Month: August 2017

It does not matter what they said. What I write is not to seek gratitude nor validation. It is from my heart, sparked from the heart far and near as the two hearts play along to the soulful sing-song of the deepest sorrows and deepest joys.

I want to live. As if I’m at the end of my days. Not to be reckless and careless, but extract the most of this life. The miracle of every blink of an eye. The miracle of everyday rising of the sun. The surprising setting of the sun as it explodes across the sky, before welcoming the darkness guided by the gentleness of the moonlight.

I want to live unbounded by today’s conventional and untrue ways. To not be too far from the soil from which we’re born and extinguished. Not too far from the truth that once held our tribes together, bound by character and trust now long lost and longed for.

When the world can no longer hold back the beloved from reaping his lifelong harvest, he receives an invitation to lay atop bountiful blossom. Transported within soft embrace of all those he’s loved, he is propelled by the hopes and dreams sprouting from his seeds planted and nurtured in our hearts.

During his ascent, his flame dances and grows across the tinder of his offspring, before it dwindles and extinguishes by the tears mourning his loss, finalizing his departure to the other side. Overcome with grief, the offspring are yet unable to recognize their own emboldened spirit, lit by the torch of the departed, to be sustained by the fuel of their own brilliance.

Until one day, we stare into the mirror to find the departed smiling through the twinkle of our own eyes. Our dreams lift off, carrying our spirits higher within the core, lighting the sky as shooting stars, trying their best to reach the ones we miss the most. The luminosity increases as they reach the grateful recipient, the gardener to whom we owe our existence.

He will always be missed. This is by design, don’t you see? The gap is too big and wide to fill. The gap is the new soil to be tilled and tended to plant our own garden. To reap the joys of our sweat and tears before embarking on our own journey before being propelled to the other side like all the others who came before us.

I interview three candidates today. Pressure is on.

Two of them cannot calculate 20% of $30billion and I’m flabbergasted.

The importance of education and basic numeracy… something I had taken for granted but something I cannot live without… I have only one qualified candidate to choose from. The one with the shiny CV is not qualified. I am reminded of the importance of case study which is one step beyond someone putting together a pretty storyline to get hired.

The more we hold on, the faster it escapes. It’s like holding onto water flowing between our fingers.

During the best of times, we will it to stand still. During the worst of the times, we pray it to race past us. Time is constant. Time is an everyday and immediate reminder to make the most of the things staring right at our faces.

The chamber of our playground is a cocoon shielding us from the outside, even if it’s for a brief moment. For few days at a time, we are immersed in each other, away from everyday demands and promises of the world that won’t stop talking. My eyes capture and file away your beauty. My ears perk up to take in the ridiculous narratives of your insane mind. Crazy and beautiful. You are a free spirit. You strike the perfect balance that more often eludes me. And throughout it all, I find myself opening myself up to who I have always been, but too afraid to let it all hang out. The fear dissipates. The fear melts away. The fear transforms into something else.

I grow grateful for the things I’ve always been but too blind to see. I grow hopeful for the things that will come.

I write a love poem to someone special. So special it doesn’t belong here but only in my heart. I invite you to write your own to the one who’s closest to your heart. I dare you. Do it!

The pressure is too much and one of the team members is about to break. Instead of crumbling, he requests my audience and we talk through it.

Time to take the foot off the pedal for a bit.

My child, it will be hard to let go, I know. You’ll look for me on the road, in the room, in the house, and all places full of people who look or talk remotely like me. You’re going to secretly hope that I’m still alive, and this death business was all a big mistake. You will try to believe something that is not true, and you will be disappointed every time the familiar face doesn’t answer your call. This may take few weeks, few months, and even few years. It’s okay. You take all the time you want.

And when the time comes, you’ll smile to yourself as you get a glimpse of me in unexpected ways.

I feel fabulous wearing this luxurious gown weaved with Egyptian cotton. This bed I’m lounging on is fit for a queen. The room is comfortable, and the flowers in colorful vases breathe welcome fragrance into my soul.

I wish I was dreaming. Or maybe I’m in midst of a nightmare. The blue smock barely covers my frail body. The Sterility of this place makes me want to scream in silence. I am trapped in my caged and lumpy bed.

I am alone.

No one to hold my hand. No one to soothe the racing mind. No one to distract me. No one to tell me that everything will be okay.

They were here just a moment ago.

They have gone away to rest, and I am left here to rest.

The room is quiet aside from distant coughing from the next room. The humidifier hums along to help ease my breathing. The wretched concoction of chemicals makes me cringe. All I can see is the bright fluorescent bulb bearing down on my decaying body.

I should rest (but why, I wonder, if all I do is lay dormant all day) but I can’t close my eyes, for I cannot bear the darkness. For I cannot bear the unknown, knowing full well what is to come.

I grow restless counting the things undone.
I grow restless for the things unsaid.

I pray to God although I’ve never been to church. I pray to God to help me get through this. I pray to God to take care of my small children. I pray to God to perhaps tell me that this is all a big fat joke. I’m going to wake up just now and this would have all been a long and dreadful dream I could tell my grandchildren about one day.

Except I know better. I do not have the luxury of growing old.  I will rob them of their time with a parent. I will miss their high school graduation. I will not be there to hold their hand and pat their heads when life gets tough. I will not be there to let them spoil me when they become adults. I will not be there to babysit their children. I will not be there to fight them as equal adults.

I know that my time with my children are limited, and I know this will leave a scar deep in their hearts. And for this, my heart bleeds into my aching soul. Too young to say goodbye to the world I haven’t started living in, and too old to fall into the traps of a denial of the truth to come.

And so, I stare up and turn my gaze towards the moon. The moon, unlike the sun, reminds me of the days passing as it waxes and wanes from one night to the next. I wonder if the children see what I see. I wonder if they can feel my love, despite me not able to embrace them and protect them.

They are far too young to accept my certain passing. I am far too young to leave my three children and estranged husband of too many years.

Tears run down my face. How do I remind you of my love and appreciation before I take my last breath? My greatest joys, creations and accomplishments of my life.

I write you a letter folded in love. I deliver with hope and release you with my best wishes.

…is written by Jo Harjo, “Fall Song”

It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain,
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for “divine”?
I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast
Yellow overcast
Your jacket hanging in the hallway
Next to mine.

The awakening sun waves a friendly hello, and I turn off the kitchen light.

The outside enters through small and open space once covered with mortar and paint.

Sun’s powerful rays paint a fiery African continent atop the stove boiling with freshly ground coffee.

I pour the black magic into a small cup of milk. I embrace its warmth with both hands. I inhale. I exhale. I breathe in the moment that is mine for a fleeting moment.

To see and experience magic, we must first tear down the walls. Break down barriers. Extinguish the light we’ve grown accustomed to. The switch we rely on is used too often, and we forget the lightness of the dark. The gaiety of its stillness.

I savor the moment before taking a small sip. I release the cup. I let it rest on top of the sparkling counter top.

I bid adieu to magic before stepping into the day.