I remember

I remember a collage of my father's stories. I don't remember then in complete form, although I wish I did. But I do remember some pieces.

When my father was young, I want to say twelve, although I don't know if this is exact or not, my father started smoking homemade cigarettes. He and his cousin would hide in the sotano of his home and there, by a motorcycle, would roll up some cigarettes. What exactly he used, I'm not sure. I wish I would've asked him before he died, though. There's so much I would ask now.

I remember another story. He was a priest now with a disdaining vice. This vice could get him kicked out of the seminary in a heart beat. He was a smoker. He would hide his cigarettes in his sotana and would sneak in a smoke whenever possible.

I remember him always smoking. He smoked Winston cigarettes or a Colombian brand. No other cigarettes would do. He wouldn't smoke in the house, though; my mom had put a stop to that when I was young in our Westchester home. He would go outside. Of course, back when he drove, he would smoke in his cars: the beat-up old vomit-green Chrysler or the two-door once-white stick shift car. I don't remember the make or model of that one. Los carros viejos, my mom used to call them. The old cars. My dad only like the old stuff. That was good stuff. Give him old cars, old furniture, old appliances, and he was happy. He didn't like new things - new stuff didn't last, wasn't made well. He was an old man even then, clinging on to a past he could never get back. I wonder if being a priest made him that way, or perhaps, he was a priest because he was that way.

What I remember the most, though, was him in his wheel-chair, post amputation. He had gone almost three months without a cigarette. My mom and I whispered behind his back that he was finally cured. He had even stopped asking for them. Then, when he was let out, the first thing he said to my mom was: "Ole, bring me my cigarettes." And he kept on smoking. If the doctors asked him, he'd get angry, saying, "What do they care anyway!" And he stopped wanting to go to the doctors because then he'd have to tell them the truth.

My mom took to restricting his smoking. He now received an allowance of three cigarettes a day, and an extra one for special occasions. After breakfast, lunch and dinner, he would call out to my mom: "Ole, my cigarette!" while he put his shirt on (he was always shirt-less at home). And my mom would sigh, slowly rise from the sofa, go to her closet where she hid them in a place only she knew (she had to change them a few times because my dad would look for them and, occasionally, find them) and grudgingly bring him his prize. He would chuckle, place the cigarette in his front shirt pocket along with the lighter, and roll his way out the front door. He would stay there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, contemplating every inhale of nicotine, and then he'd slowly roll back inside, the scent of smoke lingering around him. Everything about him smelled like smoke.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love and, in simplest terms, I loved it – but it’s complicated love. I bought the book right before my Disney cruise, hoping to spend time rekindling my romance with the written word. I haven’t read much lately that didn’t have to do with essays, stories, poems, and even a graphic memoir – all for school. For work. Pleasure reading has been nonexistent. I think the last reading I did just because was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and even that book I will be using in my classes. I started reading Isabel Allende’s The Sum of my Days, in Spanish, but that is sitting now in my bookshelf, the Tinkerbell bookmark sitting about one-third of the way, collecting dust. It’s not happening.

So I decided to indoctrinate myself into my summer “vacation” with a memoir (my genre of choice) that could balance between chick-lit and seriousness, romance and truth, dreams and reality, humor and spirituality. I think I’ve hit the mark with Eat, Pray, Love.

I had received numerous, mixed reviews from friends who’ve read it (and a somewhat Sparks Notes report from a student) and I was intrigued. But I hadn’t really read what it was about. Not really. I envisioned a plot similar to that of Under the Tuscan Sun, only transcending three countries.

My reading journey began a few days before we left for Cape Canaveral; I just couldn’t wait to start reading. And I was disappointed – at first. I started reading, expecting a literary fluency akin to Madeleine Blais’s Uphill Walkers, and I was disappointed. The language was okay. The writing was at times clichéd. At one point I felt I was reading my students’ papers. It was a disaster.

But so was Gilbert’s life at that point. I think there was a correlation. During the time she spent in Italy, in pursuit of culinary pleasures, the writing was superficial and basic. But there was humor, and her story surrounded me, transported me, and soon I was forgetting about whether the metaphor was silly or whether her description was basic, and I was immersed in her experience. When I finished the first third of the book, aboard the Disney Wonder in the Bahamas, I was sad to say good-bye to Italy. I love Italy, and my desire to learn Italian intensified.

