the border

line between human and

oh, pardon me for entering your country. your country. that's where the trouble starts. it gets me every time. how ridiculous it is. when we approached the officer in his booth. still in our car, he looked at our passports and then turned to us and said (literally, I am not joking!!): "Let's cut to the chase, how long will you be in the States for?" CUT TO THE CHASE? Seriously? As I looked around it dawned on me how sad it is. All these male officers walking around. Wide legged, chewing gum, trying so hard to look tough. Like a man. A protector. And I just wanted to say: "It's okay, we don't need that anymore. We respect you without all that drama. It's okay not to know. I know that's difficult.  Relax. Smile for a change."
 And then they made us go inside and wait. Wait with mostly asian or hispanic people. There was a poster on the wall saying "this is the face of our nation" promoting the new digital photos they are taking of people. And I looked around and thought "this is the face of our nation" and yet you are treating them like they are a threat.

They looked at our car and our food, and they threw out a whole container of rice. Because red rice is apparently a weed for the US. I smiled and nodded but inside I was repeating "you just threw out rice that could have lasted me for the next 2 weeks!". 

I invite you all to travel with someone to the US who is not a Canadian citizen. Cuz unless you do, you will never, never see the world I see every time I cross. You will just move through. Effortless, with a smile even. Who knows. But if you don't look a certain way or come from a different country then they will wave you to a different place. I know very well that I am complaining from a privileged place. I am white, german and a woman. I move through those borders fairly easily. But sitting there amongst my relatives from other countries I just feel so angry. So upset when the officers treat people like they are stupid just cuz their English is bad. Maybe angry is not the right word. It might be disbelief. It's just so ridiculous. The insecurities of the officers working are so obvious. And I know they are just doing their job. And most of them try hard to do it well. But this system. It doesn't work with children, you know? Be all intimidating. Tough. Harsh. I tried it but it doesn't work. It doesn't teach them anything positive. Or change them for the better. They just get scared and turn into people who are intimidating and angry. And so on. So when I look at those officers and how they treat us, I see a whole story. And the story of the story. 

We made it through. It took about an hour. We lost our rice and Nick's apple. He was upset about that for the next hour. I always leave the border not knowing if I should laugh or cry. It's always very hard for me to not just laugh out loud while going through the routine. And I also always leave having the image of all these eyes in my head. The eyes of the people waiting. Scared. Worried. Hopeful. Trying to be reassuring that they belong to good people. 

We are good people. 

Please let us through.

some voices

crazy caterpillars crawling cross my belly.
as i listen to two people screaming
high pitched angry
male female dynamics
it's sickening
the pain i hear in both voices
the story they don't share with each other
but that is running the conversation
underneath it all.
and so i stand and i breathe and i wait for something
someone to explode
it's the house beside me
i think
so close
and yet i feel a thousand miles away
in my head i am screaming
SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!
and i stand and breathe and wait for something
someone to explode
and part of me is glad it's not me.

rain

falls
heavy
six am beauty
i sit and watch
a breeze and gush of rain
keep me company
every now and then.
hushhhhhhhhhhh.
the chocolate banana bread
 is deliciously sweet at this hour
drip drop drip drop.
life comes in all shades of colors.
today it is luscious green
green green green
hanging from. climbing up. peeking out.
ssssssssssssssssssss.
as the sky opens
 my lungs are soft
and i feel i am on an island
just me and the rain and the
chocolate banana bread
at six am in the morning.

the bubbles.

there they are.

standing.

close together.

future actors. artists. shakers. and movers.

they might not know it yet.

i stood back after being engaged for so long and simply watched.

watched them hug. say their good-byes. laugh. and well, cry a little too.

we created a family.

how do you do that? how did this come to be? i asked myself.

and i remember the months prior to this moment. prior to feeling proud and accomplished.

there is the work. the moment to moment decisions. i think that's what creates a family. the interactions. and it wasn't always easy. this work challenges me. brings up my insecurities. i learn so much about myself. and sometimes that's not easy.

after most students had left there was a small group still hugging and talking to each other. they stood in a circle and 'checked out'. i was cleaning up and overheard it. and i felt so happy in that moment. checking out. going around the circle and sharing how everyone is feeling. we do this at the beginning of each rehearsal and at the end. it was weird for some of them to do this at first. say how they are. just say it. no response to it. simply stating how you are feeling. but now, it's part of them being together. so when i heard them initiate it by themselves, i felt a deep sense of pride. of happiness. gratitude.

my dad once said to me that it puzzles him how i can put so much work into a theatre project only to perform it once or twice and then move on to the next. he is an engineer. whatever he creates will be around for years to come. but the contentment i feel when i mop the stage after a powerful performance, even if it is the last one, is so vast it takes over my whole body. and i know what was created and shared on stage that night will linger in the space as well as the audience members for years to come. this energy. i like to think about it as invisible bubbles. tiny ones. that settle down onto the audience and move through their outer skin to become part of their body memory. and so one day when they move their left pinky toe, they suddenly remember a movement or line from one of our plays. and they will feel what they felt at exactly that moment when they saw it on stage. and so the plays never really finish.

