A Rainy Day Memory

I used to love rainy days as a kid. When the sky became covered in those ominous gray clouds and thunder rumbled from the heavens, I'd hear my heart pounding in my chest. The sound the sky made grumbled in my bones. It reminded me of manic drumbeats or even the crashing of buildings in a world above the sky. I didn't want to spend those times being afraid, so my little sister and I used to pretend that we were adventurers out in the storm and that we needed protection. We would make our own cheap little forts by tying our bedsheets to the end of the bed posts. We would ask dad to buy us some snacks (and he always did) and we would gather them into the fort as if preparing ourselves for hibernation. We took our favorite toys and they became our trusty sidekicks, mapping out new terrain as we waited out the dangerous lightning storm that was threatening to ruin our entire expedition. 

We were scared. But it was the fear that could only be conjured during make-believe. The real world couldn't hurt us. We knew we were safe. It was exhilarating watching the rain tear from the sky with fascination and awe. Our windows, covered in raindrops, resembled stained glass. We were in our own world, stars in our personal movie. The patter of the storm became our symphony. The thunder became our plot thickening sound effects. The crackle of lightning was our stage light. We were the performers in a story only we would appreciate. As I got older, I would replay those happy moments and marvel at how simple and beautiful they were. 

Sometimes, a member of our travel party would get lost in the wilderness. Huddled together under our sheet, we would stare off into the wide expanse which was our carpet and silently search for the courage within ourselves to brave our imaginary world and search for our missing friends. We knew that we were needed. We knew we were their only hope. And this realization spurred us into action. Slowly, we stepped out of our protection, and into the great unknown. 

It never occurred to us that this would be a precursor to the strength we'd develop in later years, as we faced struggle after struggle while tapping into that hidden reserve of bravery within us and pushing on. It never occurred to us to ponder the juxtaposition that we were children prone to dreams of exploration while confined to the  small rooms in our cozy home. We saw the world as much bigger than ourselves, much bigger than reality could ever close in on us. We were not bothered by the lack of space or tools. We gathered our snacks and our will and we crawled through the blue shaggy "jungle", relying on the fact that we were together and that even though the storm was raging, we were sure our of success. 

Along the way, always we would run out of food. We seemed to relish those dark moments as we stared wide-eyed and mock afraid into each other's faces and shared a single nod. Food or no food, we were pressing on. Lightning blazed from above and we would cling to each other, momentarily shocked and then giggling out of surprise. We'd use a flashlight (if working batteries were actually in the flashlight then we had hit the jackpot) and sweep it across the "jungle" floor. There. Right there in the shadows. We'd spot a fluffy arm or a chubby face with cheerful eyes staring off into the distance. Probably pondering its demise. 

We'd hold in a great big breath and then charge in, fighting what needed to be fought, ducking under the branches our minds had set up for us, jumping over streams filled with lava or crocodiles or mud. We'd roll and crawl and cling to the short shrub lining hills we had imagined until finally, finally we reached our goal. And there our journey would end. The walk back to base camp would be quick and painless. We'd climb back into our makeshift tent with our missing party safely within reach. We'd ask for more snacks (an unsuccessful attempt) and we'd transform ourselves from adventurers back to young girls hiding under a sheet tied to the bedposts, saving our adventures for another rainy day. 

A Place in the World

I feel like I'm losing my place in the world. Which isn't saying much because my place is filled in very lightly. I step into my path with such trepidation I barely leave a footprint. Some call this cowardice. I call it caution. I want to be able to retreat softly, just incase the footprint is too big and something I will never be able to fill. I don't want to fail. And so trying just becomes another struggle.

I would love to feel like a pioneer. I'd love to push past the terror of the impending future and just do it. Do...something. Leave my mark, no matter the size. I'd love to look back on my place in the world when I am old and wrinkled and of no real use to anyone and say to my grandchildren who are filled with the energy of youth that I did something back then. They'd roll their eyes and nod and pretend to care but it wouldn't matter to me. I'd be able to look back at that point in my life when I didn't just settle for whatever rolled my way and I pushed forward, even though I was so scared my heart felt like it would burst.

But right now I'm off balance. One foot is right on the line that will lead me to...I don't know. But the other foot is holding back. Too afraid to step forward. Too fearful of the fall that may be waiting on the other side.

And yet...I feel like I want to fall. Somehow I'm hopeful that if I do, I'll find wings on my back, ready to help me soar. And maybe it's not that I'm losing my place in the world, but I'm shifting from one place to another, finding a spot that is unique to me. I don't know. I hope so.

Anyway. I've been painting a lot and thinking about images in my mind that I'd like to paint. There's cages and feathers and flight and falling and shattering in my vision. It feels much like what I'm going through, only in a different medium. There are words in my head that seek a page to be written on and I'll oblige it because I'm so damn tired of worrying about whether the words are good enough in the first place. It's a cycle that I need to break, this constant worrying and stalling and worrying some more. It's a dance that I don't enjoy, one that never keeps its rhythm, only hiccups and coughs and falters along the way. For a moment at least, I'd like to not give a damn about my worth and just do the things I enjoy, regardless of criticism.