And then Gilbert took me to an ashram in India, a place I have never thought of visiting – ever. I actually have very limited knowledge of Eastern meditation and religions. And when I say very limited, I literally mean very, very limited. I know of Hinduism and Buddhism, but that’s it and on the surface level. Gilbert’s account in this ashram in a remote village of India, and her explanations of spirituality, captivated me more than the pleasure of eating pasta in the many historic Italian cities and towns. It left me yearning and wanting that spiritual peace. And her way of making sense of the diversity of religion and how it’s all the same – and how in that ashram, people of all religions were there in order to get closer to their Gods (Christian, Jewish, Muslim – it didn’t matter) – it made sense to me. Actually, a lot of what she said during her spiritual journey made sense to me. Not all, but a good amount. We’re all in this search for divinity, for spiritual and religious belonging, whether we want to admit it or not. We need something, and what we call that something varies. We are so focused on our location in the map of society that we become lodged on this canvas, without realizing that it’s not flat, but round, ever existing, ever changing, ever merging into itself. We have the freedom to move – yet we don’t. It’s an interesting concept. This section also made me think of the juxtaposition of those two terms we sometimes use interchangeably: religion and spirituality. They’re not interchangeable. They’re different. One can be uber religious and not find spiritual peace. Crazy concept, I know, but think about it. We all know someone who prays every day, attends religious services all the time, and proclaims to be “holier than thou” but at closer inspection, the spiritual storm that exists in this person’s heart is tumultuous and it’s seen in actions, in words, in subtle hints that alert us to the true spiritual nature of this person. He is not at peace with himself, his life. She is not at one with her creator, whoever that creator is for her. Different words for the same thing – this is what I took from Gilbert’s experience in the Ashram in India. Let go and let God is what I learned at an Emmaus retreat. Let go and let God, in different words, is what Gilbert learned in the second section of the book.

And her writing was changing skins, just as she was changing, rising through meditation from her worldly suffering to the divine.

The concept of “same-same,” as her Balinese Medicine Man, Ketut, says it, is brought to the center in the third and final section of Eat, Pray, Love. In Indonesia, Gilbert attempts to find balance in her life. After four months in Italy searching for pleasure (non-carnal pleasure as she’s on self-imposed celibacy), and after four months in India searching for spirituality, she arrives in Bali equipped with some newfound confidence and ease of being with and by herself. She sets off at figuring out how to combine pleasure and spirituality, and in doing so, stumbles on love.

Her writing style towards the end is different, or maybe I was so engrossed with the story that I forgave. Maybe there was a purpose – write for the masses with humor, especially for women who are hurting – and the style is overlooked. In reading reviews, I saw some call her writing a form of whining, and at times, I agreed. But I think it was needed. When we’re so neck-deep in our own pit of sorrow, it’s hard not to whine. In the beginning of her book, Gilbert was in that place. The wallowing, self-pity, snot-inducing place. By the end of the book, she wasn’t, and her ascension to that place of contentment becomes evident in her writing. It was well done, I think.

In another post, when I have some more quiet time, I'll point out a few passages I absolutely loved - especially one in which Richard from Texas explains his theory about soul mates to Gilbert. It's definitely one of those things that make you pause and ponder.

So now I want to read Committed which, lucky for me, was recently published. It starts where Eat, Pray, Love left off, and I can’t wait. I’m also looking forward to the movie, starring Julia Roberts, that’s due out this summer.

Finding purpose in ramblings

I finally have the time to write. I've been sitting here at Starbucks, after dropping off L at daycare, sipping my Caramel Macchiato, and listening to the arrangement of 80's and 90's hip hop that's reverberating from the two speakers. I had told myself that today was my day to write; instead, though, I've been arranging my online classes, replying to emails, grading the first few essays: in other words, doing anything but creative work. I feel somewhat useless, actually. I don't know where to start, or how or why. What's the purpose?

Then I remember - the purpose. To write. Just to get this crazy, mixed-up world out in writing so that I can make sense of it, and of myself. So I don't wallow in grief when the news of a child found murdered or molested comes. So I don't succumb to the nasty switch of PMS. So I can speak out, even if my audience is a corner of nowhere, a back-lit screen, or a lined paper. I don't care. I have things to say, even if I'm not sure what those things are.

