I am golden yellow, crimson red, and burnt orange strewn like confetti beneath your feet, a watercolor painting against a backdrop of violet hues in the nighttime sky. A gentle breeze flows through locks of hair, giving way to the humidity in the air. Dense fog resembles an airy milk in the sky, making driving a daring undertaking, oh my!
Drops of water collect like beads of sweat on windshields, squeaking clean and dry with wipers that swiftly sway left.....right....left....right. Spittle turns into downpour. Left! Right! Left! Right! Rainfall cannot make up its mind, a game of cat and mouse, a distraction from rush hour traffic on I-5 and Aurora Avenue....toying with impatient commuters. Back tires screech in resistance to the mingling of oil and water, while traveling an upward battle on the concrete sloped roads of Denny and Madison Avenue, which had only been touched by puddles of tears briefly until I arrived in full force.
The sweet smell of lightly burnt marshmallows and chocolate melting between two graham crackers over a roaring campfire, overlooking the Cascades. Laughing until everyone is full of comfort food and storytelling. Dear sun has gone into hiding, ushering in the cycle known so well to dwellers of Seattle.
Fat and heavy pumpkins to carve, seeds to salt and toast, blueberry, apple and pecan pies to bake. Carmel corn to get stuck between the crevices of your teeth, hot chocolate to warm you from the inside out. Dressed up for a world of make believe, candy corns, Kit Kats, and Dum Dums spill out of sugar infested bags....treats collected, tricks an afterthought. Anticipation of downtime that comes with the last Thursday of November, reflecting, revisiting, remembering, and reconnecting with me as we near the end.
I am fall.
I am the unexpected visitor that covers the city in a blanket of thick, sparkling white and penetrating silence. Vehicles crawl along the thick mixture of dark brown sand and snow. Hitting patches of black ice, eyes widening with terror, hands tightly gripped around the wheel, trying to respond without slamming abruptly on the brakes into a spinning frenzy. Twinkling lights and festive ornaments dangle from pine trees on the city blocks of Pike and Pine. Lethargy kicks in as days shorten, darkness creeping up against the end of a workday, the pitch black sky and cold air giving a false sense of time...as if it's the middle of the night during rush hour traffic.
Pedestrians sprint into Starbuck's, Tully's, Seattle's Best, and Victrola in hopes of kicking the lurking S.A.D. to the curb. Safeway pharmacy has prepared for my arrival, providing over-the-counter sunshine in a bottle.
Whip out the Snuggies and blankets, huddle inside....or hustle and bustle to the department stores with a holiday shopper's stride. Prepare your loved ones for delays to the airport in Seatac, because if you don't they might not wanna come back. I am the one who can make or break the greatness of this city....but if you don't like me, you can leave....it won't be a pity.
I am winter.
A chirping bird near your open window tempts you out to play, a gentle reminder: the rain is slipping away. Acres of tulips as far as the eye can see. Sampling wine and a smorgasboard of cheese at Pike's Place market, the sun sparkles like diamonds atop Puget Sound and its ferries. Getting down on hands and knees, tending to the soil and daydreaming of plump tomatoes, radishes, and bright bell peppers arrival.
Enjoying smoked salmon upon a warmly toasted bagel and cream cheese, watching sailboats glide by, you are mesmerized by the Olympic Mountains. Days trips to Mt. Si and Mt. Rainier too, visitors from out of town to spend time with you. Climbing straight up for miles with a camera and backpack, stopping periodically at an overlook for lukewarm water and a snack.
I am spring.
Record breaking heat waves and breathtaking sunsets, wearing sunglasses every day and not needing an umbrella for months, I'll bet. Daytime celebrations before Fremont's solstice parade, French pressed coffee, mimosas, and people watching plans to be made. Oyster Dome, Ballard Locks, Golden Gardens and more...this time of year, never a bore. Dogs who want to play the moment you walk through the door, ferry rides and island adventures galore.
Not always depressing and raining 24/7, I am Seattle's favorite, the little slice of heaven. I make all the others that much more worthwhile, repeating the cycle annually with a reassuring smile.
I am summer.
