Memory Lane

My mother’s veins pop out at her hands. 

Like blue channels of water on the way to join the river. 

Mine do that too. Whenever I see them, I think of her. As a kid, I would see her hands like that and get nervous. Why did this happen to her? It didn’t seem normal. Now I laugh at the thought.

We had a white picket fence around the front of our house growing up, like the kind people talk about when they jokingly, or not-so-jokingly, refer to the "Modern American Home". 

2.5 kids.

A dog.

A white picket fence.

You know... like that.

My favorite was in the spring when flowers of all kinds would erupt all around the fence and really, all over the yard. It was like heaven just appeared out of nowhere in every color and shape. Every petal and stem. I think it glittered everyone’s eyelids up a bit as we breathed in all this new color.

When I started getting more into long-distance running after high school (before I was strictly a hard-nosed sprinter, never willing to run more than a mile at a time), I would get lost in the lap after lap around my neighborhood. The uneven pavement became an adventure for me as I was forced to keep watch of my feet like a new parent to their first-born, making sure I wouldn't journey to the ground and cause a scene.

I loved seeing dogs out on my run. The ones that really knew how to play, never running out of energy or spazz. Always keeping their owner on their toes. Sometimes I felt like the owner being dragged by my spirit, unable to keep it on a leash. My spirit like the dogs, never running out of energy or spazz.

One family on the back side of the neighborhood loop had a tire swing. 

The kind you just can't resist, no mater how old you are. 

Once a friend pushed me in it, higher than EVER, and then stood admiring her strength as she forgot to realize there was a tree a little too close to the swing on my way back. I saw it in her eyes once she became aware of its existence, but at this point, I was flying full-speed and about to slam into the tree. 

I did.

And we laughed for hours on end.

It’s fun to get a hurt a little bit. 

Good for you, I think.

I used to chase after my brothers and their friends yelling “Sohn” and “Sames”. I don’t necessarily remember struggling with my J’s, but for some reason, I just couldn’t get their names down for some while. 

My brothers played a lot of basketball growing up. And that ball would beat against the backboard long into the night as they practiced their “fakes” and all-star free throw shots. It was a comforting sound in a way. You always knew they were having fun as they fine-tuned their skills, making accuracy and detail their very best friends.

One brother took pride in his coaching skills and taught me a few things. I must say, when parents would watch my 10-year old self suddenly “fake someone out” on the church basketball court, they all had the same thought- She has older brothers.

I took pride in that.

The Tantrum of the Wild

I like watching how people choose to parent their kids. Maybe it’s the babysitter in me. I don’t know, there’s just something about it that’s really intriguing to me. 

Some choose to reprimand their child’s every move, their finger pointed as straight as the nose on Pinocchio, eyes wide with aggression, naming all forms of consequence with the ultimate stare of death. 

Others simply gaze silently as they wait for their child to calm down, trying desperately to distract themselves with anything and everything in sight. I always wonder what’s going on in their heads at that moment. Are they counting? Cursing? Probably both.

But what's even more interesting to me is the way a toddler releases emotion- whether it’s anger, sadness, or joy. It reveals tiny pieces of their personality, I think. Do they scream for attention? Cry for help? Or giggle uncontrollably to the moon and back?

Sometimes I wish adults could candidly wail in church or scream at Starbucks. 

There is freedom found in expression. 

Raw expression.

The tantrum of a child, something never meant to be fully understood.
Just envied.

Just a Walk

I decide to walk to Kroger instead of drive. My feet crave the pounding against pavement. I need a closer look at the trees on my street.

Best decision ever made.

Nothing has changed, really. The same twin cats sit on my neighbor’s porch, so relaxed it makes you wonder if they are still breathing. The same boring brick house sits passively on the corner, relaxed just like the cats. Watching the cars go by in all shapes and colors.

Yet this walk gives me a newfound energy, the kind of energy that vitamins and caffeine simply fail to supply. The kind of energy that makes me feel untouchable.

My spirit sings.

My heart beats loudly.

I really do love this neighborhood.