theatre never ends with the bows. that's when it actually begins its first act. everything prior to that was just the prelude.

dialogue.

why are we as a species afraid of dialogue?
what is it that scares us? is it the facing up to someone else's feelings that might not be positive?
i am always amazed how much pain and suffering i put myself through by not just laying out the cards.
plain and simple. this is how i am feeling when you said that. this is why i felt like that.
can there be space?
it feels great to get it off my chest. before i seek the dialogue my mind is cycling turbo speed. it's fuel is a repetitive monologue. this is what it means. this is why he/she did it. i am not good enough. something is wrong with me.
gasp.

hi, do you remember when you said "this and that" the other day. well, "this" really hurt me because it triggered something in me that happened before. and "that", put me in a place where i felt i had to defend myself. just wanted to share. cuz i am sure you didn't intend to hurt me. but it did. can we talk about it?
wow.
sky opens     stretches the horizon    out,    out,     and    beyond the corners of my eyes.
can i actually start to love dialogue?
what if i seek it like a moth. swirl, swirl, swirl. catchooo.

bottom line is i like you and care not only for you and me but also for this elephant that might grow and feed of my soul for the days to come and i will sit under his left back foot, mumbling quietly out loud. akjhf fbskyaw; fnfaswabf.
and really, what i want to really do, is enjoy all of this.
that is.
right now.

tension..

tension
expands like a balloon
but it never pops
it sits.
it sits in my chest and
blows into my heart like a child into a pinwheel
so it runs
my heart runs
on the spot
really fast.
the vibration moves my chest,
wanders right into my finger's tips.
and the room suddenly gets smaller,
smaller and smaller
until
it is just my heart running
on the spot
really fast
it propels me up
up up up
far away from my toes.
my head goes through the roof
and it's just my heart
running still
on the spot.

all it might take, is one breath.
in and out
to land safely back on my two feet.

now or ever.

wind wind
blows
schhhhhhh
around my house
my house with a roof
schhhhhh
and the music filling this room
quietly
the softness of my bedcovers
the wildness of a brewing storm
it's my heart that's calm
while outside
outside
the world is shaking
the leaves are rattling
it's a concert of it's own kind
and i stand and applaud with my heart
fierce
the air is filled with popsicles
and i swim upside down
my arms lower than my legs
my hair reaching
to the ground
it's a moment full of bliss
and as i write this
a new one is created.

my mother's drum

it's sweet. so sweet. the sound of the drum in my mother's chest.
it beats on. my ear close to her heart, i was listening.
the drum beating. my mom and i crying. we are parting.
once again.
but that moment of listening to her strong strong heart
and the sound of her belly digesting her tears
it was it is
precious.
it felt like i never left that place right under her heart.

peter werner willi

he has three names. i always thought that was cool. like a king. my dad is a king. i looked up to him when i was a child. he was so tall. and strong. and calm. and wild. he scared me a bit. but i loved him nevertheless. i loved to walk beside him whenever we hiked. he puts his feet down very deliberately. thought through. steady. he walked steady. now, he sometimes needs to find his balance. especially when he stands up from the floor. my papa. we used to do a lot of stuff together. he builds miniature trucks. he is part of a group that he himself founded. they are hired by different events to showcase their trucks. they built a whole miniature city at times. he sometimes is gone for up to a week 'to play'. that's what he calls it. they get paid to 'play'. he loves his day time job, too. has worked there for 25 years. 25 years. and still has an incredible passion for what he does. he is an engineer. he designs bus and train stations. and he makes sure everybody can use them. he is very passionate about blind people. he got an award for his work. he is very proud of it. my papa stands up for what he believes in. they have big meetings at his work. he is famous there. for standing up. for speaking up for himself and his colleagues. he is fair. community oriented. he is educated. he spends so much time reading the newspaper. politics. he informs himself. he knows so much about his work. it's hard for him to connect with stuff outside of that. he can't understand my work. but he tries. my papa tries. and i love him for that. he impresses me. during puberty i thought he was a now-it-all. sometimes he is. but most of the time, he puts a lot of time into research. he questions. and so he does know a lot. he goes to city meetings. he was part of a team when i was a kid that built a whole farm for kids. with animals and tree houses that had hanging bridges from one house to the next. he did that in his free time. outside of his job. my papa has deep wrinkles on his forehead. i study them sometimes. they are beautiful. he is a thinker. he lives in his head. but when it comes to us, his family, he feels with his heart. he has grown soft over the years. very soft. my leaving was probably a big reason for that. i sometimes feel he still blames himself a bit for it. for how he was back then. how we were together. we trigger each other. he is a priest in the church he goes to. it grounds him. that it wasn't for me, the church, hurt him a lot. scared him. that i felt i had to get away, i think that still sits in his gut. i keep wanting to tell him that it's all good. i forgave him long ago. i see know that he was only trying to do the best he thought he could. and what else can we do? but try the best we can? his hair is getting grey. he has thick, thick hair. it used to be black. he used to wear it long. shoulder long. but since he met my mom he wears it short. and now it's getting grey. his black hair. he wears glasses. and sometimes when he speaks to me he looks at me over the top of his glasses. he tips his head a little forward and looks over the glasses. i like that. he wears a mustache. i think he had this as long as i can remember. it's part of him now. my papa is part of me. my strong papa is growing soft. and i have a soft spot for him.

