Reborn

I am sitting on a porch and listening to the Rain,

straining for Thunder and wishing for Lightning,

and thinking of times past,

before responsibility,

before I had an inkling of what it means to be an adult,

though I still am not so certain what that entails,

before I left my childhood home for a new one,

before I sheltered myself inside of my mind

and imagined.

 

When I was young and all the world was new,

when I had no notion as to who Mother Nature was

or why adults always complained about her,

and instead understood the rules of hide-and-go-seek,

tag, and the floor is lava,

Rain and Thunder and Lightning helped me to realize

all that I did not know.

My family, often unpredictable, sometimes volatile, and usually so loving as to smother,

found solace and kinship, understanding and peace, in the fury of nature.

With a father who works construction

there is little time at home for bonding

and the only moments that offered any peace, any pause in our lives, was Rain,

when the ground grew muddy and no work could be done.

My mother would stop baking, cleaning, and fussing,

my brother and I would cease fighting and playing,

and join my father outside

to sit on the porch and listen and watch

and, occasionally, talk of unimportant matters that were quickly forgotten.

 

Now, as I sit on the porch railing of a house I have never been to before,

in the center of a college campus busy with activities,

breaking from a life rife with strife,

I can reminisce for but a moment

before the students leave their studies to venture abroad.

Watching them race through the rain,

I realize that the droplets cause a childish reaction in everyone who passes

as they laugh and scream, jump and run,

as if all the years have passed away

and, once again, they are children splashing in puddles.

One girl takes off her shirt and runs to her house in her bra

and I feel resentment, though I do not realize the cause at first.

 

I wish I could do that.

Strip and run, laughing and screaming, through the rain,

letting it course along my skin,

caressing the secret places that I keep hidden

and washing away the dirt that I don’t even know is there.

I wish that I were comfortable enough with myself

that I could ignore the prying eyes

and let Nature touch me directly.

 

Then the peace is broken as a friend joins me

and ushers me back to my room,

all reminiscent thoughts banished

in the wake of homework and deadlines and applications.

I take off my sandals and cover my phone,

preparing with marked efficiency for an inescapable walk

through the rain with no cover,

where I will surely be soaked to the skin.

 

Yet, as I separate from her and walk alone,

I feel a giddy glee bubble up

and I start deliberately treading in the puddles,

kicking the water until it fans in front of me

and then flipping my foot into the droplets that still hang in the air.

I turn my face up to the sky

and hope my hair will hold some of the essence, the smell, of the rain,

the perfume of peace and hope.

 

And as I enter my room

I strip off my wet clothes and stand in my underwear,

looking at myself in the mirror

under the harsh fluorescent lights,

water dripping from my disheveled hair,

skin lightly glistening when I move,

and no longer see any flaws,

but a girl who has become a woman

without losing that which made her a child

and has been cleansed by the rain

despite the best efforts of her avoidance and fear.

 

I do not know this woman,

this stranger born of the rain

who stares at me with a mysterious smile

and confident eyes.

But I will.

With time we shall meet in the middle,

Me, shy, uncertain, doubting, and

Her, self-assured, confident, outgoing,

and together will step into the rain

and erase all precepts of being separate,

of Her and I,

and instead become Me.

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Lovely, Hated Home

At times I feel both blessed and cursed by my birthplace. I was born and raised in the city and countryside of Michigan, a state whose weather defies qualification, where water leaks out of an even slightly big hole, and trees continually fight farmers for their right to the land. Deer and coyotes invade the cities, reminding us of our tenuous hold over nature, and squirrels are so rare in the country that to see one is a surprising joy even as it creates sorrow to know it probably won’t live long in a wilderness dominated by hawks and the occasional raccoon or coyote.

Michigan is a state where the line between man and nature is both definite and uncertain, if you have the eye to see it, and that is what captures your heart so that, when traveling to the most rugged mountains, flattest plains, or endless oceans, you find them lacking to the blend that Michigan offers. If you desire rocky hills, the upper peninsula is the best attraction (from what I’ve heard. I’ve only been there when I was a child, so I don’t really remember). If an unreachable horizon is all you wish for, the ice age was kind enough to carve away the hills in central Michigan so that you need never meet the end of the horizon. And if you have an unquenchable love for water, you need never go unsatisfied. We have streams, ponds, rivers, lakes, snow, ice and, of course, we are surrounded by the beauty of the Great Lakes, bodies of water large enough to fool you into thinking you are gazing upon the ocean if not for the lack of salt in the air and water.

It is a beautiful place, my home, and it pains me to think that I will one day have to leave it. As much as I love traveling, no place that I have been to yet has had the beauty to match that of Michigan. How can I possibly find somewhere else to live?

Yet, each new place is exciting, fresh. I am offered a view of life without water in Arizona, constant mountains in West Virginia, and a diverse culture that varies with the landscape in Scotland. Having Michigan constantly tugging me away when experiencing so many new things is a pain. How dare it?

We have a love and hate relationship, my home state and I, and I don’t mind all that much. I think everyone is like that to a certain degree. We want to leave the home of our parents but we secretly yearn to return, we want to escape the small town we’ve grown up in but miss the peace it offers, and we want to travel but miss our home state, even our home country. We are always drawn back to our roots, no matter how far we go in life.

Brain Dead Muse

If you will recall, I once wrote a post about how my Muse sometimes goes into a coma and no amount of poking or prodding will awaken her twitching form?

That is how it has gone for me for the last two weeks, and she is still passed out cold even as I write this.

So, I apologize for the wait to those of you who loyally follow me and thank you for your kindness. Those of you who are new… sorry for wasting your time when you want to read a blog post from someone you randomly found. Hello, nice to meet you, and here is the meat of the matter.

And the fact of that matter is… I don’t know what to talk about. After all, didn’t you just read that my muse is passed out cold, slowly dying without any hope of resuscitation? But you still kept reading, expecting some wonderful post about life, writing, whatever. Silly reader, tricks are for kids… sorry, off topic.

Anyway, a brain dead muse is a common thing we all deal with, but lately my prescribed methods are not working. Caffeine is a bust, inspiration is dead, and I’m basically only writing this because I’m avoiding a 5-page paper due tomorrow that I can’t figure out how to write either.

Yup. There you go. A summation of my current writing failure and inability to focus. I truly cannot wait for my muse to wake up.

I’ve even been mulling over a new book idea the last week but whenever I sit down to write down ideas I draw a blank. It’s like the bucket from which I draw water from my well of inspiration has a hole in the bottom and no matter how fast I work or how hard I try, by the time I draw it up all of the water is gone.

This does happen sometimes, of course. Every writer deals with it, the famed ‘Writer’s Block,’ the nemesis of every author, writer, blogger, and student. The Joker to our Batman, kryptonite to our Superman, etc., etc. That which can never be entirely beaten, only tolerated and worked around.

Right now, I just want to get a gun and kill it, though. I’m tired of the games and the constant match ups and quarreling… I just want to end it. I want to sit down and have the words flow naturally to my mind, without having to take tweezers and pull it like a splinter from my mind.

Sorry, I’ll stop my whining and go and write my paper now. I just felt bad since I haven’t written to you for a while. I promise that the next post will be more than me griping about how I can’t write right now. Until next week, then, have a wonderful day and godspeed in all of your endeavors.