Cardboard

The wind was cool but the sun was warm, and if this day had been any other day, he would have thought the weather was perfect. He stood straight and proud, and though his breathing was steady, his fingers, they trembled just slightly as he held onto the cardboard. His sign, though it declared the truth, gave permission to everyone around him to judge him, and as three cars passed by he could feel his cheeks grow warm.
He didn't blame them, for hadn't he been the same way years ago? Back when he was a young thirty-something businessman, hellbent on success and too busy to give a glance to anyone beneath his level. He remembered that when stopping next to men like the one he was now, he would lock the car door and silently pray that they did not approach him, that they did not scuff the paint on his Lexus, his BMW, his Mercedes.
All of that was gone now, and a sad smile played around his lips while he thought about how fleeting success could be. How he lost everything with a couple of bad decisions. How the mortality rate of success is never talked about in debriefing meetings. As a car drove by and honked on its horn he blinked. Though he had never touched a drug in his life he understood why people in his position did...To numb the embarrassment of asking for help, the peacefulness of a dull mind. He could understand why people give in to those vices.
He momentarily held his breath as the light changed color and his knuckles grew white as he clutched at his sign. "Not drunk or lazy" it read. "Just going through a really hard time."

She was running late for work and it slightly irritated her, that she had slipped into the habit of leaving too late. She pulled off the freeway and drummed her fingers on her steering wheel as she started braking for the red light.  She was tuning out from the world, the anxiety of a busy work night lingering in the back of her mind. As she waited for the lights to change, from the corner of her eye she saw a man holding a sign. "Not drunk or lazy" it said. "Just going through a really hard time." You and me both, buddy. She thought to herself as she checked her watch. She heard the familiar plucking of heart strings. She was used to wanting to help everyone, but her optimistic attitude about helping the helpless had grown dimmer over time, for as she aged she realized that most of the people she gave her hard earned money to probably wouldn't even remember her the next day. Their eyes were constantly glazed with the residue of chemicals and sadness, and it was a pain that she knew she alone could not erase. But as she read his sign, her fingers stopped drumming on the wheel. She rolled her eyes, mostly to herself as she reached out for her bag. Her shoulders slumped a little as she realized she only had one dollar left in her wallet, she had wanted to give him more. She rolled down the window and held it out. She was surprised at the smile that erupted from his face, and sense of relief swept through them both. He walked to the car and thanked her, thanked her so much for helping out.

And his eyes. His eyes shocked her as she told him "you're welcome". His eyes had her asking him how his day was going, and if possible they grew even brighter. They had a small conversation, a conversation that said nothing and meant everything. His eyes were bright blue and so clear. They startled her, they were kind eyes. Eyes that had fatherly love, or brotherly adoration inside of them. They were some of the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, and they belonged to a man who wasn't drunk or lazy, no. She knew in that moment he was just going through a hard time.  As the light turned green and she started to accelerate she could feel the tears gathering in her eyes. She turned the radio up and let the tears come steadily down her face. It was only for a moment. With a deep breath, she was able to recompose herself.

But oh if the world allowed us to look back, she would have seen that his face was wet as well.

Midnight

Still scared to look at the scars, like examining them brings the pain to the surface. Time doesn't heal scars, it just pounds them into you until they're on the inside out- and they creep into dreams and streams of subconscious.
 Sometimes I feel like everything I know is crumbling around me.

 I'll tell you a secret.
I'm gonna change the world with my lips

Blink

Even with the truth staring us in the face, we crave the lie. Our hearts pump out of sync, beating faster until we can tightly grasp at the untruth that will pacify us. You really aren't cheating, you really won't leave me, you really do still love me.

Lies. The morphine of our inner turmoil.

Less full.

I am usually unwanted and for this I am grateful and ashamed. There are pieces of myself that have not come to fruition yet, that are waiting, tender detailed pieces that are underdeveloped and meek.
It occurred to me today how mindless human beings are. How the selfish nature of our species prevents us from truly feeling the core of someone else. How when we are mindless we take away a gentleness that should be left intact.
My heart is hurting and full and it's a contradiction that mostly leaves me not only breathless but speechless. I feel, more than the average human. My empathetic nature makes me sense and observe more than I should.

And yet I still want to be more mindful. Mindful of people's positions and feelings. I feel mindfulness could take away a lot of the pain we put each other and ourselves through.

A commitment of thought. A commitment of processing that your actions have consequences on not only yourself but others as well.

