Hummingbirds

I exist as I am, that is enough.

Walt Whitman

The Humm of In-Between

How do we locateidentify ourselves when we are in-between? No longer with boyfriend, hoping to have new one soon. Off from school, starting entirely new adventure in August. Absolutely sure all beauty and happiness in the world has drowned, tentatively looking towards a bright future. Missing the old, the cozy familiar, looking forward to the next, the soon-to-be cozy familiar.

These days, I've got a good hum going pretty much all the time. Sometimes it's from coffee for breakfast, sometimes it's because I can't quite breathe in the face of facing a world without my boyfriend. Sometimes it's because there's so much in the future, unknown, to take advantage of that I'm excited, sometimes I'm scared of all that.

I pierced my ear the other day. Two nights ago, to be exact. Yes, it sounds oh-so studly. I suppose I can take some credit, being that I did it and all. In the cartalidge near the top of my right ear. It hurts. Didn't hurt so much when I did it, but more afterwards. I feel uncomfortable about making this change that my body is so not down with. It's saying, you stuck a safety-pin through me, and now you're not letting me heal? Are you serious? I felt a need for cool, daring, couragous, edgy, un-me. Not that all that stuff it un-me. But I needed a little extra boost. Because when you lose your best friend and partner to the casualties of relationships, it's easy to feel less-than stellar. For me, that is. So I pierced my ear. And guess what? It's kinda cool, but also hurts. And it doesn't work the same for hurt in your heart and hurt on your body. If you stub your toe, the scratch on your arm seems less throbbing. Not true with a broken heart. They pretty much both hurt now.

My friend Gal writes a lot about being held. Knowing that you are held, resting in that knowledge, letting those holding you pull their weight, plus yours, for a little while every once in a while. Accepting that to a certain extent, you're not in charge. You can't control everything, so trust that it will happen as it should. Because it is what it is, and that's exactly as it was meant to be, if only because that's the ways it happened.

I'm trying to let myself be held a little bit. Trust that I'm not in charge, that I don't need to try and hold the hum inside my chest on top of my lungs. I (exhale) will be fine.

The problem with arguing with my dad...

Me: Look at this picture! Isn't that cute?
Papa: I don't do cute. It's dumb.
Me: Your face is dumb!
Papa: It's genetic.
Me: . . .

this happy

Sometimes it seems like life is always hard. But then sometimes it doesn't, and so you know that you were wrong the first time- life isn't always hard.

I found this photo on my parents' desk at home. My dad recently moved offices at work and I suppose it made its way home at some point during the shuffle. It's a picture of me from when I was probably less than a year old.


When I saw it, I thought, I want to be this happy.

Looking at it gives me this feeling- a fireworks-in-my-belly, sunny-day-at-Stinson-beach kind of feeling. It makes me want to go out and be happy! Because I can do that. Nifty, huh?

It's funny to think that, so often, life becomes all gray and we can't find enough inspiration to make it through the day without wishing it weren't so early so that we could justify going to sleep now. Take off those sunglasses and rub that ennui out of your eyes missy, because now is the time to live. Or at least time to work on your thesis...

I went shopping today and saw this radiating young woman, probably still in high school, shopping with her grandma. I was in the dressing room next to her, and popped my head out to weigh in on the dress she was trying on. They asked the dressing room attendant, so I wasn't technically offering unwanted advice. Maybe. Regardless, she is trying on a skin-tight black one-shouldered tank-top dress, and she looks HOTT. That dress looks great, I said. She and her grandma discuss it, and we all come to the conclusion that, while it does look fab, it's not particularly useful, and that she should get the other skirt she tried on. I agreed, yeah, that dress will be around when you're ready for it. Moral of the story, buy in moderation.

Just kidding!

Looking at this girl, not so much younger than I, I felt a glimmer of what was to come for her, what had come and was still to come for me. I remembered when I was in high school, gorgeous, ingelligent, constantly soaking in a pool of self-doubt and negative self-talk (now however, I am self-doubt free...). I had no capacity with which to see the romance and excitiment yet to come in my life, only seeing the veiw up until my nose- I.B. grades and why none of the boys in my class liked me. I saw in this girl a lightness which comes from the ignorance of one's true beauty and magic, and from never having known a broken heart.

Watching her, I felt a big, heavy vulture take off from my chest, knowing that it would have to find another roost. My chest no longer welcomes heavy things which tend to come and make themselves at home. Yup, you heard me. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I want to be this happy.

Funky Cool Ecuador

Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Back from the equator, back to sea-level, back to toilet paper in the toilet, child labor laws, smooth streets, English, thesis... I'm back. Significantly more broken-hearted, open-hearted, scared, bored, amazed. Mildly envious of guys with cool patterns shaved into their hair.

After three weeks in Ecuador, anticipating return, I miss it. I miss stumbling my way through conversation in Spanish, my conversation partner looking at me quizically. I miss the screaming-hotties, waking around in tight jeans and stilhetto heals on cobblestone streats, a guy with his arm around her waist and a large-and-in-charge look on his face that says, yeah, I'm with her.

