As They Giggled, I observed

DECLARATION: It's hard to be Mom when they are sick, when they are angry, when they are finicky, when they are fighting, oh but the joy I feel to be Mom when they are sweet, clean from the shower, giggling on the bed, and telling me I'm the best Mom in the world. My heart is so full right now. It makes every sacrifice worth it. (yes, mushy, I know...but damn it's great)

Time Travel - A Poem

for my sons

If I were given the chance to live again
To feel the pure love of a mother and father
To revel with the friends I never had
To run where my heart wished to
And meet a true love

If I were given an elixir
To make the past disappear
To remove the pains of my youth
To erase the sorrows that destroyed my faith
And look at life with a smooth brow

If I were granted the power
To change one moment of my story
To alter the course of my existence
To explore new universes
And all that it would entail

I would refuse the gift
I would refuse it every time
I would slam the door on the salesman
I would stub the toe of the scientist
I would curse the witch
And free the genie

Because in choosing a new past
I would lose my future
I would lose you
I would lose the happiest days of my life
And the reason I felt it was worth living

Your love shines through me like the piercing rays of the morning
Your smile envelops me like a coat on a cold day
Every second of your existence fills my consciousness with awareness
Every moment in your presence makes my heart burst with love
And your every word is engraved more indelibly than sacred text

How could I love you so much?
How could I not?
And how could I ever wish away
Anything
Everything
that led to your creation?

October 23, 2009

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday.
--Kahlil Gibran

I love my sons at every moment, but there are moments when I am looking at them and I overflow with emotion. Love is such a wonderful thing.

The Hands

"Here," she said, "in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, You! ... This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved." -- Toni Morrison

"The fragrance always remains in the hand that gives the rose." -- Heda Bejar

"The hand is the cutting edge of the mind." -- Jacob Bronowski

"You can't shake hands with a clenched fist." -- Indira Gandhi

"Hold a true friend with both hands." -- Nigerian Proverb

"The ultimate test of a relationship is to disagree but hold hands." -- Alexander Penney

I am watching my hands move over the keys of my keyboard. They are following the almost instantaneous commands from my brain to press the appropriate key. They are forming these very words with the speed that I have acquired through constant typing, legal dictation, and of course, chatting with my beloved friends. My hands are not incredibly beautiful; I do not have a manicure; there are scars from when I used to cut myself; finger marks from when my sister used to pinch me till I bled; and I have a touch of eczema on the top of my hands, which is slowly disappearing, but despite these imperfections, I love my hands. I love the callous that is on the middle finger of my right hand. They are expressive, and it is not a true conversation with me if my hands are not waving around, accentuating a point with an air chop.

I have said in another journal that I believe the hands are some of the most attractive parts of the body for me. They convey so many things about a person-- whether they work a lot with their hands, their strength (conversely their weakness), their level of nervousness, their sensitivity, how hygenic they are, and myriad more things. When meeting someone for the first time, their handshake is such a vital part of the exchange and how we perceive them whether we are aware of it or not. Hank Hill, from the cartoon series King of the Hill, once lost all faith in his political candidate because when he shook his hand, it was limp and clammy.

What do we do with hands? With these hands I can draw and write; I apply pressure to a wound; I check my children's temperature; I cook meals; I check bath water; and I tie the errant shoe lace. My hands are very important to how I share my emotions with other people. What can be perceived with just one touch is incredible. Being a tactile person, I love the feel of different textures and fabrics. Whether I am caressing the skin of my lover or petting my guinea pigs, the information I receive from the tips of my fingers are invaluable to how I perceive the situation. They are a gift.

I could probably write a lot more, but I think this adequately describes my love of hands.

The Rock -

He was like bedrock
Firm and compacted
Unmoving and unyielding

I had no desire to weather
This man of long-held views
And entrenched ways

I merely wished to stream
Along his edges
And touch his borders

And to chip away
Some of his solidity
Into my fluidity

Unrequited Love

I felt I had to document this for my sake. There is no edification in my words nor some new insight into unrequited love. It is merely the recordation of an end.

A few months ago, I fell in love for the second time in my life. I had been seeing him socially for more than a year. It was as though one day, I greeted him as a friend; a friend I viewed affectionately, but a friend nonetheless. Then, almost from one day to the next, overwhelming feelings of anticipation, joy, longing, comfort, desire, and passion consumed me. Every time I saw him, I wanted to be with him; to be near him; to smell him; to feel my hands on his skin; to kiss his lips, his eyes, his ears, his neck, well, his everything; and I wanted to be able to love him openly. I felt like my heart had never been broken because this love was pushing all the pain out.

He’s everything I wanted in a man, except that he does not love me, and I know he never will. Of that, there is not a shred of doubt. So I finally buried my love. My heart bears a fresh wound. He never meant to cause it, so in that I have some comfort.

The end.

Being at Peace

My mind has been constantly thinking about writing something on my blog. I read a particular news article and consider its blogworthiness--often resolving to write about it as soon as I get home. However, my train of thought gets derailed, and I once again leave my blog outdated. As such, I will write about myself.

Recently, I have had some losses in my life. They have been difficult, but I am not destroyed. A year ago, these losses would have devastated me, and I realized that I am much healthier emotionally than I have ever been. It is not all my doing. I have the support group that I lacked before. I have friends. I have acquaintances. I have routine.

So with this post, I will say thank you to the friends who have made me this less fragile woman. I send my love, gratitude, warmth, and extend my support whenever you shall need it.

Waking Up

She lay in her bed waiting. Her long hair artfully splayed across the pillow - dark curls ringletting themselves in upturned hands. Each shallow breath seemed a shout in the quiet of the house; each shift of her legs like a siren. Still she waited patiently as the dark bedroom changed shifts and the shadows gave their coveted nooks and crannies to the light. She heard her mother's bedroom door opening and listened as her delicate feet padded to the kitchen to prepare breakfast and lunch for her step father. The low murmurs wafted to the room- carried by the scent of chorizo and eggs.

When the back door closed and her stepfather's car was heard leaving, her heart raced. Her legs and feet quivered in anticipation. Such joy filled her heart. Her mother entered her bedroom and awoke everyone for school. But still the girl did not move. Her brother and little sister groggily went to get their clothes and use the restroom.

Her mother was game today.

"Voy hacer las camas."

Barely containing a giggle, she waited for her mother's next move. Suddenly, the blankets were thrown to the floor, and the sheet was pulled off as well.

With a practiced snap, the sheet was unfurled over the bed. As soft as the cool air that preceded the sheet, the girl imagined that it was her mother's love that was embalming her. The sheet slowly made contact with her body and she finally let her self smile. The blanket quickly followed.

"Ya levántate."

The girl knew she had to get ready for school. She carefully pulled herself out of the bed and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek.

"Gracias, mamá."