . Oh, no! What are the other two going to do?? They have this and that going on in their personal lives . . .

Today, I went into work. It turns out that not only was I kept on, I have been given a new position in the restructuring of the company. It is a good thing for me. All day long I felt like I'd come through the elimination round and won a prize. Did I enjoy it? No. All I could do was feel awkward and sad for my friends, and I worried. My stomach started to hurt. My shoulders knotted up. I began to get a headache. Everyone in the office was cranky and negative. Granted, it was hard to not be negative today. However, it made me realize something very important.

Worry is a negative energy. No matter how well-intentioned, I am still putting negative vibes out into the universe. If my friends are coming to me with a burden they are carrying, how is it fair of me to make it heavier with my own issue of worry? It isn't fair at all. I love my friends too much and appreciate them too much to do that to them. Saying I can't worry about them sounds so cold-hearted, but it is so true. I can't. I won't. I will keep them in my heart. I will keep them in my thoughts. When something negative happens to me, I trust that the universe is leading me in a different direction. I am usually right, and it usually ends up being a wonderful thing in my life. I can look back and be grateful for the negative occurrence because it was actually a positive one, a blessing in disguise. I am so sure that the same is true for my friends. I will continue to ask if they are all okay, but I will not do so with a heavy heart. I will do so more with the intension of observing and lending peaceful energy to help heal their stress without judgment.

Going Up Tomorrow Night

I've obsessed all day. I'm in a show. It goes up tomorrow night. It's all monologues. All. That means I perform a monologue. Me. The stage manager. Who isn't stage managing. I'm on stage. Me. Kevin, what the fuck were you thinking CASTING me?? I'm really nervous. Nervous to the point of wanting to throw up.

As a stage manager watching actors go through this, it is easy to fall into the supportive role. Whenever one of my actors is having a bad tech/dress, I tell them it's a good sign and that I've never seen a show go well until there has been the tech/dress from hell. They buy it every time. I have been walking around town talking to myself. I'm sure strangers would love to know why the little petite woman is walking around telling her sister that she should burn the dress. Oh wait. I was downtown. No one noticed me over the schizophrenic man yelling at his imaginary friend that he was going to knife him. Anyway, I had that monologue down. I could get through it no problem. Then, I get to rehearsal tonight. Here's how it went:

Enter
Blah, blah, blah . . . Ummmm . . . Shit . . . Line . . . Oh, right. Sorry . . . blah, blah, blah, blah, blah . . . FUCK! Line . . . Right . . . blah, blah, blah.
Exit
Cry

So, I didn't really cry. I did the monologue twice. I got on stage and I drew blanks. I'm terrified. And dear GOD! They laughed. They were supposed to. There are very funny bits in my piece. But they actually laughed. And so did I. I was shaking by the end of it in frustration and nervousness. What if I forget that line tomorrow????

I'm trying to zen out. I'm trying. As I sat in rehearsal watching another actor who looked completely calm and collected on stage, I hear the following conversation in my head:
I can't do this.
Yes, you can.
I can't!
What do we do when we think we can't?
We try harder.
This is something I tell my children all the time. We don't say can't. We only try harder.

I'm taking a break now to freak out in blog form. I'm hoping it will allow me to get some nervous energy out. I'm practicing my deep breathing. I'll go back to the monologue in a little bit. I'll work on it tomorrow. And I will get on that little stage tomorrow and we're gonna have a bonfire.

Thoughts on Love

Late in 2007, I began to have doubts about many things in my life. I thought I was going through a slight depression. By early 2008, that slight depression turned into a full blown mid-life crisis. To most people, it is absolutely ridiculous that a 28-year-old woman would go through a mid-life crisis. Whatever you may want to call it, I went through a life crisis complete with too much partying, too much drinking, too much stress and negativity. I dated a string of jerks.

I can't pinpoint the moment when I decided I'd had enough of me. I can't say when I hated being in my own skin. I just know it happened. I crawled into a little hole and covered myself with a rock. Here I tackled many of the hard questions about my life, career, and the men in my life. I still stayed home more, and let my children's love help heal me. I put myself on a two-drink limit, if I drank at all. I associated with a select group of people. I cut out unnecessary stressers. I allowed yoga to actually take its affect in my whole life, not just when I was on my mat. I studied other religions and philosophies in more depth than I had before. I observed myself, my reactions, my thoughts, my feelings. I studied me. One of the most important things I learned about myself is that I am happy being single. I'd said for a long time that I didn't need a man in my life. I finally believed it.

