Time to Clear the Clutter.

So the other night I had a remarkably vivid dream. There are dreams that are murky and convoluted; the kind that leave you in a fog when you wake up. And then there are the less common dreams that are so sharply focused that the colors in them seem brighter than anything you've ever seen in life, and you wake up exhausted from the sheer energy of them. That's the kind of dream I had, and it turned out to be very symbolic. In this dream, there was an extra room in our house that was completely empty. It was a living room, and for some reason it had been ignored and neglected by everyone up till then. Stranger still, was the fact that our other living room was so cluttered by furniture and fixtures that there was barely enough room to stand in it. So the dream consisted of me heaving and grunting while I pushed and pulled and lifted one item of furniture after another from the overly stuffed living room to the empty one. I ended up making both rooms cozy, beautiful, and each with a character all its own. And now people loved both rooms. I was exhausted when I woke up, but extremely satisfied. And the meaning of the dream hit me with an incredible force. I have an empty space in my life that has been neglected, and I've been waiting for someone to come fill that space. At the same time, I have so much clutter; so much excess that I just haven't prioritized and put in its proper place. But I can't just sit around in the clutter and wait for someone to rescue me, and fill my empty space. I have to stop neglecting myself, put things in order, and make every space beautiful, before expecting anyone else to feel at home in any of my spaces.

Haaaa!!! Simbangawa Eona Zii Teiabowa Heyahayeah!!

So, last night was Sabrina's birthday party, and it was a lot of toilet paper talk, tickling on the couch, tiny pieces of birthday cake, overt flirting, musical cards, a pregnancy announcement, and music video planning. Sabrina had wanted to do music videos with all us roommates most. She's been wanting to do it forever, and decided her birthday would be a perfect time. However, the plan was thwarted by too many people in our house, but she and I got to talking about it while sitting at the kitchen table. And Cheryl had the brilliant idea that we do the Lion King song. This is brilliant, because nobody knows the words to that song, at least not the beginning, which just sounds like a bunch of mumbling tribal chant. But wouldn't that be funny to have us all on video trying to fake our way through that part? I used to know it though, because I sang it in middle school choir, and so did Sabrina. So we were discussing this, and I said that the sheet music had all that written down, and I remembered a part of it. "All of it?" Cheryl asked me. I told her I remembered the chant. The part that goes, "Himaya manlingwana bana, but not the beginning" And then it just flowed off my tongue, sounding somewhat Chinese, "Haaaa!!! Simbangawa, eona zii teiabowa heyahayeah." I had no idea this would be so funny, but Cheryl and Sabrina got a good laugh out of it, and I'm hoping that we really do eventually do the music videos. Complete with costumes and choreography.

Almost a Year

It's been almost a year. That, of itself, is hard to believe. Why does everyone say that time heals everything? Surely there are some things for which time, is an inadequate physician. I think we only hear that over and over, because no one is willing to admit to any one, least of all themselves, that in the quiet moments, in the fragments of memory sparked by every day mundane images or sounds....smells; there is pain that still resides no matter how much time has passed or what we've done to mask it. It comes in shock waves when you least expect it. It takes your breath away, and for a split second it's as if not a moment has passed since your heart broke. I believe that those who have most successfully managed to dull their pain, almost to the point of immunity, did it without time having anything to do with it. Those fortunate people, those blessed and kissed by the Grace of God, found something to replace it with. The fact is that pain takes up a space in your soul. The rememdy is to replace it with something. But what? Not time. Time is nothing. It is not motion, it is not physical, it is not even empty space.
It's been almost a year, and my heart still throbs, my body still aches, and my spirit still feels severed. I know what can replace it. I just don't know how to do it.