I am snapshots of the Seattle life.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Lonely and Alone
My mom and I arrived in Chicago one late night in December 2001, a few days shy of my 24th birthday. I was struck by the lights that shimmered from the high rise buildings as we rounded the bend of Lakeshore Drive towards the Belmont Ave exit. Bitter cold, one's breath was visible with even the most minute exhale. After deciding on a studio apartment at 432 W. Belmont, we quickly unloaded my meager belongings. Mom helped with the process of unpacking and making apartment 304 resemble that of a cozy "home." We crossed things off our to-do list as we hopped on and off Chicago's buses and trains, which was a totally new experience for both of us. I remember being worried that if we didn't step on and off of the "el" platform quickly enough, the automatic doors would close in on us. I had never been on a subway train before.
On my birthday, Mom and I laughed about the drama that ensued between a cab driver and passenger as we ordered our popcorn before "Vanilla Sky." Bundled up in our coats, hats, scarves, and gloves, we sought refuge in my apartment and the heat that steamed from the old metallic radiator underneath my window.
Christmas was strange that year because it was just the two of us, but mom didn't want me to be alone. Neither did I. A big part of me wondered how I was going to manage this whole 'alone in the big city' venture I had boldly decided to undertake, as I was afraid to be alone. What if someone breaks into my apartment or robs me on the street? What if I get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood of the city? What if no one wants to talk to me or get to know me? I'm all by myself. What will I do? These were the anxious thoughts that ran through my mind. Yet when I waved goodbye to my mother as she stepped onto a bus the day after Christmas, I thought about times I have been alone.
I am the only product of what came of my mom and dad's marriage. My parents divorced before I could even form a memory of having seen them together. I have no recollection of them as a couple. It has always been Mom or Dad, not Mom AND Dad. As young as seven years old, I had boarded more Delta, American, Southwest and Northwest airlines by myself than any other kid I knew. Traveling from the northeast to hot and humid Tampa, Florida every summer, I would gaze out the window, read a book during flights, and chat with friendly neighbors on the plane. I impatiently awaited the long, dreadful layovers in big cities like Atlanta and New York City, but being served peanuts in a shiny airline package more than made up for it.
Bouncing from Chesapeake, Virginia to Panama City, Florida, to Kingwood, Texas over the span of four years, I had become almost a natural at the role of "the new kid in town." What if I get lost in the halls of the cavernous school? What if my classmates think I'm weird or not cool enough? What if I don't make any friends? What if I miss the bus?
I remember frequently feeling like I was always alone, even when I was surrounded by other people (including family). Sometimes I would stare out the second floor bedroom window of our home in Kingwood with tears welling up in my eyes, wondering when I wouldn't feel so alone anymore. .....Or was it lonely?
Perhaps what I was really afraid of that first night all by myself in the Windy City was not of being alone, but of being lonely. I had spent a majority of my childhood feeling lonely, but my twenty-four year old adventurous spirit was allowing me a powerful opportunity: I could be a strong, independent adult, alone without being lonely.
There's lonely and then there's alone. Chicago taught me there is a difference between the two.
On my birthday, Mom and I laughed about the drama that ensued between a cab driver and passenger as we ordered our popcorn before "Vanilla Sky." Bundled up in our coats, hats, scarves, and gloves, we sought refuge in my apartment and the heat that steamed from the old metallic radiator underneath my window.
Christmas was strange that year because it was just the two of us, but mom didn't want me to be alone. Neither did I. A big part of me wondered how I was going to manage this whole 'alone in the big city' venture I had boldly decided to undertake, as I was afraid to be alone. What if someone breaks into my apartment or robs me on the street? What if I get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood of the city? What if no one wants to talk to me or get to know me? I'm all by myself. What will I do? These were the anxious thoughts that ran through my mind. Yet when I waved goodbye to my mother as she stepped onto a bus the day after Christmas, I thought about times I have been alone.
I am the only product of what came of my mom and dad's marriage. My parents divorced before I could even form a memory of having seen them together. I have no recollection of them as a couple. It has always been Mom or Dad, not Mom AND Dad. As young as seven years old, I had boarded more Delta, American, Southwest and Northwest airlines by myself than any other kid I knew. Traveling from the northeast to hot and humid Tampa, Florida every summer, I would gaze out the window, read a book during flights, and chat with friendly neighbors on the plane. I impatiently awaited the long, dreadful layovers in big cities like Atlanta and New York City, but being served peanuts in a shiny airline package more than made up for it.
