Posted in Poetry

After Death

How strange it is,
to watch someone’s face sparkle and dance with life on a Monday,
and for it to be gone by Tuesday.

How strange it is,
for our bodies to decay, to expire,
yet leave behind an undeniable
presence if we’re open to it.

How strange it is
to look into your eyes merely through a photograph
and still feel the life you once held through them.

It sometimes feels silly, futile,
to pour you liquor when I don’t drink,
to light a candle even though you don’t have eyes to see it,
to pray to you when I have no religious ties.

But death has taught me that the permanence of spirit goes beyond what is comprehendible for me.

It is precisely in the offerings, the flames, and the devotions where I can find you again,
because looking for you in the flesh is the true shortcoming of my humanness.

I cultivate a new relationship with you.
One where a dime dropped means you heard my prayers,
where a vivid dream of you is no longer a dream but a genuine encounter with you,
where a stranger in passing who looks eerily like you is a reminder that you still exist, just differently.

What beauty there is to foster connection with the deceased.

Posted in Personal Writings

The Summers of Adulthood

I’m a child of the hot July sun.

I couldn’t wait to peel a wet bathing suit off my taut skin after a swim. I wanted that first feeling of realizing the sun was still out at 9pm, knowing the season had just begun and anything was possible. I wanted blackened feet from being barefoot all day and bike chain grease on my calves. I wanted sticky popsicle hands that I would only rinse quickly under a hose. I wanted to collapse in bed after a full day outside and finally realize how exhausted I was. I wanted to put potato chips in my sandwiches. I wanted to sit by a crackling bonfire and feel the intensity of the heat. I always felt like I could sit right in the center of the fire and not be burned but feel alleviated.

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Posted in Personal Writings

The Perils of Productivity

For a long time, I prided myself on being a productive person. I used my spare time efficiently, writing to-do lists and finishing every task on them. I managed my time well and left no room for error. Unfortunately, I’m human, and so errors would come up, and when they would, I would internally combust. Being thrown off schedule and not being productive was worse than death to me. I would struggle immensely if my mind and body were telling me to rest. I would fight it, still try to work through brain fog and period cramps to achieve at least one thing on my to-do list, so at the very least I was a little bit productive. I thought this was admirable, something to be proud of. I’m slowly learning that it was not.

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Posted in Personal Writings

Right Person, Wrong Time?

I truly don’t believe there is such a thing as “right person, wrong time.” This is an age-old debate that brings up numerous perspectives and opinions, all of which are intriguing and valid. I have just never gelled with the idea that you can meet a person who theoretically ticks off all your boxes and the only thing standing in your way is “timing.”

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Posted in Spirituality

The Taste of Rock Bottom

Reaching the lowest lows gives you a different appreciation for the highs. When you’ve truly looked rock bottom in the eyes, nothing or nobody can take that away from you, no matter what heights and accolades you reach. It’s a deeply personal place for everyone, wall to wall full of your mistakes, your shadows and the parts of yourself that were never nurtured. Once you’ve genuinely had a long stay in this place, cleaned up the cobwebs and dusted a little, is when you can leave triumphed and forever changed.

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Posted in Personal Writings

To Live is to Create

I come from a big, artistic, eccentric family. I grew up around painters and instrumentalists, tarot card readers and poets. Creativity looked very specific to me. Creativity was reserved for those who could swipe paint onto canvases and awe their audiences. It was reserved for those who could pick up an instrument and play a soulful tune with ease. Creativity was a label you earned, never something you could claim yourself. Creativity looked like passion and excellence. I had none of this.

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Posted in Personal Writings

Freshly Fallen Snow and Viscous Vanilla Scents

There is all the joy in the world to be found in the inconspicuous, seemingly meaningless intricacies of regular life. I am a devout advocate for enjoying the small, in-between moments. I refuse to be the adult who counts down to the weekend, to their vacation days, to some irrelevant time in the future. I refuse to have societal blinders on so tight that I can’t appreciate the simplicity in front of me everyday.

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