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Post by Thursday on Jul 25, 2011 1:49:33 GMT -5
Anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, I’ve had to get myself. When I was younger, being the middle child meant that I got put on the back burner sometimes. I was constantly in the shadows between my wild, dramatic, big sister and the spoiled sweetness of my baby sister. My older sister learned to get things she wanted by manipulation and Emily, being the youngest pretty much got what she wanted regardless. So I learned to do things for myself and I stayed out of the way, dodging the tantrums and arguments of the rest of the family. I don’t know if it was a result of my environment or my own nature that made me that way but regardless I fell into my particular role as we all do eventually. As I got older and my reputation as the “good child” settled firmly into place on my shoulders, help was more available but by that time, I was so used to being independent that it made me uncomfortable. And if I couldn’t accept it when offered, there was absolutely no way that I could ask for it by choice. Luckily, I generally excelled at most things I attempted so help was not always necessary. But if there was something I needed or couldn’t do, more often than not, I let it slip away if I couldn’t get it myself. I think I was embarrassed to admit that I needed anybody. The things in life that didn’t come easy to me, I avoided and turned my back on them. The problem is however, that no matter how hard I try and evade them, they won’t leave me alone. Your failures in life have a way of haunting you for a long time and no amount of suppressing or ignoring can make them go away. It’s never been easy for me not to do something well and I still struggle with that concept even as I’ve grown older and become more self aware. Suddenly my flaws are front and center, the parts of me that I’d most like to hide, visible to the world. Now, it is expected for me to know everything and I have never been so clueless. I’ll smile and nod and pretend I understand but if you look closely you’ll see the crack in my façade, the flaw I’ve strived so hard to conceal, to forget. At some point I won’t be able to keep it together. Because there are some things in life you just have to ask for.
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Post by Thursday on Mar 1, 2012 0:27:10 GMT -5
I forget sometimes about the things I used to love. Before life got busy and I fell behind. I used to jog down by the river on Sunday mornings, promising myself coffee and a hot shower afterward if only I could make it that one last mile. I used to love going to the library and picking out books I’d never read, some of which would inevitably turn out to be terrible but some, surprisingly, I would devour in hours, then rush back to find another. I loved the classic movie channel and when finding nothing on at two in the morning, I would flip onto an old Cary Grant picture and stay awake laughing until sunrise. I used to love writing and being inspired by a great book. I loved summer nights, hot and lovely all together. I used to love being me and just doing the things that made me happy. But then the world changed. Or I did. Or both. There never seemed to be any time for those simple things I loved. School and work collided, all pushing me towards a future that once seemed far away and now loomed incredibly close and unwilling to be ignored. And I wanted it. I did. It was everything I had worked towards, years of commitments and dedication. I was driven and proud and growing up seemed like the only escape. But when I sat back and looked at my life, it all seemed like a blur. Things happened much too fast. So fast, I missed what had happened. I lost a little part of myself. There were no more morning jogs, just snatched half hours on a treadmill in a crowded gym. My library card sat dusty and unused on the desk, by a stack of overdue and unread books. Short, grocery store romances dominated my literary attention. My new cable provider cut the classic movie channel and any writing I did was for class, inspired by deadlines and grade point averages. I forgot how I used to love all those little things, the simply joy I found in them. I can make excuses about time or the lack thereof but the truth is, I’ve got plenty. Years and years to do all those things I planned for my future, the goals laid out before I even knew if I could achieve them. I don’t know why I was ever in such a hurry. We are pushed so hard at life sometimes; we forget what it’s all about. Because it’s not about a job and it’s not about the future. It’s about Sunday mornings and coffee and library books just waiting to be picked up. It’s about watching movies when you should be asleep and writing poems instead of term papers. It’s about me and you and finding our joy. Always.
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Post by Thursday on May 29, 2012 16:21:52 GMT -5
A Climbing Tree
One day after years of college dorms and apartments with roommates (nice ones if you’re lucky) and surely another brief stint of living at home with my parents (if I’m really unlucky), I would like to have a house. Not a rental or a landlord to answer to. A real house with a real yard. A house that would be mine.
I’m not too picky on the details. I don’t care if it’s small or large, made of brick or made of wood. I don’t care it’s red or blue or Pepto-Bismol pink. But there must be a yard and I would like it to have a tree.
Just one is all I need. After all, you can’t get too greedy. It doesn’t matter if it’s pine, or cedar, or oak. However, it’s can’t be just any tree. On this I will be firm. Not a year old sapling barely taller than me with twigs for branches that snap in the wind, or a skinny bush that’s just pretending. No. A tree in my yard should be tall and sturdy, with rough bark and wide and leafy branches, so green it hurts the eyes and just low enough to grab from the ground and a view like it’s the top of the world.
This tree won’t just be for me and my husband to sit under on warm summer evenings talking about our days or for our cat to race towards while being pursued by the dog. No, it will be for the children, of which there will be many. It will be a climbing tree.
A kid should always have a climbing tree. It’s a rite of passage, tree climbing. One we forget about when we’re all grown up. There’s always the bet of how high you can climb, the thrilling fear of falling and the sure grip of little hands on branches and a friend at the bottom, urging you on. You come home sticky with sap and twigs in your hair, smelling of green things and of freedom. For children, it doesn’t matter if it’s only one tree in a yard by a little house, when you’re up there in the branches, one tree becomes a forest and the house becomes a castle. They will climb and they will play, imagining worlds only they can see with heroes and villains and happy endings. The tree becomes a refuge, a secret place to hide, or a fortress in leafy splendor. Then if they are anything like me, when all the playing is over, maybe grab a book to read in the cool shade of the tall tree.
I’m sure I will scoff and lecture and warn about the dangers as all parents do. I will pretend to do the dishes just so I can watch them out the window without being obvious. My heart will leap when I see my sons and my daughters up at the top, so much higher than they should be. But I will let them be. Because I will see their faces up there in the tree, the joy and love and wonder of it all. The same look I get when I look at them and smile, knowing they are mine.
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Post by Monday on May 29, 2012 23:18:10 GMT -5
((Ugh this made me want to cry. Like, this belongs in a book somewhere. It should be a thing that's published. Really. It's amazing.))
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Post by Thursday on Jan 2, 2014 22:42:53 GMT -5
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