I emerged from my cave. I was calm. I smiled for no reason. I loved my life in a way I hadn't. I walked with the lightest heart I'd had since I could remember. Men noticed. I must have put out an amazing amount of energy when I crawled out of my hole. I'm not the girl men stop in the street to admire, but somehow I'd become her. I could have had a different date every night of the week, and I turned each one down with a smile. I listened to confessions of love from surprising sources.

I asked a friend at one point why I seemed to inspire men to love me, but why it never seemed to work out. He pointed out that I ended up with men who needed me. When I thought about it, I supposed that was true. However, I'd needed them too in different ways. This lead me to wonder if I'd ever really loved them, or if they were simply filling a need in my life at the time I met them. Is that what love is? I thought about the men I'd said "I love you" to. There was my first love. I think that was real in a way only a 16-year-old girl can love. It was too innocent to not be real. Some people say that no one that young knows how to love. I disagree. I watch my children, and how fiercely they love me. I loved my sweetheart with a pure, childlike love. When he broke my heart that innocence was lost. So, have I loved since then? Sometimes I think yes. Sometimes, I think no. I certainly had intense feelings at the time.

I have often made a joke of something I really believe. That is this: Love is not the warm squishy feeling we have at first. It isn't the sexual drive. Love is finding someone whose issues mesh with my own issues.

That's why my 16-year-old love was so perfect. We didn't have the issues holding us back, and once issues began to develop that love fell apart. Men in my life from that point have had different energies and focuses. I didn't know any of them long enough to really know what their issues were. Their energies may have drawn me too them, but once I knew what their issues were or they understood mine, we drifted apart. I don't know that love is meant to be forever, but I do think it takes a long time to develop. Real love. I realize and give thanks to the universe that it has provided me with people who could give the energy I needed at a given time in my life. I'm sure I've been the woman granted to a man at certain points in life. The energy provided sustanence at that time, but in the end the issues didn't mesh.

I think our hearts are drawn to people. I think our souls, our energy, search for likenesses and become excited when they find one, no matter how small. But love, not being in love, but truly loving someone, is a choice. It's hard labor. The rewards can be amazing, but it is intense work. Knowing now that I can take my time, that I can get to know someone as long as I feel I need to, is a freeing feeling. Honestly believing that I don't need a man to complete my life is a feeling beyond description. I am free to be loving without being in love. I am free to study, and learn and get to know all of the issues before I decide I love. I can take as long as I need without possessing, and I don't have to take possession just because I decide to love. It simply is not all up to me. It is a journey I can't make alone, but we should be sure we're good travel partners.

There is a lot more I'd like to say. Love is quite a large and fluid topic. However, I'll leave off here with a poem by Norman MacCaig. It has been one of my favorites for about 10 years. I hope you enjoy because this world really is full of marvelous possibilities.

Incident

I look across the table and think
(fiery with love)
Ask me, go on, ask me
to do something impossible,
something freakishly useless,
something unimaginable and inimitable

Like making a finger break into blossom
or walking for half an hour in twenty minutes
or remembering tomorrow.

I will you to ask it.
But all you say is
Will you give me a cigarette?
And I smile and,
returning to the marvelous world
of possibility
I give you one
with a hand that trembles
with a human trembling.

Wanderlust and Creation

Growing up, I was never taken aside and explicitly told "Leann, you are only good for getting married, cleaning your husband's house and having his babies." However, that's the lesson I learned. In subtle ways, I was taught not to have dreams, not to aim too high. For instance, the only job ever pointed out to me as being suitable was a teacher because when my children were out of school, I would be off work. But I was a daydreamer . . .

I knew I wanted more than my mother's life, but I had no idea what that meant for me. I just wanted "something different." I knew I had one way out of New Kent County. That way was college. From the age of 12, I worked hard in school. At age 17, I was accepted early into the school of my choice. I went off to college thinking I would marry my high school sweetheart when I was finished with my teaching degree. I moved into a shoebox with a sink and bunk beds and an ultra-conservative boxmate. I met new people who had lived in different places with completely different lives. They would tell me stories, and I realized I wanted to see through their eyes. I realized there was such a thing as ultra-conservative.