Here We Go Again

Well, I quit my job as a server at the Outback a year and a half ago, in pursuit of a better job, one that didn't require "flair", an apron, latex gloves, slip proof shoes, and an endless supply of pens. Since then I've been a travel agent, a panty pusher (Victoria's Secret), and an Enrollment Counselor. But as of about a week ago my life came full circle and I've once again donned the slip proof shoes and the apron, and I've begun my new life-er, recycled life-as a server. The only difference is that now instead of serving plates of beef, beef, and more beef, I'll be serving plates of fish, lobster, and crab at The Red Lobster. It's hard to say how I feel at this point. Part of me is happy to be doing such straightforward work. It's simple, and I know it in and out. And another part of me feels deflated to be back in this place. You know, the place where someone new you meet asks what you do and you shift in your seat and look down at the floor and mumble "I'm a waitress", hoping they hear something else maybe like, "I'm a massage therapist," or , "I teach underprivelegded kids, " or "I'm a pharmacist." ....anything else really. There shouldn't be any shame in it. It's hard work, it's honest work, and it pays well if you're good, but it makes me feel like I'm ten years behind schedule in my life.

Sweet Downpour

I slept like a baby last night because the sky was going crazy. Ever since I was a little girl I have adored the monsoons. I'm sure if I lived in Florida I'd feel differently, but in Arizona they are a blessed relief from the holy hellah hot of the sun. And every monsoon season I'm reminded of the one storm that will forever live in infamy in my family. The one that should have scared us to death, but for some reason only succeeded in making us laugh hysterically....for years.
When I was about eleven there was a particularily intense storm raging in my hometown that ended up becoming the stuff of legend in my house at least. Two of my sisters and I were standing at the kitchen sink and looking out the window at the sheets of rain that dumped onto the earth one after the other with relentless carelessness. We watched tree limbs snap under the pressure and tumble to the ground only to be swept away by the current of the newly formed river in the street. My mother and two other sisters sat in the living room. She told us to get away from the window, but we were transfixed. Lightning flashed over us like it was keeping rythm to a punk rock song stuck in God's head. Not to be outdone, the thunder crashed almost simultaneously with each flash, and so it went on with the lightning and the thunder like two petulant children wrecking havoc in the sky to get a bit of attention. The kitchen sink that we stood over was made of stainless steel, and a few times ,when the lightning flashed, we hovered our fingers over it and watched the little blue sparks that jumped from the steel to our fingers with a tiny tingling buzz. Once it was strong enough to give us not only a buzz but a jolt. We stopped then, realizing it was a risk even if we weren't actually touching the steel.
Little did we know that our father was having his own viewing party in the back of the house. It was about twenty minutes later that he emerged from his bedroom, bathrobe swathed about him crookedly, hair standing on end, eyes bloodshot, and his breath wheezing and uncontrolled. He was a terrifyingly hysterical sight. "I .......co-ould.....hav-have......died-d." His teeth rattled as he spoke and he pointed a shaky finger at all of us accusingly. When we stared at him uncomprehendingly he said it again, this time a little more clearly, "I....could....have....DIED!" My mother, seeming to finally grasp the severity of the situation jumped up from the couch and grabbed his hand to lead him to a seat and recieved a healthy jolt through her hand for the effort. After about half an hour his breathing had regulated, the storm still raged and he was able to tell us what had happened. He'd been standing in the master bathroom getting ready to take a shower (idiot) and decided to watch the storm for a minute from the window, butt naked (idiot), with his hand resting on the metal towel rack (idiot). Well, he got transfixed just like we did and a few minutes later the flash that had jolted our fingers over the kitchen sink, had actually struck the telephone pole in the alley behind our house, the wire of which goes right over his bathroom. The lightning rod had split the telephone pole into a million splinters, traveled through the wires wich fell onto the roof of the house, where my dad caught the tail end of the current through his hand resting on the towel rack, and it laid him out cold. Unconscious, naked, electrocuted, helpless. He was right. He could have died. But he didn't. He came around, and tried screaming for help, since he was still paralyzed, but no one heard him, because not only was his voice barely a whisper, but the thunder still boomed over us. It took him about 15 minutes to regain the strength enough to come out and accuse us of leaving him to his death (idiot). Ah, I love my dad. And we will never let him forget that storm.