Bouncing from Chesapeake, Virginia to Panama City, Florida, to Kingwood, Texas over the span of four years, I had become almost a natural at the role of "the new kid in town." What if I get lost in the halls of the cavernous school? What if my classmates think I'm weird or not cool enough? What if I don't make any friends? What if I miss the bus?
I remember frequently feeling like I was always alone, even when I was surrounded by other people (including family). Sometimes I would stare out the second floor bedroom window of our home in Kingwood with tears welling up in my eyes, wondering when I wouldn't feel so alone anymore. .....Or was it lonely?
Perhaps what I was really afraid of that first night all by myself in the Windy City was not of being alone, but of being lonely. I had spent a majority of my childhood feeling lonely, but my twenty-four year old adventurous spirit was allowing me a powerful opportunity: I could be a strong, independent adult, alone without being lonely.
There's lonely and then there's alone. Chicago taught me there is a difference between the two.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Mustering courage
It's funny how you get to a point where you think you've really conquered and faced so much within yourself, only to find out you have so much further to go! For as much as I push myself beyond my comfort zones as much as possible, I noticed I am still not totally comfortable with intimacy yet. A part of me wonders if intimacy is harder with strangers vs. people I know (family, friends, a significant other). Some may argue it's easier with strangers, but I just don't know about that. There's no building blocks of a relationship to fall back on (yet) when you disclose something intimate to a stranger, so it feels riskier when you don't know what the response will be. At least that's where I'm at with my writing. Someone called the writing class a "psychological nudist camp" and that's TOTALLY how it feels to me. I'm so accustomed to writing to a "blind" audience here on my blog. There's no one in front of me, looking at me, listening to me speak the words I write. Knowing that makes me feel safe in some weird way, even though the whole world wide web can read it. I think it also has to do with being critiqued by other writers, something totally foreign to me. What if I don't measure up to their literary brilliance, originality, and creativity? I know, I know. I need to just swallow these fears and move into the discomfort....after all, it is only in these moments that allow me to grow in a huge way.
Last night was horrible though. After spending Sunday night staring at my laptop, typing away words, deleting words, sighing from frustration and lack of creative flow, then typing more useless words...I got fed up at the 300 word mark and felt like 'screw this!' I had nothing to show for the assignment and went into class with absolutely nothing, which embarrassed and depressed me. Not only because I really wanted to write something, but because I'm not a quitter. Never have and never will be. I'm also not one to not finish something I start. I've always been the superachievin' A++ student. It was incredibly weird for me to not have completed my "homework," even though it's not the kind of class that dishes out grades.
Towards the end of class, the instructor gave a writing assignment for next week and I'm DETERMINED to write it out, no matter how painful and nervewracking it likely will be. The assignment? Write about an epiphany. This will be difficult because it will entail me disclosing some very personal things about myself, but I have to do it! I already know what I want to write about. I may just write it on here first, as it may help me feel more "free" and uninhibited with what I really want to say, with my writing 'voice.' Stay tuned....
Last night was horrible though. After spending Sunday night staring at my laptop, typing away words, deleting words, sighing from frustration and lack of creative flow, then typing more useless words...I got fed up at the 300 word mark and felt like 'screw this!' I had nothing to show for the assignment and went into class with absolutely nothing, which embarrassed and depressed me. Not only because I really wanted to write something, but because I'm not a quitter. Never have and never will be. I'm also not one to not finish something I start. I've always been the superachievin' A++ student. It was incredibly weird for me to not have completed my "homework," even though it's not the kind of class that dishes out grades.
Towards the end of class, the instructor gave a writing assignment for next week and I'm DETERMINED to write it out, no matter how painful and nervewracking it likely will be. The assignment? Write about an epiphany. This will be difficult because it will entail me disclosing some very personal things about myself, but I have to do it! I already know what I want to write about. I may just write it on here first, as it may help me feel more "free" and uninhibited with what I really want to say, with my writing 'voice.' Stay tuned....
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