other side of the world

it's a tuesday night, not unlike any other. tonight, though, i delayed pressing the power button on the tv remote for a reason i wasn't quite sure of until i found myself sitting quietly on my front stoop in the dark. the lone street light in front of my house illuminated the two rows of neighboring lives, presiding over the routines and evening activities each house contained inside. tvs flickered inside shade-drawn windows, dogs barked in fenced-in backyards, and cars rushed by on their routes home from work. home to catch dinner before it got cold, or to embrace children and spouses at front doors. as i sat, i took note of how crisp and cool the air felt as faint chills crept slowly upon the skin on my arms and i warmed them back and forth with my palms. the electricity of a September evening such as this showed evidence of one season's quiet exiting and its' replacement having its own, different energy. at the train station several blocks away, the boxcars passing through sounded their whistle of hello, as if they also noticed the air's crispness and were calling out to it. i thought of places and far off lands and then remembered the times as a little girl when i would ride my bike all around what felt like the entire globe to such a tiny view-finder, yet was probably only 2 or 3 streets. after my explorations, i'd park my bike at the end of our cul-de-sac and sit on its' red rubber seat dreaming of the little girl on the other side of the world i was so sure was doing the exact same thing at that very moment. i would talk to her as if she were merely sitting across from me indian-style, not continents away. even then, i seemed to understand the idea that we are all so connected as humans that our individual moments could collectively collide at precisely the same time. at least i hoped they did from time to time. the truth in that thought less important, of course, than perhaps the necessary belief in connections outside ourselves. that is, afterall, what it means to believe in something, worldly or other-worldly, spiritual or non-spiritual. food for thought, as the night crickets chirped like the hands of a clock sounding down the day which was nearing closer to the next.

beauty in the equation

life is short. i hope i've just stated the obvious. a tad less obvious, however, is the divine chaos it all contains. chaos because alot of what life throws in our direction is uncontrollable by us, seeming random at best and largely frenetic at worst. divine, though, because there has to be some larger reason for it all that exists outside just what is visible. personally speaking, i'd much rather believe that busted moments and bruised spirits happen for a reason other than "just because." i'm able to wrap my mind around injustice and pain a little easier if it seems they are just tiny stops along a much more purposed journey. especially when unexplainable heartache finds its way to very good-hearted, beautiful people. otherwise, the only question that can ever be asked is "why?", with empty justifications to follow. and that, to me, is just not good enough.

life is indeed chaotic; it's unfair, confusing, and much of it is blind. but it is also the sum of all its parts and we live each day because of the simple, crucial hope that in the end there has been more beauty in the equation than anything else.

the silence after the song

there's that near-invisible moment when a song ends that i am absolutely convinced is time standing still, knee deep in the silence. not everyone can hear it, and not everyone who can does. if you have music flowing through your blood that moment is similar to that of a heartbeat, a delicate pulse between exiting and entering. it's where the translation occurs.

it's where i will look to find the recognition that you heard in it everything i wanted to say and didn't quite know how.

primary colors

in sixth grade, i lost my best friend. not to mortality, a new address, or anything else that comes to mind. i lost her to race. it hung frozen in the balance between fragile seconds and centuries worth of ideals, the moment batanya told me her parents no longer would allow her to be friends with me because i was white and she was black. apparently, despite it being the 20th century, little black girls weren't supposed to have sleepovers and form "secret" clubs with little white girls. and those little white girls weren't supposed to want them to. i felt as if someone had kicked me swiftly in the gut while i was standing blinded in a dark tunnel, her voice sounding distant and muffled to my confused ears as it tripped through some weak explanation she most certainly didn't even understand herself. carlotta poston would be her new best friend, she said. "oh, and by the way, i think she wants to beat you up." as if it were not enough to have lost in one single statement the blissful ignorance that i wasn't just like everyone else, i also had the threat of having my ass beaten for no other reason than because of it. the moment unveiled an ugly truth this world fights and ebbs against every waking minute it spins round on its' axis. love is love and, sure, it's both universal and free to behold - but why doesn't everyone see it? why does it have to wear different covers and faces? with batanya, i saw my first glimpse of what it would mean to walk the fine line of too many "not enough's" and not enough "too's" (as in too white, not black enough, too gay, not feminine enough, or not enough money at the end of the month). we can all see love when it's before our faces, and feel it from time to time, but aren't we missing some of the landscape of life if we don't ever wear the same pair of glasses long enough to get used to them? to have an open heart means more than just dolling out kindness and warmth when it's convenient or when we remember to. it means more than just a shift in consciousness or perspective; it means action. it means living consciously every moment what we believe in our hearts to be true and choosing that every single time without fail or option. it's not about potential, it's about what is. love isn't perfect, nor is it associated with such judgemental terms as right or wrong. but, as my 12 year old heart found out, love has to be the canvas or all the beautiful hues of grey will be lost among such a primary sea of black and white. i'm of the belief that since we discovered the world isn't flat, our vision of it shouldn't be either.