I think things happen for a reason (cliche, yes, I know). I wasn't meant to get into the MFA program. It's been hard enough combining motherhood with work and writing. I'm not there yet. I don't have the leisure many MFA students have. I can't just pick up and form a part of this secret society where only those who belong can become successful novelists, essayists, poets, etc. I am a mom, wife, daughter, teacher. I have multiple responsibilities, and while I need to write, and I need a good writer's group to help me improve, I am limited right now. This is just a reality I need to come to terms with, and as I do, I will be much healthier.

So in the meantime, I'm reading and, yes, writing, too; only I'm writing without pressure. No deadlines, no stress. I'm just writing. I do want to submit a few things, but we'll see how that goes. I don't know how much I actually want to do. I am also looking at possibilities of online writing courses. UCLA Writer's Extension seems to have a fabulous certificate program and the best part is that it's online! It's help. Another thing I'm considering is forming an online critique group of writers who are facing the same constraints I am. And I'm writing about being a mother to an energetic almost-three-year-old who swears he can do everything himself. I see the same defiance and yearning for independence in him that I have. And I love it.

So for now, I sit here at Starbucks and, in between writing, I watch people and, unwillingly eavesdrop. The three Census workers have left. They were loud, but their conversation interested me. Somewhere in this insane county, some lady snatched the paperwork from a Census worker, slammed the door shut, only to later reopen it and throw it, crumpled, back at them. They were instructed by the boss man -a fifty-something-year-old man, balding save some peaks of white strands- to call the police immediately should something like that happen. This same man was here yesterday with two women, Colombian - I conversed briefly with them when I heard the beloved singing of the Paisa accent. I'm now assuming they were Census workers, too.

But they've left. Starbucks is empty. Only the employees, counting change, and I, half-hidden in my corner below the speaker, are here.

Life's a Box of Disappointments

But then really, is that something new? C'est la vie. I received today my second rejection letter; this time it was for the MFA program. Realistically, I know that if I would've gotten in, it would've been tough. It's hard enough juggling work with motherhood, but juggling work, motherhood and school - whew! Still, I can't say it doesn't hurt and even chip away even more at my confidence. I know I write well; I've been commended on several occasions. I've even told that I had the hardest part out of the way: finding my own voice. But still, when rejection after rejection come, it's easy to falter and think it's not good enough.

But I will keep writing - even if for a fraction of a second I think to hang my coat up and just put it all away. I can't stop. I really started when my dad died, and I can't stop. I won't. I refuse to give up. These rejections will, someday, turn into acceptance letters!

A Poem: God, why hast thou forsaken us?

*Note: this is still a work in progress; this is a second draft.

She is silent, a small and still frame by the river’s edge.
She is half-submerged in the obscure waters,
surrounded by desolation, anguish, destruction.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She hears whimpers and screams on the water’s surface.
Muddied souls, near death, surround her;
She is their pain; she is their suffering.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She sees hooded figures, shadows of dark robes,
wrinkled by the day’s calling. They reach for her
and for those around her.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She looks at them, knowing them,
half frightened, part curious,
but she is still, waiting.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She tries to fall on her knees,
to cry out towards the heavens
in indignation, anger, and fear.
God, why hast thou forsaken us?

She tries to speak the words she’s
desperate to say: God, why?
but the question evaporates
before it has time to condense into sound.
She pleads, her eyes fixed
on the clouds above her,
sparse cotton painting the azure sky.
She receives silence from above,
but below her, the ground rumbles,
trembles fiercely; the earth moves,
cracks, crumbles, collapses.
The river rises.
Mama, she whispers. Papa.
But the first waters had taken them home.
She’s going to join them soon.
God, why hast thou forsaken me?

She is silent now, her eyes resting.
The wind cools her but she’s not afraid.
She sees Mama and Papa coming for her;
they are smiling.
God, you have not forsaken me.

Success by any other name

I was reading through some blogs, trying to despejar my mind of the clutter that's accumulated when I came across this post. I felt as if I could've written the exact same thing, only I didn't. And in reading the comments, I came across this magnificent quote:

"At the end of my life, would I rather be someone who's won a Pulitzer and has a string of bestsellers...or would I rather be surrounded by people I love and who love me, and who believe I made their lives just a bit better by being there? Not saying you can't have both, but I know which achievement(s) would matter more to me in the end."