I moved out of my shoebox and into a lovely little townhouse with another ultra-conservative whose Daddy "knew people" in Washington. Here, I experienced my first heartbreak and began to rethinking whether I was really meant to teach. I continued meeting new people. I learned there was a difference between interesting people and boring people. College itself kept me wide-eyed. The classes that were offered where amazing to my naive soul. Kerouac was open to me. History wasn't taught from a purely Southern view point. Medieval lit taught through the eyes of a tiny Jewish man. West African history taught by the daughter of Chinua Achebe. Professor Chris who said my writing would take me places. Professor Jerry who said my designs were shit, but I would make a great stage manager or Artistic Director.

To fund all of my self-discovery, I waited tables. I flirted with married men. Thinking they still had what it took to make a cute little co-ed flirt with them in front of their wives, they would tip me amounts that made their wives give me dirty looks. I would have rent and all of my bills paid in less than a week, so I could put up with a few nasty looks. The rest of the month's money was mine to blow on caffeine, nicotine and fuel for my car.

Classes were thrown aside in preference for wandering. It was nothing to take a pause from my drafting project for a smoke break, and suddenly be in my car watching the sun come up over the mountains 4 hours later, my project completely forgotten on the drafting table. Trips to the beach at 2am because I need to write, to think, to scream, were common. Most often, I would get in my car, pick a road, and see where it took me. I would live in my daydreams, especially in the summers after it rained, driving in the middle of nowhere with my windows down. I would drive just to breathe. To try to calm my heart. To keep from choking on something I couldn't name. Random trips to East Coast cities to which I'd never been would be taken at a moment's notice. Put too much on the card? No problem. There's an extra shift to pick up when we get back, with more married men who will tip far too much. Everything is wonderful!

While I never expected to be able to fly by the seat of my pants forever, I never thought about having to settle down. That moment in life was the only moment in life. It was the only time I really lived in my present moment, and it was freeing and beautiful. It came to a halt when I married a boy who promised me the world. We had plans for an Australian honeymoon, a move to the American Army base in Italy, travel to Greece. Instead, I only saw Fayetteville, North Carolina. The one time we moved was to Fort Lee, an hour away from where we had both grown up. The only reason for that move was because he was on trial as an accomplice to assault on a civilian. I watched his drinking. I watched his drug use. I watched the other women. I drove. Nineteen years old, hugely pregnant with our first baby, humiliated, and I could only drive around the base. He was looking at a dishonorable, and I began to forget the places I'd wanted to see and the things I wanted to do. My reality, my life, was less than that. Who would care if I had great stories? Who would share my experience? Who would care whether I fell in love with a particular rock formation or the color of the sunlight in another place or the way a local dialect sounded? No one. I had to settle down. I was told dreams were not for parents. I had my time, and now it was gone. I was only good for the baby I was carrying.

My husband was discharged other than honorably. My baby was born. His mother instructed us that we were not to move away from her because she would not allow her grandbaby to leave her. Never was he referred to as my son. Never did anyone assume I had control of his little life or that I wanted more for him. My husband only told me I was ridiculous and took his mother's side. I was going crazy, and I couldn't drive.

After I left my husband, I was offered a place on the island of Maui. My friend there wrote a letter that I cherish to this day. He reminded me of the beauty of my spirit. He told me my energy matched that of Maui's and the island would welcome me. As soon as the plane touched down, I felt an energy I'd never felt before. I felt peaceful after years of pain. It was the closest feeling to "home" I've ever felt. I've never felt more beautiful than I did while on that island. One evening, I went alone to Paia Beach. I sat listening to the ocean, writing by the fading light, and looked up to see the last golden beam fall over the mountains. In that moment, I knew for a fact that god exists. In whatever form he chooses to take, he's there. He created this universe.

Tonight, feeling the need to drive and being unable to leave my children and being unwilling to let them intrude on my sacred space, I think about how I used to run relatively free. I think about the path that lead me to sit in my apartment in Rhode Island feeling the need to fly. I think how I never finished what I set out to do. I still haven't been to Brazil, Spain, Italy, Edinburgh, London. I've never been to Maine, never mind out of this country. The world has so many beautiful things to offer. I want to see, smell, feel all the magic I possibly can. I grew a universe in my belly. That universe means everything to me. I would sacrifice anything to keep that world safe. At the same time, it has trapped me. I want to see god again. I'd like to ask him if he feels the same. I'd like to know if god can no longer freely wander because of his children. Somehow I think that one golden beam over the water to the mountain was a promise to me that I would be free to drive again one day. It's amazing to me how the universe provides what you need exactly when you need it, just as a parent to a child.