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. 

A Different Kind of Day

I woke up this morning to the red burst up sunrise stretching over the horizon. I watched it change from crimson to gold and felt my spirit lift, as if dawn had chased away the fog of sadness obscuring my mind. April has come. It's time to put away my mourning. Gray days will come, that is inevitable but at this moment I feel closer to happiness. 

I chose a shirt of dark shades, lightening into a color more springlike and beautiful. It reflects the ascent of my spirit as I face a new day with fragile tendrils of hope. 

I'm waiting for the flowers to bloom. Meanwhile I'll plant seeds in my mind. They will be reminders that rainy days always bring something fruitful in the end, something beautiful and thriving; something that carries within it remnants of sunshine. 

Dad.

Today marks ten years since my father's passing.

It's such a strange thing, remembering the moment my world shattered. It was already fragile enough and his death just pushed it past the edge. It amplified my loneliness, my neediness, my desire to be cut off from the world. I wanted comfort and nothing. My life was, at that moment, a series of chaotic dichotomies. I did not know who I was or where I belonged anymore. All I knew was that he was gone and I was still here and the world was still spinning and it all felt very cruel to me. Like a joke gone horribly wrong. I mourned outwardly for years. Now I just mourn in my heart, in the dark when the world is silent and there's nothing else to think about other than the fact that he is gone.

I think about him everyday. I try to tell myself that I don't, but I do. It will come up as a reminder. Daddy. And then my mind will stir and recall his face and it will cast itself before me like a spell that endlessly repeats itself. I try to tell myself that as the years go by, I'm healing. But I'm not. The hole is still there and will always be. I've just learned to cover it with beautiful things, things that will camouflage how deeply it hurts to lose someone you love. I think that's why I seek out words. I think that's why I seek out the night. Both things are peaceful to me. It allows me to reflect and to cry without judgement.

There are certain things I remember about him, things that I will cling to my heart and never let go of. They are talismans that bound me to him, this man who has become only spirit. Meanwhile I'm trying to find my center again, my safety in such a spontaneous and unknown world. He left so suddenly and still…still there are remnants of him that I'm just now finding. It's like his death was an eruption and parts of him were tossed to different parts of my world, waiting to be found. I take those discoveries as a sign. A photo, a seashell, a song. Any of those. Everyone of those, are mine to reach to.

I want to believe that we are embodiments of light, that even as our shells disintegrate and merge with the earth, our light remains, indestructible. When I lay in the dark and recall his voice, I close my eyes and see sunshine. This is how I know he lived. This is how I know he loved me, this lonely child still grieving.

Gray days.

Today is a gray day. I woke up in a funk and it has continued to ferment inside of me. Days like these I want to cast myself off to a little island where the only inhabitant is me, sit in a warm sea of sand and let whatever comes, come. I want to give my emotions room to detach themselves from my body, float to the surface like little pools of oil in water and slowly, slowly, release me from this state of...

State of what?

Sadness? There's a hint of that there. Anger? A pinch of that is bubbling within me, sure. Despair? I don't know. I suppose it's a mixture of many things. I just want to let it out. Let it go. But maybe I should simply, let it be. Let it run its course through me and then evaporate. Morning mist breaking in the sunlight that is me, just a solitary ember glowing, rising. Or maybe I'm more likely the mist than the sun, cold little particles clouding up my vision, dispersing once a ray of light happens to shine upon it. 

I don't know. I'm just having a gray day. It will pass. I will give it time. 

Food Trucks, Markets, Crepes, oh my!

So this past Thursday a good friend and I got it into our brains to head to midtown and gorge on the bounty of food trucks that rumor had it, were always there. We has been planning a food truck excursion for a while and since Thursday was going to be the warmest day that I was free it felt like the perfect thing to do. I put

on my comfortable (albeit incredibly bright neon orange) sneakers and met her at Lexington and 53rd st. We hugged, we squealed, we drooled and then set forth on our journey. 

The gray skies and high wind didn't feel very warm and Spring-like to my friend, nor did it feel that way to me. But we shook off the chill of first day of Spring and headed down the midtown streets in search of fabled eats. I fantasized about munching on delectable Korean BBQ, or fighting my way through a gourmet donut ring. Our stomachs set the tempo we travelled by as the New York City streets buzzed with life. It took us only a few blocks to discover, however,  that there were no food trucks in sight. My friend's hungry groans sent me into panic mode as street after street we walked and found nothing. 

I didn't want to admit the obvious, that there were no food trucks at all. So we walked and walked and walked some more, until we ended up a block away from Central Park. It was only then that I allowed myself to taste defeat. The food trucks had alluded us. And we were so hungry. My friend, in the tone of someone who knows you've lost but doesn't want to make you feel like a loser, suggested we go to West 4th street. The restaurants were plentiful over there and a full stomach more than makes up for a failed search. 

I agreed. 

We set off to West 4th street, catching a train that let us off at our destination. As soon as we exited the station blue skies and sunshine greeted us. It was a sign. We had only walked a few feet when we saw a Thai restaurant offering a great deal for 14 bucks, we could get an appetizer, an entree and a drink. We jumped on the opportunity. I ordered dumplings, rice and beef and a coke. The dumplings were savory and fragrant, set on a simple white plate that showcased the beauty of the food itself. 

The beef and rice was delicous and cooked perfectly.  My friend ordered the same dumplings as me and noodles with beef. We filled our bellies and felt at peace.  

Afterwards, we paid our tab and walked down the city street. The atmosphere here was vibrant but not overwhelming, not like it is in more touristy parts of the city like Times Square. The people walking along the streets were laid back, trendy without trying too hard, the kind of people you could admire without feeling like you have to. We walked past a variety of restaurants, bars and shops, some with names that made me smile (you gotta love a store with a sense of humor). 