This really puts our goals into perspective. All of our lives we're taught to "be somebody" and that usually means being successful, having a career, making money, and becoming something that society would approve. But by whose standards are we gauging success? As her quote implies, there's an order of importance when it comes to the goals we have. In my life, there are many things I want to accomplish, at various levels, and with this quote, it's easy for me to see what's the most important: my family. Simple as that. Now hopefully I can remember that when I get my stories going and I aspire to be the next bestseller....

(IM)mortality

Lately it seems as if I've been consumed with thoughts of mortality, and not just my own. I've come to the conclusion that part of being indoctrinated into adulthood comes with experiencing deaths. Sometimes, that indoctrination comes earlier, but regardless of when it happens, it's impacting.

My first experience of loss came by way of my godparents when I was about ten years old, but I don't remember much about what I felt. I remember I cried, and I remember the facts. They died in an airplane crash in 1990, returning from a trip to Colombia. Their plane ran out of fuel over New York and crashed by Long Island. One of them died instantly; the other died in the hospital. I also remember my father sitting me down at our dining table to tell me what happened. But I don't remember feeling the gut-wrenching pain that comes with loss. Or the sleepless nights pondering what happens when you die. Or the feeling helplessness because I, too, would be gone from this earth some day. At ten, death was merely an abstract notion for me. I knew of heaven and hell thanks to the Bible stories and weekly preachings at the Catholic church we went to, and because my father also took it upon himself to educate me on those important facts. I remember hearing a little bit of purgatory, but mostly I remember heaven and hell. I knew I wanted to go to heaven, but even that was an abstraction.

Then, years before my grandmother died (she passed away in 2007), she had a near-death experience. She suffered heart ailments; all her family had. She had been orphaned at a young age, left to the care of her older siblings because her parents had both died of heart attacks. Her siblings also had weak hearts, so it was no surprise that she did, too. It must have been 2002. She had been taken to the hospital because she was suffering a series of heart attacks. My cousins, aunts, and uncle crowded the waiting room of the intensive care unit. We brought sleeping bags and camped out on the cold floor. My aunt, a devout Catholic, and my husband's uncle, a pastor, engaged in friendly discussion about the true meaning behind the Eucharist: does the bread and wine really become the body and blood of Christ, or is it simply metaphorically speaking. It was then that we nearly lost her, twice. Twice, she flat-lined, her limp body lying on the hospital bed, her children, nearly all eleven of them, gathered around her holding hands, chanting a prayer - I don't remember which one. I think it was Psalm 23. Behind the closed door with the small window, we cousins peaked, eyes wide open, tears collecting, ready to react for when we heard the final news. But twice, she came back. The doctors told her children not to touch her, to leave her. She couldn't let go, they said. And she didn't.

Later, she told us, in confidence, what she saw. She said she saw a tunnel, and a light. And alongside of that walkway towards uncertainty was every single person she loved and had loved. Her children were there, but not the adults they were now. They were children. And we were there, her grandchildren. Age didn't matter. We were all children. And then she said she was afraid. She saw beasts come to her. Horrid-looking beasts. I can't remember her exact description, but I remember her stressing they were horrid. They didn't look as angels should, beautiful, angelic, glowing, but when they spoke to her, they did so in a soothing voice and said, "Be not afraid." And she said she wasn't. But she didn't want grandpa to know, so we didn't tell him. Instead, we muttered amongst ourselves trying to figure out what that meant. Did that mean the "light at the end of the tunnel" was real? It made death a little more tangible, but not less fearful.

Then my father died and that threw me into another realm of death. I thought I was ready for his death; I had been so many times. And yet the permanence of this death really struck me. I wondered again what it must have felt the moments before he left. He, who had been a priest and had believed in all the mysticism of the Church, and he who had preferred to never again set foot inside a church or take communion or follow any of the church mandates. He who had loved and hated and pained. He who had caused pain and admiration. He who had told me to always check myself every night to see if I'd been a good person that day. Did he do that when he died? Did he get a chance to repent and to make peace with his life? Did he have regrets? Or was I the one left with regrets? Those that are left behind on this earth, are we the ones that feel regrets and guilt?

I think about this every day. The fact that I am not immortal, something that we tend to forget in our younger years (unless we've been one of those who've had a youth too closely intertwined with death), has become a glowering reality. Maybe it's because I have a son now. Maybe it's because I haven't finished all that I've set out to do. Maybe it's because I still feel like a work in progress. Maybe it's because I'm afraid. Maybe it's because I'm starting to feel decay. I'm young, and yet, at the same time, I'm not.