I want to plant my feet in the path of my choice and watch as I bloom. Two feet on the line. Ready to fall or soar.

Cruising.

So I had my first driving lesson yesterday. 

Correction; I had my first freak out session behind the wheel of a car and then I had my first driving lesson. Being a long time passanger has made me quite anxious and neurotic about nyc drivers and their unquestionable desire (in my mind) to run my down. They drive too fast, barely signal when they turn, they scream at you for walking, they honk if you're breathing...ok slight exaggeration on the last one but you get the point. They're angry. And I, naturally, am terrified. 

So getting behind the wheel of a car with the intention of moving among these manic creatures made me very scared. My instructor was kind. He told me to go slowly and I did. He told me the proper way to get out of a parking spot and into the street. A man waiting to park behind me started screaming. Already. I hadn't even put the car in drive and already people were screaming at me. My legs were shaking, my eyes were wide. I felt like some bug-eyed animal left among a pit a predators. I prayed that I wouldn't die. 

I didn't. Obviously. But I seriously considered that as a possibility. 

What happened instead was a slow but not too bad experience where I slowly but surely turned, stopped, reversed and drove my car with the caution of an old lady, much to my instructor's pleasure. 

He said I wasn't too bad. I thought he was just saying that to be nice but still, I couldn't help but feeling a little pride. 

Openings

I've been having dreams lately about door and windows and prison bars slammed shut. And in each dream I'm on the inside, reaching through those prison bars are closing the doors myself. In my dreams there was always a stranger on the other side, seeking to come in or, in the case of the prison, turning their back away from my touch. Those people were foreign yet familiar, as if I'm seeing my own reflection at the bottom of some lake and mistaking that other self as the enemy. I'm either pulling back or diving in. Existing or drowning. In the dreams, neither choice seems especially tempting. 

I've been playing a really innovative video game that continuously refers to a "time of miracles" in reference to a change that happens on the cusp of the journey. Every time I read that line I smile and wonder if my own journey will subsequently lead to a "time of miracles". If so, what would that miracle be? I feel as if it has to do with my dreams of many different kinds of openings closed shut before me and of my reaching out or pulling back. Both actions I commit to hestitantly. 

I'm dream walking. Dream waking. I'm searching for my time of miracles. Before me is a door, a window, a prison cell. I am trapped behind each one, hiding or seeking my other self on the other side. I both scared and desperate. My hand reaches out; pulls back. My reflection comes towards me or turns her back to me. Fear blooms within my heart. Loneliness spreads along my palms, singing my lifelines like the infinite trails of stars. 

And then I wake up. 

Affirmation: You are Limitless

This journey towards making my dreams a reality has only one true enemy. And that is me. 

No matter how many people speak negatively of my desires or fill my head with doubtful words, ultimately I am the one who makes the final decision. I am the one who either brushes past the stings or fall to its poison. There is a choice in the matter. I am the one who chooses. This power is mine and mine alone. 

So why do I bother with doubt in the first place? I mean, ultimately I am the master of my own destiny right? I can walk my own path, so why the struggle? It's because I put myself and the dreams that motivate me into a tiny box. I give myself walls and regulate their distance. I allow myself to go only so far before I reach the barrier and when I do, I believe only one thing, that I can go no further. I close myself up to the possibility of success. I am the one who rations the space that I feel I deserve and like a caged bird, I mourn for my freedom. But it is all my doing. I am the one trapping myself. I am the prisoner and the prison itself.

But dreams are boundless. 

They stir the synapses of my brain and push outward, forcing me to see its possibly through space and time. I begin to imagine a future where my dreams are realized. Already they have tapped into a realm I cannot go. My dreams have no box to shut itself into. It has no prisons to mourn in. I could not cast a power into a man-made space and force it to stay. It will reach higher than the walls I build each and every time. 

I think about this and begin to understand something else. If I am able to create an idea so powerful that no prison can hold it, what does that make me? Surely not a person who will let one obstacle prevent me from actualizing the dreams I birth into the world? I create my own blockades, I design my own prison walls and for this reason I understand that without those barriers I would be limitless. I would be able to shatter any obstacles of the world because I've already destroyed them in my mind. 

The Solitary Act of Coping.

There is a pattern to my emotional coping. It goes like this:

Feel an overwhelming negative emotion. 

Shuts down. 

Stops contact with family and friends.

Removes self from the world.

Brood.

Hypothesize.

Accept.

Starts contact again.

Slowly reemerges back into the world. 

And the cycle continues. 