The Cave

Something about being talked down to in a sympathetic tone, I just can’t deal with.

It cuts a whole in me.

Deep.

Cold.

Hollow.

I am like an empty cave with an end that never comes.

I wander nervously through this cave within myself, uneasy and fragile, desperately trying not to wake anything hiding away in the corners.

I feel small.

Incapable.

Worthless.

Like a child... in the needy sort of way.

Tiny Taste

Communion is tiny. 

Simple. 

Like the pinky of a newborn baby, her nail so minute you can barely see it at first glance.

Receiving is a gift to be cherished. I walk away my hands crossed awkwardly, my eyes on the floor. Do I bend my elbows? My breath is short, shallow. I feel dizzy, lost in the crowd, the never-ending ocean of strangers waiting their turn for the same beautiful gift.

The taste of wine always seems to linger on my lips.
Sweet and Warm.

My tongue moves around nervously, not knowing what to do or where to go with such a distinct, tiny taste. Impulsively, it rolls over and over at the roof of my mouth, allowing my chin to dance in circles obsessively.

Communion can be lonely. 

Sometimes I dread it, my feet gaining weight with every step as I sometimes grudgingly force myself to the front of the room.

I like to watch the children.

They are my sanity. 

They calm my breath and give final destination to my fluttering, frightened eyelids.
The little girl with blonde angelic curls, her smile so welcoming, so kind.
The baby boy in his father’s arms that never stops moving for a second.
And the father rotating hips, clearly embarrassed at the wild, elaborate scene his son is causing.

Yet the magnetic energy draws me forward. 

My robotic steps follow behind the mob of strangers, in tune with the silent reverence surrounding me.

I feel small at communion, yet connected to something enormous. 

A House for the Soul.

In my soul house, there are lots of empty chairs handcrafted in the finest wood one could imagine. Each chair spaced out like wandering ants at a summer picnic, no one necessarily following the other but searching for its own source of food, along its own journey.

A guest may wander in and sit, her ankles crossed, hands on her lap, with scattered breath and a first-day-of-school kind of anxiety. She waits for the agenda and her eyes wander, looking for corners to define her space. But there are none. She finds no end to this madness, just miles and miles of empty chairs in every direction, all turned at various angles.

The sun climbs up and down the sky of my soul house, yet the chairs remain.
Waiting to be used.
Waiting to be noticed.

My soul house is a resting place. I wander from chair to chair depending on my mood and settle in, sometimes with difficulty, sometimes with ease.

A rocking chair that leans back like a fearless child, letting go of all restraint.

A chair with little to no room for my achy back, forcing me to find rest despite my high-maintenance expectations.

A queen’s throne, elaborate with jewels, shining with glamour of all kinds.

I find my chair.

It finds me.

I sit.

I rest.

The Little Girl

There is something magical about a little girl.

Her smile.

Her fear.

Her dreams.

Her stories.

I never want to let go of that little girl.

Sometimes she stares deep into my soul, my heart beating out of control as the sound of her silence overwhelms me.

Her stare becomes heavy, like rocks buried in your sweatshirt as you carry them home to brag on your new discoveries. With every year I gain, the fear of losing the little girl within me increases. My knuckles become white as snow as I stand weak in the knees, in fist-clenched denial.

Growing up is hard.

Scary.

Depressing.

Embarrasing.

I miss the simple life of the little girl, whose imagination is from an outside world with animals that talk and humans that fly.

No makeup.

No deadlines.

No meetings to attend except tea parties and fancy balls at the castle.

Relationships are easy for the little girl- no secret conditions or hidden agendas. Simply best friends who you can trust or enemies never worth a second glance.

I used to make my own jewelry and write my own songs.

I used to play pretend like it was required and never be ashamed of my dreams.

Growing up is boring, time-consuming.

Like a sneeze, it attacks you and you can never seem to stop it from coming. It consumes your body. It stops you in your footsteps, until all you can do is close your eyes and wait for it to pass.

Yet the little girl is a stranger to the concept of time. 

The sun and the moon are her clock, moving across the sky like a dance.