I'm not in a hurry to find out what happens in those moments right before death. I can wait, really. But still, they fascinate and frighten me all the same.

Celebrating Love

Valentine's Day just passed. It's been a bittersweet holiday for me for the last two years. My dad passed away on V-day in 2008, but at the same time, J and I started officially dating on V-day in 2001. I know the focus of V-day is romantic love - the love that Hollywood and romance novels portray as knee-shaking, stomach-churning love. The romantic love you see connected intricately to infatuation, happily-ever-after, and fairytales. So those that aren't in said relationships pooh-pooh the holiday. After all, there's no point in celebrating a holiday on love if you don't have "love," right?

Actually, one thing about this holiday that I've come to understand is that the celebration isn't about just romantic love. It's about celebrating life, and those people in our life who we love. I'm talking about mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents (those who are lucky enough to have actually met their greats). I'm talking about friends, best friends, friends who've been there for you. Friends you love and friends who love you. I'm talking about extended family. Family you've married into. I'm talking about anyone and everyone in your life that you love. That's what this holiday is about. It's about reaching out to those people NOW, before it's too late, before they're sick or worse, gone. It's about saying I love you. It's about sharing why you love them and how much you love them. It's about family and friends and loved ones. It's about love in the grandest form of the word.

Romantic love is nice, sure. But it's only a tiny bead in the weaving of relationships.

We were supposed to start V-day with a mass for my dad, but it was too cold, and at my mother's suggestion, we stayed home in the morning making heart-shaped pancakes for L. Then, when it warmed up a little, we went to my mom's and spent the afternoon there. Me and my mom, J and his mom, and L. Little L who sometimes reminds me so much of my dad. We had my mom's famous chicken and meat lasagna, and we had wonderful conversations. We laughed. We walked. We drove around. But most importantly, we spent it together. The five of us. It was nice. We often get lost in all the "have-to's" of day-to-day life that we forget all the "need-to's." There's a difference.

The National Anthem

I have to admit - I don't like football. I don't really watch it, although I finally began to somewhat understand it. I'm lucky that my hubby is not a die hard fan because, honestly, I don't know what I'd do. However, even I watch the Super Bowl - sometimes. It's pretty cool when it's hosted in my hometown, though, and it's a neat perk being able to open our sliding glass door and hear the residual engines of the F15's that flew over the stadium during the national anthem.

But this post isn't about the Super Bowl. It's about the national anthem. For Super Bowl XLIV, Carrie Underwood sang the national anthem, right after Queen Latifah sang America the Beautiful. Both renditions were spectacular and were sung by two talented women. But I have to say that hearing the anthem that symbolizes our country gives me the goosebumps. I can't help but remain silent, staring at the screen, the hairs on my arms standing, and my heart beating faster. Before I know it, tears are threatening to make their escape from my eyes. It is a powerful song. Add to that a satellite image of our soldiers with their right hands over their hears, the look of exhaustion and pride etched in their faces, I can't help but say God Bless America - I am proud to be an American.

I know it's not a perfect nation - I criticize its flaws rather often. But then again, what is a perfect nation? Karl Marx had his idea of a perfect, equalized utopia, but we all know that doesn't materialize well. Human weaknesses, like greed, get in the way quite often when trying to create utopias. But this is a pretty okay nation. Although romanticized, the ideals that brought us together are those same ideals that keep us kicking and dub us "the land of opportunity" - because here, if your want something hard enough, and you work for it, you have a very good chance of getting it, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion or creed. Sure, there are some across all the aforementioned that have a tougher battle, but life doesn't discriminate.

My father lived in this country for over thirty-five years. He became a US citizen, and yet he still complained about this nation, about the atrocities it committed, and about the modern globalization, conquering other nations by implementing McDonald's and Burger King food chains. I would always tell him, if you don't like it, go back home, home being Colombia. There was some truth in his ramblings; I was astounded at seeing BK in Paris, and Pizza Hut in Medellin, and I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. When I go to these places, I go to experience their cuisine, rich in flavors and spices that are not present here. But that's a topic for another musing.

The crux of the matter is that this is a great country. We have opportunity and although some of the politics doesn't make sense and gets lost in political jargon, I don't think I'd have the same opportunities if I lived elsewhere. Well, maybe I would in Canada, and I'd have free government health care, but that, too, my friend, is another story.