I'm not the kind of person who, when I'm feeling angry or sad, chooses to share my sadness or anger. I remove myself and I become solitary. I let my mind work out its response to the trigger of my emotions. I let my body come back to its plateau. Because when I feel those emotions the first thing my body does is tense up. I feel the anger radiate through me. Or the sadness squeeze my gut and dry my throat. The sensations take over and all that I am becomes angry or sad. My mind begins to replay the trigger events and I'm stuck in that moment. I can't get away from it. And so if a person were to interact with me all they'd get is the residue of my anger or sorrow. 

That's a lot to put on a person. 

Especially someone who I care about and who did nothing wrong. So I isolate myself until I feel like me again. For a long time I believed this was the way to function. I didn't even bother to look at it from the other standpoint. How can my friends, my family ever claim to know me if they don't really "know" me? Which is to say, how can they get a sense of who I am if every time something affects me negatively, I run away? I'm perfectly ok with seeing my friends angry or sad. In fact I make it my duty to try and help. I am the shoulder to cry on, the calm voice of reason and reassurance. I tell them that I'm there if they need me. And yet I would rather face the unpleasant parts of myself alone than let my loved ones do the same for me. 

I can argue and say that what I do is a sign of love. I'd rather deal with it alone than burden my friends. But what I'm really doing is alienating the people I care about at a time when I may need them the most. What I do is make them feel inadequate, unable to really understand me or my emotions because I am constantly pushing them away. I'm creating a barrier between my friends and myself. However thin that barrier may be, it's there and it affects the way I interact with them and how closely I let them into my lives. What I'm really doing is hiding my vulnerability. I don't want them to see me hurt. I don't want them to witness my rage. So I hide my feelings and ultimately I hide myself from those closest to me. 

This is an act of cowardice, not valor. I'm afraid the people I love won't like what they see. I'm afraid they'll see me at my most fragile moments and abandon me, unable to cope with my emotional state. I don't even take account of the fact that I've seen them in various emotional states and I care about them anyway. I just assume that I'm not good enough to stick around for. 

It's almost silly how the way I deal with other people doesn't seem to qualify for me. It's as if I view myself as a different species, not quite human, not quite important enough to fully love and accept. It's crazy how I push the people I care about away.  But I think just writing about this is a step in the right direction. I've been hiding too long. Posting my little grievances on my social media site is one thing. Letting someone I care about see me when I'm not all together is quite another. But I will do this. Because they trust me enough to let me see their tears. They trust me enough to let me in when they are at their worst. I should do the same. They are worth that much. They are worth so much more. 

The Nameless Thing.

My dreams are faceless, soundless things. They hold no weight, choosing instead to settle themselves within the curve of my collarbone or the stoop of my (less than perfect) posture. I can feel them radiating their warmth and encouragement. And sometimes when trigger words pop into my everyday life, I could feel my dreams shudder, as if suddenly awakened by a force too great to name.

I want to name it "hope" but I'm afraid.

So it remains this nameless thing, causing my dreams to tremble and shine and move me in the way only dreams could. And I could feel their energy in the pit of my stomach, where my fear resides, bubbling and ready to overflow. I could feel them in my heart, where this nameless thing unfurls momentarily and leaves me breathless. It's a beautiful terrifying moment.

Some part of me, that believes in the universe trying to communicate and set us confused humans on the right path, believes that these triggers are the universe's way of saying, "Go on, this is yours! Do it! Don't be afraid!" And for a split second, resolve burns within me and I feel light-headed with possibility. But then there's another part. A quieter part. A deeper part, that whispers, "You'll only fail. You'll always fail. Don't even bother. What's the point?" And just like that, the resolve crumbles inside me. I feel angry at myself. I'm ashamed of my cowardice. I want to scream back at that quiet part of me that always makes me feel so small. I want to fight those words that always makes me hesitate.

But I don't.

Instead, I move through the world with my weightless dreams clinging to me as if they are all that's left in my life. And when a trigger word pops back into my existence, I savor that beautiful moment when I feel my dreams shake and shimmer. I smile at that familiar, nameless feeling opening in my heart and I allow myself a brief moment to consider that the maybe the universe really is showing me the way. It hasn't given up on me. It wants me to be brave and take a chance. One day I'll shake off the whispers that hold me back and I'm gonna answer the universe's call.

Knots

I stare at them and wonder if this is symmetry. How can they fold into themselves that way? What does it mean? Sometimes I want to untie them, slowly unfurl what they are until I reach the center. I want to know what it is they try to hide.

I'm afraid of what I'll find.

Maybe it's a whole new way to see myself. Maybe right now I'm like that knot and I need to unravel myself, I need to expose what's hidden inside.

How does one begin the act of exposure? How do you cope with the vunerability of being seen?

It's a cloudy Tuesday morning and I'm bending and twisting myself until all you see is the intricate outline. There's something delicate inside. I'm afraid to let it be shown.