The folks at the orphanage, so kind and friendly, in spite of the fact that I'm there for only a few hours and will return home without them, leave them to fend for themselves, as they always have. The kids that curled up on my lap, accepting that I was only there for just now, taking what they could from me- contact, words, attention, not asking for anything more. I wish I could give them more. Blind promises to the nuns of, next time I come, I'll spend more time here. A week? Two months?

Vamos a pintar.
Es pintura azul.
Dame los cubos.
Muy bien!

Gracias, Ecuador, for your gifts to me. I hope that I can/have/will return the favor.

Broken

Today, I accidentally broke up with my boyfriend. Well, to put it more accurately, he on-purpose broke up with me. It's OK though, because it's only been three years that we've been together. He was just the first boy I ever kissed and ever really loved. He was my best, and now he's not.

Where do you go from here? When you are so broken? Your best friend is gone and so is the cozy that kept you warm at night. The promise of a future of together. That's not the thing anymore. I don't see a light switch in here.

Inspiration and Icky Hairy Things

I suppose that they're not always so separate, eh? Sometimes they come in the same box, or like two snowballs hitting you in the face one after another. The first one is cool and powdery, exploding into fairy dust when it hits you. The second is harder frozen more compact- it cuts you on the cheek. Bummer. Time to go inside for hot chocolate.

Big inspiration comes to us today from the swashbuckling queen in a pair of hot jeans, Kate Inglis. In honor of the unveiling of her new crew and her promotion to the position of ship authoress, I will tumble around with the notions of inspiration and fear. Who will prevail (i.e. myself or the notions.) no one can tell. I'm not sure which side I'm rooting for myself...

Kate says "Write. Write some more. Don't stop. Keep writing." To which I reply, "Aye-aye captian!" I don't know if there is anything more inspiring, more technicolor-dazzling-fiery-go-do-it, than the thought that you really can! Do it, I mean. All the imaginings, all the deep colors splashed onto the insides of your eyes for only a second before you return to searching through dry congressional minutes in hopes of finding something to actually analyze in your thesis... I digress. The aforementioned colors, those can be real! The colors can be projected through your eyes onto the wall of the coffee shop down by the city college and everyone passing by will stop and stare! Even the hippies selling peace necklaces, the "peace"which comes with the price of the necklas authenticated by the jewler's massive dreads and oh-so-unique scent of pachuli and B.O.- even they will pause in their jewlery-making.

But then comes the hairy part. I don't know what to write. And besides, who cares? I don't have anything really interesting clever funny insightful to say. One time I wrote something, and it made someone mad sad lonely. What's the point?

The fabulous and talented Modesto Covarrubias told me (well, I was one of the people in the room listening when he said this. I was the most important person though, because, well...I'm me. You don't see those other people hanging around here, do you?) that when you get scared making your art, scared that it's not good or important enough, that's when you know it's real. It's the scary stuff that makes us itch, and keeps us thinking about it on-and-off for months. When you're not sure that it really matters, DO IT. Because it does.

Easy to say, harder to do.

And so, my mateys, I leave you with this hairy, swirly fern. What do you think?

Dancing, Fireworks, and Life

Yesterday was the celebration of Corpus Christi in downtown Cuenca. Being unavoidably of the gringa-persuasion, I am forever in awe of the safety precautions (or lack thereof) here in Ecuador. (As an example of my obvious identity as an "extranjera" in this country, while walking down the street the other day, a guy rolled down the window of his moving car and yelled at me, "Te quiero, Blancita!" Awesome.) This particular celebration, like so many others down by the equator, was carried out with a mix of exhilaration, terror, and everyone checking to make sure they didn't have any bald spots from falling fire crackers. It was beautiful. Being of the generally non-religious persuasion (along with that of the "gringa" and the "extranjera"), I don't know much about Corpus Christi. There were a significant amount of burning castles constructed of bamboo and fireworks, which I'm told represent the body of Christ. "Joan of Arc meets the Bible meets Burning Man" I think is the official tag-line for the holiday.

I, along with my eleven-year-old brother, were sitting close to the soon-to-be-lit "castillo." Having already experienced a number of exploding sparkling wheezing screaming paper-mâché virgin Marys and vacas locas, we knew that we would be receiving a full body-mind-spirit-see-your-death kind of show if we stayed put. My brother wisely suggested that we should move farther away from the castillo before we lost our eyebrows. I, being one of those fearless individuals who are recklessly unconcerned with their eyebrows, chose to remain. Several minutes later, I found myself joined by a mother, father, and son (who was probably about the same age as Graham). Looking uncertainly at the already sparking castillo, the son cautioned, "Pienso que deberiamos ser mas lejos del castillo."

While he was ignored by his parents, I couldn't help laughing to myself at hearing this for the second time in minutes. Words spoken by two boys who probably grew up in different countries, and who certainly grew up speaking different languages. We are so close, really, I thought. We all want to be close to the fireworks, but then pull back in fear, which we mask with a pretense of responsibility and concern for what we should do. Not wanting to be found out, called a coward, or seen as anything other than a thrill-seeking adventurer, we cower behind those who ignore pleas to move away from the heat. But as the fireworks begin, we forget our fear and melt into the smoke, excitement, and falling stars, and for a few minutes, our imagination lives on the outside of our minds and we hardly remember to check to see if the sparks have burnt any holes in our clothes.