I am angry and grateful. I am broken and sane.
It's a juxtaposition that constantly leaves me feeling like I want more. Like I need to know more. Like I need to teach myself to control...
Everything.

Aisle 13

I write lists now. To keep myself concentrated on the things I actually need, versus the things I make myself believe I need. I have finally realized that I walk down the aisles of grocery stores, through racks at the department stores, through online pages, looking for something that isn't for sale.

I had the pop of an epiphany yesterday while scanning the shelves of a store for something I was trying to remind myself I needed to buy. More shampoo, more mascara, more more more. It occurred to me then that what I was trying so desperately to find was happiness, clairvoyance, peace of mind.

That I would somehow, miraculously, find it hidden behind an Herbal Essences bottle, on clearance. Special, $3.79 for three minutes of breathing easy.

I am both sympathetic and angry, I feel joyous and yet slighted. Which makes me wind up feeling completely alone and unhappy.

Sometimes I feel as though every part of me is being pulled a different direction. To be a better daughter, a better employee, a better friend, a smarter student. That regardless how fast I move or think I am still behind. That I am being left to drown in mediocracy.

That I will never be anyone, just some girl who left notes in movie cases for the next person that rents it.

This train of thought stopped me. In the middle of the aisle. Surrounded by nothing but hair care bottles that could never actually do anything for me but allow me to lather. Rinse. Repeat.

What a fabricated fairytale.
What a beautiful lie.

dis-1. —prefix. 1. indicating reversal

I wish it wasn't

so difficult to believe

that I'm beautiful.

Too many thoughts stay

inside my head. It's too much

I am just one girl.

Haiku's are awful

I never get to express

What I really mean.

Books

Don’t judge a book by its cover.


“Tell me a story- a small story, a true story (or as true as you can tell it), a story from your heart, a story from your life. Tell me of a time you lost something, your keys, your heart, your mind, your mother or father, your way in the world- or tell me about a small joy you had today. Tell me a story, and your telling it will change you, and your telling it will change me, and such stories will move us both closer to the light.”
-Lynn Nelson


We hear it all the time as kids: Don’t judge a book by its cover. But how often, in our protected and innocent lives as children- are we faced with such big concepts?
Though not always, and certainly through no malicious intent, we grow into our comfort zone. Our experiences through life soften our hearts, and harden our eyes. Eventually, if you so choose, you can look at someone, with eyes that do not see them.

Costa Rica was life altering for me. Though I try to be open minded, I too am guilty of judging someone before I even know anything about them. When we do this, we cheat them, and we cheat ourselves.
The twelve of us met each other only a few weeks ago- all of us different. All of us came toting the books of our lives under our arms, eager to fill a new chapter in them. All our books contain stories that have shaped us; into who we have been, who we are, and inevitably who we will be. By only looking at the covers of our books- we shouldn’t have gotten along. But we started to read each other, and we started to look in order to see.

There are pages full of wonder and adaptation in my story of Costa Rica. Words and events that inspire me to continue to look past the surface- of a city, of a school, of a face. Sentences that make me crave knowledge until I know things, know people. Getting to know all of you was one of the most enriching experiences of my life.
Costa Rica has taught me that a poor school can be rich with pure hearts, that someone who does not share your language can share a laugh- that children, regardless of where they stand on a monetary line- are bright, pure of heart, and innocent. Joyous, and in constant awe of the world around them.

This trip has taught me that labels, that abstractions, of who we are do nothing but build borders around our hearts, around our softness.
A teacher at Country Day School confronted me about being from Arizona. Hearing where I lived was enough for him to write me off as an ignorant racist. Looking back now, all I can think is: “What a waste.” He wrote me off in his book of life, slammed my book shut before I could even show him my own beliefs or ideas.

And now, as a student, as a teacher, as a person, I can no longer accept momentarily skimming a person and taking them at face vaule. We are all so much more than just a sentence.

“I’m a teen mother.”
“I’m an immigrant.”
“I didn’t go to college.”
“I’m scared.”

No one sentence can sum up anyone. No one characteristic defines us as the person we are. Costa Rica has taught me to open my heart, and to open my eyes. To take the time to read the chapters that make us who we are. Costa Rica taught me that you can find love anywhere. From the bottom of a canyon to the desks we sat in at their schools. From flattery of tour guides to beans and fruit punch that had been prepared just for us by school attendants who were beyond wonderful.

Costa Rica has taught me that all we have is who we are, and that being rich doesn’t come from having thousands of Colones, but from having a number of people that you have read and accepted, just the way they are.