1/13/18 – “Sky”
When you’re a kid you look to the sky, dream of things you can do in the world. You hear parents say, “You could be president. You can be anything you want to be.
Reach for the sky.”
I reached and reached and reached, but all I feel is falling.
And this earth hits my back hard
each time I miss the mark.
I don’t succeed at the American dream. If I don’t have a picket fence, a baby at 25, who am I? What do I have to offer? No 401k or salary paycheck.
When Mom said, “Reach for the sky,”
bet she didn’t think I’d be a barista.
I have a dream but it isn’t
babies and BMWs and suburban neighborhoods.
I want to get my hands dirty. Taste the earth as it cradles me. I want to create art that makes people feel alive for a while. I want to plant flowers, appreciate their soil.
Mama, I’m sorry.
I reached and reached and reached
but I fell in love with the fall.
1/9/18 – “Post-It”
Post-it note sized
reminders of why it’s good to be alive
i. the smell of the ocean
lingering on your body
stuck in your hair
ii. the crunch-sound leaves make
the liberating sensation as you jump in a pile
and it catches you
like your mom used to
when you were lighter
iii. fingertips sliding along your bare skin
like ice skaters
goosebumps shoot up like ice flakes
and under your skin there’s
the warmth of a fireplace
iv. the way a body curves
its hills and valleys
how skin stretches to hold us
no matter our shape
v. words and their endless material
the infinite universes out there
waiting to be created
and the gift we all possess
to make them
vi. I’m so loved;
when my phone rings because my mom is calling
when he rubs my back for no reason
when I sit across from a friend with coffee in our hands
when Jesus came and hung on a tree for me
the love swells and
no post-it note can contain it
1/5/2018 – Five-Minute Friday Free Write
Is writing just a pity party?
Is that what writers do?
Invite all of our past hurts,
give them party favors
and tell them the cake will be worth it.
Remind ourselves with slide shows
played to sad songs
about all the times we’ve been wronged.
Drink too much and
go on and on
about how we never got a real childhood?
Why do people come to all these gatherings
when they’re always the same—
a memorial of pain.
Maybe daily life is just
a masquerade ball
and we’re all so sick of wearing masks
a party relishing the horrors of reality
is almost a relief.
My guests should be happy,
I have so much material
this one could go on for years.
Author’s Note: This one was just kind of for fun. I was having a hard time thinking of what to write about and this is what came out of it. It’s not spectacular, but I’m realizing that doing a 31 day writing challenge means some days are simply going to be forced. But that has to be okay, because at least I’m writing. Thanks to everyone who has been keeping up with it for the first five days!
The wind kisses my fingertips like we’re old friends meeting again. A dog’s collar tinkles like Christmas bells behind John Mayer whispering “now I’m free…free fallin’…” through my headphones. Green leaves reflect in the window pane in front of me, and through it sits a gray-haired gentleman. His fishermen’s hat lays on the table in front of him, covered in pins from a lifetime of experience I long to have. I wonder how to get myself out of this town, how to collect a scrapbook of memories on a cap like he has. Is free falling losing track of life in the mundane mess of things until you’re neck deep in a picket fence and tax deductions, or is it running away for a weekend into the mountains without looking at your bank account just to say hello to the leaves again? Fall in Florida is funny. It’s a friendly flirt that runs away into the summertime every few weeks, and you’re left with too many scarves and a sweat-beaded forehead. I’m too nostalgic to study science. DNA exists even in fickle Florida and right now I want to leave that world behind. The hum of traffic behind me taps at my shoulder, reminds me of my itch to disappear into small towns no one knows the name of, where walking is the primary mode of transportation. I feel most alive in the namelessness of a new town, where every face you meet is one you imagine you’ll never see again. There’s nothing to be afraid of there, no standard that’s been preset, no expectations to reach for. I’m breathless with exhilaration, staring in the face of someone who knows nothing about me, has no preconceived notions. However I behave is how I behave; is me. There’s nothing to compare it to, no Carla that I’m not living up to. Sometimes the old Carlas really make a mess of things. They rise up from the dead and haunt me, remind me what I was meant to be, what I could have been, what people wanted from me, every disappointing aspect of what I’ve become. It’s nice to go somewhere and just be Present Day Carla, the Carla that woke up this morning. There’s nothing to apologize for because this is the only Carla you’re ever going to meet. How refreshing.
But right now I’m here, the same old coffee shop, a familiar table, being teased by a wind that is only a whisper of the one I’m wishing for. The leaves here are only brown—there are no archways of glittering gold trees to drive through, no King Midas kingdom to get lost in. I get lost in my normal life. My normal apartment. My normal schoolwork. My normal TV shows. My normal coffee shops. My normal routine. And the ghosts keep coming in this haunted town.
God is the Lord of
death and life
and that means there’s
purpose and goodness in both–
in the mourning and the