And then there, amongst the many shops, stood an indoor market. My fried and I stared inside, stunned. Had this always been there? It was filled with vintage jewelery (some I would love to purchase), original artwork and clothes for the trendsetter. It was incredibly refreshing and fun looking through the items artists had created. I'm always amazed at how much talent there is in the world. Even though our wallets were pretty light, nothing is wrong with a little window shopping right? 

We left the market and walked down an empty street, the chill was coming back into the air. I turned my head and noticed that between two building stood an empty space. The space showed an obscured view of the recently built World Trade Center. It was astonishing how quiet the world seemed at that moment and I wondered how long it would be before you could look at that lone tower, a sad beautiful symbol, and once again hear life and not the echo of tragedy. 

Our journey was ending. We were chilled and tired and no longer starving when suddenly I came upon the one thing that could make me forget about the cold creeping into my bones. Crepes. I wanted one. Badly. And with a little convincing my friend wanted one too (hurray for peer pressure!) and so we went into the warm, dimly lit restaurant. I ordered a Nutella crepe with strawberries and whipped cream. My friend ordered chocolate. We devoured our dessert and drank in each other's company. We had not intended to sit in a small little restaurant eating crepes. We had intended to walk the streets with little food truck finds digesting in our bellies. But I find that the simple, quiet moments produce the most sound. And this simple moment screamed happiness to me. 

Her (My Take on the Movie)

Recently, I saw the movie "Her" with Joaquin Phoenix.

There had been a lot of talk about it and I thought to myself that it wouldn't hurt to give it a try. I thought it was going to be some weird look into a man's obsession with a computerized voice. I thought that the movie would be simple and strange and somewhat entertaining and the most that would happen is that I'd leave the movie feeling slightly confused but no better because of it. It's crazy how expectations can be so completely destroyed by reality. But in this case, I'm glad it was. You see, "Her" was so much more than I ever thought it could have been. It was not just about a man falling in love with his operating software. It was about love in general. The process, the act, the highs, the lows. All of these were touched upon in the movie with such softness and vulnerability that I saw reflections of it in my own personal life.

The movie captivated me, lifting my heart up while simultaneously breaking it. I experienced "love" in the time it took for the movie to start and finish. It awakened a resonating sense of understanding within me. Suddenly the movie was an echo of many of the things I had felt and then just as suddenly it went beyond me. Yet even as the movie reached heights that I had never bothered to think of, it didn't leave me in the dust. It took me along and made me understand. I feel a little wiser. A little better. A little more prepared to take on love in all its simple, complexities. Here is what I've learned.

Identity and Love: can it coexist? There is such a fine line between our own identity and our partner's own when love is involved. We find ourselves wanting to be around them more, wanting to do what they do, experience what they experience. Every one of their joys become ours and their pains become our pains. It becomes easy to lose ourselves in the world love has created for us. We combine all that we are into the couple we have become, but the sacrifice here is a big one. We no longer have that line of demarcation separating us from the one we love. We are just one entity with two hearts, which on the surface sounds beautiful but is not always so, because when love is no longer there who are we? How do we get back to being ourselves when we've been connected to another for so long? Suddenly we are left trying to regain a semblance of who we once were. We begin to feel like we are nothing, like there's nothing left of ourselves. It's a painful process back to being our own person, but once we reclaim ourselves we realize how much we left behind and how much more we still need to piece together. It's a process of shattering and then gluing back together when it comes to love and heartache. But in the end, when we find that person we want to spend our lives with, we must remember to retain who we are in the process of becoming two people connected.

One of the quotes that really got to me in the movie was this one: "the heart is not like a box that gets filled up, it expands the more you love." This quote stunned me because it captured so perfectly the transcendence that is love. You can't bury the heart in memories and regrets, pains and fears. The heart cannot be filled. Instead all of those moments and emotions help it to grow and love most of all is a big source of its evolution. In order to love, we must understand that we cannot claim it. It is bigger than us and always will be. The boundaries are so much greater than a body allows and as we fall into love, it is simultaneously expanding, reaching higher, touching others. It's like a great consciousness that affects you but doesn't leave you as the only one, many others are being affected at that same moment and it is up to us to accept what love is, live in it and when the time comes, let it go. It is frail, and beautiful and infinite. And it is constantly growing.  Whether we are ready for that journey into the highs and lows of it are uniquely up to us, since love is also about the vulnerability of leaving ourselves open enough to let it in. Once we do, it stains us and we can never truly get it out. This is the risk we take to experience something so beautiful. But I truly believe it is worth it. Every single moment is worth it.

A Glimpse of Spring

This winter has been like a dream that I'm sleepwalking through. It is all gray skies and slush and misery. I found myself being less enthusiastic, with less of a desire to get out and do something. But yesterday was the ray of sunshine piercing through the mist. The skies were blue, the weather mild and the sun was radiant. And for the first time in a long time I felt myself waking up. I walked straighter and with more energy. I smiled more. And every now and again I'd tilt my face up to the sky and catch the sunlight, amazed that it's here. 

I chose to visit my best friend and we went for a walk in her Brooklyn neighborhood. Sometimes in winter you forget that you have neighbors. You barely see them when you trudge home in the snow. Today however, people were out in full force. They had awakened, same as I did. And they were ready to soak in the sunshine. My friend and I walked and talked and joked. We smiled at little kids playing on the sidewalks. We sat and relaxed in the park. And all was well with the world. 

Then we saw the ice cream truck and things got better. 

It's crazy what a single change can do to a person. A little warmth, a little more sun and suddenly the world is a brighter place. It was only a single glimpse of spring in this still winter. But it was enough. And I am glad for it.