"Tell your story. Tell it on your bruised knees if you must, tell it at the risk of madness, scream it at the top of your lungs." –Andrew Lam

Category: regrets


For a few weeks, I haven’t been able to sleep. And when I do, I drift into dreams of cleaning out never-ending closets. Throwing items out. Always purging. And I dream of getting lost in a huge school, always arriving to classrooms after the bell. Where sometimes I’m the teacher who can’t control the class. And sometimes I’m the student who can’t find room 413 or the gym and can’t remember my locker combination. It’s back-to-school time, the world announces. And I’m simultaneously relieved and in a fitful panic. And sad. Just sad. Afraid I wasn’t as thankful as I should have been. Afraid there’s something, must be something wrong with me.  

My friend who understands me tells me this time is healing time. The healing season. So I’m surrounded by healing flowers. Healing music. I sip healing coffee. I brew tea to warm my insides.  And I unravel; slowly uncoil all of the knots of expectations and money and careers and questions of purposes and principles and disappointments and aches for a classroom. My classroom. For home. For a baby. For time. For who I thought I’d become. And as I unravel, I can breathe deep enough again.

And I see so clearly that things are better when I’m outside. When we’re grilling. Eating real food. When my dog’s by my side. When Josh and I are playful with each other. Smiling. When we kiss straight on the mouth. Again, again. Kitchen smooches. Tid-bits of gratitude. His hand finds mine. Or my shoulders, my thigh, my feet. When the air feels alive with magic and autumn. Acoustic hymns and good Pandora stations. When I’m creating. Anything. I like the struggle of the creating—the birth of the idea.  

And I like when I hear kids in my yard. Giggles. And happy barks from my dog finally getting attention. And I watch the dance. The end of summer dance. From my window.  While I’m cooking spaghetti and Josh stops at home for dinner. And I’m smiling. And words come again. Uninhibited. Finally loose enough to laugh. And I let go of the ache just long enough to dance again too.   

I am a Little Woman

I feel like Jo March in Little Women. A writer. A teacher. A dreamer. Terribly too much imagination. A needer of sisters and wild adventures. A need to run through the woods in a white dress with a fistful of wildflowers.  I, too, as the professor noticed, always have ink on my hands. Always a little undone, a little imperfect. Soot on my dress. The wrong hairstyle for the time.  
Jo to Marmee:
I’m ugly and awkward and I always say the wrong things….I love our home, but I’m just so fitful and I can’t stand being here…There’s just something really wrong with me. I want to change, but I—I can’t. And I just know I’ll never fit in anywhere.
I, too, needed to leave home in order to find out how precious it was.  And I know now, too, that the line, “Nothing’s going to change, Jo” is a lie. It all changes. It all changes, and I should have been a great many things.