This country was founded on the quest for liberty and as a shelter for persecution. Sometimes we forget that and we persecute our own. But then I listen to the national anthem, and Carrie Underwood's powerful voice as she sings it, and the symbolism behind it roots me.

I hate titles

I really do. I don't feel confident or comfortable in having to create them. They are my Achilles heel. I have been trying to come up with a title for this project I'm working on, my memoir about my father and me, and bleh. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nothing good comes to mind. Well, actually, something decent comes in Spanish - Viejo, Mi Querido Viejo after Piero's song which my dad really liked. But it's still not great.

I mean, what could I title a work that is about the relationship between an ex-priest father, who is an older father, and his stubborn, looking-for-love daughter, a relationship that was intellectual at best and explosive at worst, a relationship where I wished him dead many times and then cried in earnest when he died because I realized I really did love him and he really did love me. What could I possibly title that?

Work in progress...

All she heard was silence,
creeping, clandestine,
behind the running motors
and the beeping.
Her hands wrung together
as she waited, listening.
But there was only silence.
It entered her ears and lungs
suffocating her,
muting her,
until she didn't know if up
was down or down was up.
She heard a muffled moan
and looked towards the
fluorescent white lights,
the neon newness of their
hue hypnotizing her so
she smiled, a reflex.
She wasn’t scared, just tired.
A siren sounded off
fireworks in the background,
those iridescent crimson,
indigo and mother-of-sea pearl
fireworks; they competed with the silence.
But the silence won, victorious over
other sounds that crowded her insides,
elbows poking, knees rubbing, sweaty skin touching.
She was only left with silence.

Boiling Point: Enter at Own Risk

It never fails. Every month, right around this same time, a switch is flipped on and the nightmare begins. I wake up fine - maybe a little tired but otherwise seemingly content. Then it happens. I slam my foot, the one with the broken pinkie toe from last semester, against my son's high chair. Or, I break a glass while I'm washing dishes. Or, I spill the contents of my red, SOLO cup all over myself, the table, and the floor, only to then slip on the liquid and end up sprawled in an angry heap. From that moment on, I feel the pricks of irritation stabbing me, never ending. I want to scream, to punch my pillow senseless, to break the rest of the glasses, to curse abominations at anyone and anything that crosses my path, incorrectly of course. I don't act out, usually, on these impulses, of course. I do have some self control. But even that is tested during this time.

It only lasts about three days, so there is relief in sight. But before the relief arrives, I am subjected to conflicting attitudes. I tremble, delirious in rage. I get defensive, and then counter-attack, probably before it's even warranted. I go on a cursing rampage, even if the words never actually leave my lips, although a few do sometimes escape.

If the flip is switched while I'm driving, or out and about, watch out world. I actually speak my mind and challenge injustices directly. Although I may do that somewhat every day, the qualities of my sign bind me to political correctness and avoiding conflict. When it's that time, I lose sense of being socially correct and pounce on those injustices with a feline force. I really do have to be careful, though. One of these months, I'll pounce on the wrong person. I don't want to consider consequences now, though. I'll think about those in three days.

Dear God

Thank you for always humbling me.

When I wake in the morning, bleary-eyed because my son woke up throughout the night - either because he didn't feel well or because he was having nightmares about fireworks and Captain Hook - you remind me there are others who have not been able to sleep all night because of how worried they are about their loved ones, or who have not slept for days because they are living in the midst of a disaster area, wondering if they will make it through another day.

When I grumble underneath my breath because I am running late, again, and the traffic has reached a stand-still for no apparent reason other than too many cars at the same time, same place, you show me how others have to withstand inclement weather many times just to reach their destination, regardless of the time. You gently remind me that not everyone has the luxury to a) have a car or b) have a job. I have both; I will try not to forget that in my moments of weakness.

When I am near tears because everything just seems to be going wrong, from minute mishaps - such as dropping everything my hands try to grasp - to ones with a degree more of seriousness- my son getting sick back-to-back - you clasp my hand, pat it, and then tell me the story of those whose children are dying, who've lost a husband, and who have just escaped, at nine months pregnant, being literally beaten to death.

You place people in my path, God, every day to tell me stories, stories of how things are for others, and stories that help put my own troubles in perspective. Thank you for that, and please keep reminding me. I'll try to remember, but I can't promise I always will.

Your humble servant,
Me.

Hutchinson Island in Pics, Cont'd