The other night, as I am wont to do when mad ideas fill my head, I couldn't sleep.
I paced. I "cleaned". I read. I wrote.
I thought about work. I thought about ideas.
Work,
ideas,
Work.
Then I thought about love.
I thought about my family.
My tribe comprises of 7+ kooky trailblazers who have loved and been loved since the day they were born. No questions asked.
We laugh, we cry, we hurt, we love. We repeat.
In fact, if I had to sum up love after all these year of living it would be just that: "No questions asked. We laugh, we cry, we hurt, we love. We repeat."
Because when I've tried to ask questions, when I have tried to control, when I have tried to "laugh, cry, oh-this-is-too-hard, oh-this-isn't-who-I-think-you-should-be, oh-what-the-h-are-you-doing-with-your-life, or why-isn't-my-love-changing-you-into-who-I-need, repeat" I have never created much love.
I created, instead, a desperate and wanting delusion.
Because, in reality, we don't have much say in love.
And that terrifies us.
Terrifies us to the point that we turn love into something it is not: forced, fixed, conditional.
We put rules on love, we require guarantees of love, and we define and confine love until we've lost it altogether.
We crave love so desperately, yet we want it to show up on our short-sighted terms.
So much have I wasted on love-as-it-should-be.
But we can do better.
We can love better,
ourselves,
others.
And for whatever reason, the other night, alone and unable to sleep, family on my mind,
I felt it.
On Love
April 27, 2017
The other night, as I am wont to do when mad ideas fill my head, I couldn't sleep.
I paced. I "cleaned". I read. I wrote.
I thought about work. I thought about ideas.
Work,
ideas,
Work.
Then I thought about love.
I thought about my family.
My tribe comprises of 7+ kooky trailblazers who have loved and been loved since the day they were born. No questions asked.
We laugh, we cry, we hurt, we love. We repeat.
In fact, if I had to sum up love after all these year of living it would be just that: "No questions asked. We laugh, we cry, we hurt, we love. We repeat."
Because when I've tried to ask questions, when I have tried to control, when I have tried to "laugh, cry, oh-this-is-too-hard, oh-this-isn't-who-I-think-you-should-be, oh-what-the-h-are-you-doing-with-your-life, or why-isn't-my-love-changing-you-into-who-I-need, repeat" I have never created much love.
I created, instead, a desperate and wanting delusion.
Because, in reality, we don't have much say in love.
And that terrifies us.
Terrifies us to the point that we turn love into something it is not: forced, fixed, conditional.
We put rules on love, we require guarantees of love, and we define and confine love until we've lost it altogether.
We crave love so desperately, yet we want it to show up on our short-sighted terms.
So much have I wasted on love-as-it-should-be.
But we can do better.
We can love better,
ourselves,
others.
And for whatever reason, the other night, alone and unable to sleep, family on my mind,
I felt it.
 |
| Fresta de luz |
Tonight five 6th grade girls
performed
the most flawless Palestinian dubkeh
I've ever seen.
Mistakes were perhaps present -
perfection just a 10-letter word -
but with every kick and turn,
a full audience came closer
to another world turned not-so-foreign.
Mistakes were perhaps present -
perfection just a 10-letter word -
but with every kick and turn,
a full audience came closer
to another world turned not-so-foreign.
Those little bouncing bodies,
so full of light and love and future,
jumping,
stomping,
clapping
in unison,
hand in hand -
bright-eyed,
hearts pumping -
stomp, stomp,
beat,
stomp,
beat.
One woman
even wept
at the sight of so many tiny dancers
moving to a new rhythm.
A seemingly insignificant
prance,
a mundane little school rehearsal,
on such a microcosmic stage.
Oh, how often we tiny dancers suffer:
Toes bleeding,
we misstep,
we feel too weak,
too small,
too insignificant,
too out of sync,
too overwhelmed by the spotlight
too crushed
by our own inner critique
cutting deep,
that we miss
the rush,
we miss
the rush,
we miss
the dance,
we miss
the woman weeping.
Tiny Dancer
March 23, 2017
|
| Fresta de luz |
Tonight five 6th grade girls
performed
the most flawless Palestinian dubkeh
I've ever seen.
Mistakes were perhaps present -
perfection just a 10-letter word -
but with every kick and turn,
a full audience came closer
to another world turned not-so-foreign.
Mistakes were perhaps present -
perfection just a 10-letter word -
but with every kick and turn,
a full audience came closer
to another world turned not-so-foreign.
Those little bouncing bodies,
so full of light and love and future,
jumping,
stomping,
clapping
in unison,
hand in hand -
bright-eyed,
hearts pumping -
stomp, stomp,
beat,
stomp,
beat.
One woman
even wept
at the sight of so many tiny dancers
moving to a new rhythm.
A seemingly insignificant
prance,
a mundane little school rehearsal,
on such a microcosmic stage.
Oh, how often we tiny dancers suffer:
Toes bleeding,
we misstep,
we feel too weak,
too small,
too insignificant,
too out of sync,
too overwhelmed by the spotlight
too crushed
by our own inner critique
cutting deep,
that we miss
the rush,
we miss
the rush,
we miss
the dance,
we miss
the woman weeping.
 |
| The High Dive |
I once watched a girl
Attempt the high dive
About 25 times
Before she finally leapt
(nay, flopped)
into the deep pool below.
And as much as I laughed inside,
with every small child that passed her by
flipping,
twirling,
diving,
without inhibition,
On so many levels
I knew exactly how she felt.
Because we've all been that girl on the high dive:
Our toes dangling on the edge of something great,
Eyes surveying the height,
Mind weighing the pros and cons,
Heart pumped by exhilarated breathing,
We
Step
Back.
We think.
We fear.
We retreat.
We would rather miss the fall,
the potential flop,
that bruising smack of failure,
the embarrassment of emerging
wind knocked-out
and
spirits
low.
We simply
would
rather
not.
This year, however,
I want to jump more.
I want to jump more.
I want to feel the rush,
the plunge,
the smack,
the bubbles,
the lungs choking on chlorinated laughter
the gasps,
the applause.
I want to feel it all.
So take the job,
tell him how you feel,
call your mom,
start the blog,
start the blog,
u
J m
p
u
J m
p
and then
u
J m
p
some more.
Here's to those heart-sinking high dives.
May we all take them, daringly.
The High Dive
February 26, 2017
|
| The High Dive |
I once watched a girl
Attempt the high dive
About 25 times
Before she finally leapt
(nay, flopped)
into the deep pool below.
And as much as I laughed inside,
with every small child that passed her by
flipping,
twirling,
diving,
without inhibition,
On so many levels
I knew exactly how she felt.
Because we've all been that girl on the high dive:
Our toes dangling on the edge of something great,
Eyes surveying the height,
Mind weighing the pros and cons,
Heart pumped by exhilarated breathing,
We
Step
Back.
We think.
We fear.
We retreat.
We would rather miss the fall,
the potential flop,
that bruising smack of failure,
the embarrassment of emerging
wind knocked-out
and
spirits
low.
We simply
would
rather
not.
This year, however,
I want to jump more.
I want to jump more.
I want to feel the rush,
the plunge,
the smack,
the bubbles,
the lungs choking on chlorinated laughter
the gasps,
the applause.
I want to feel it all.
So take the job,
tell him how you feel,
call your mom,
start the blog,
start the blog,
u
J m
p
u
J m
p
and then
u
J m
p
some more.
Here's to those heart-sinking high dives.
May we all take them, daringly.
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