shadows.

there are these
shadows
walking our streets.
they look like people. they act like them too.
but they are really stories caught inside a body.
the story is running their lives. determine every step.
what they say. how they sleep.
i am talking about this man.
he has grey hair. he wears glasses.
his walk is a little shaky. i saw him at the gas station today.
he addressed another person who was getting gas. he said:
i know that place you are coming from. i was there during
imprisoning. during the war. i will never forget that.
the car plates here in germany tells you what town the person owning the car is from. he remembered.
the man he talked to just stood. smiled. didn't know what to say.
the man walked to his car repeating. i will never forget that. or maybe
that was just echoing in my head. i watched him as he walked to his car.
the story in each move. moving him. moving on. forward. not back.
my mother knew him. his wife died just recently. how must it be like to have
lost your loved one. the one that connected you to your past.
how must it be like to live in this changed world. where people don't know how
to react when the story does spill forth.
how must it have been like. back then. in prison. i will never forget that.
does he dream about it. does it haunt him.
all i saw was his shadow. the skin around this story. his walk back to the car.
using the remote key to open it. one hand in his right pocket.
i will never forget that walk.

mama

i call her. my mother. she is petite. beautiful. her hair is curly. her eyes so so blue. her upper back is curved a bit. she doesn't mind showering naked in the pool shower. her face is soft even though it can look very stern at times. thoughtful. i used to watch her month to see what mood she was in. her face is very expressive. she can't hide how she is feeling. she cries freely. but apologizes for it afterwards. my mama always cries when we part at the airport. it's a deep cry. belly cry. it's like we are going through birth again. separation. it comes with pain. naturally. i don't feel it as much. but i am the one who is leaving. i find that is always easier. leaving. my mama is beautiful. i don't think she really knows how beautiful she is. how youthful she still looks. sometimes she reminds me of a girl. so young still. spent all these years caring for us children. helping us grow. she admits it's harder to treat herself than others. she swings her arms carelessly when she walks. she walks fast. brisk. goal in mind. she is very organized. everything needs to be planned. talked about. sometimes that annoys me. it clusters me. needing to know what exactly i want to do in the next two hours. but she needs it. that way no time gets wasted and there won't be any misunderstandings. my mama tries to please everybody. sometimes i wonder if she forgets herself in all the 'doing it right'. i wonder how she thinks about herself. wonder if she knows how awesome and perfect she is. i always have this feeling she thinks she is not good enough. she gets nervous when she has to park the car. she doesn't like to ask for something extra. she doesn't want to bother anybody. my mama still talks to me in baby language. she belittles words. cute-ifies them. sometimes that drives me crazy cuz it makes me feel like a little child. sometimes i wonder if we stopped evolving. and we are still stuck in that childhood stage. she loved being a mom. taking care of us. my mama has beautiful hands. they caress my cheek. i sometimes turn away cuz i am 'grown-up' now. but thinking of her hands always tears me up. especially when i am sitting on the plane. about to head back to canada. i see myself in her. how she gets frustrated but chooses to be silent. how she cna be passive aggressive. her eyes twitch when she doesn't like something. and they twitch when she tries to find the best possible solution to a problem. her eyes narrow and twitch. just the lower parts. i love watching that. i can almost hear the wheels in her head turning. and after a while she spits out the perfect answer.  my mama loves me. we sometimes don't know what to talk about. then we just walk silently beside each other. my mama points out things to me. trees. birds. flowers. sometimes that's all we talk about. her pointing at something and me answering 'mmmm'. i just don't know what else to say.  i wonder if she does the same with her friends too. or if she is just so used to doing this from back when we were small. i know my mama loves me. like a lion. whenever i was in trouble while traveling she would call anyone who might possibly be able to help me. and she would roar. my petite mama would roar. her heart is as big as the moon. she feels through her belly. she loves good food and her girlfriends. my mama adores the color grey. and burgundy. she talks to our plants. that's why the plant that i left behind when i moved away six years ago is now about two meters long. i feel my mama might have poured all of her love into this plant. nurtured it cuz i was gone. and so the plant grew. 'i had to cut it already once cuz it got too long', she says. i hear a little bit of pride. it makes me feel good. and a little sad. i know it was hard for her when i left. my mama has her window sill full of photos from me. and letters. and cards. 'i needed that', she tells me. when she recalls events that happened in the last years, she always takes my departure six years ago as a reference point. my mama is strong. she is moving on. trying to find herself. without three kids to raise. figuring out what she wants to do now. she works during the week. started a whole new job. threw herself into this new experience. my mama takes her job sometimes home. she wants to do it right. so sometimes she can't fall asleep at night. thinking of us, work, the next day. my mama believes in god. she is anchored in her church. she teaches sunday school sometimes. and the children love her. i don't think we have a girlfriend relationship but she understands me. sometimes more. sometimes less. i feel so grateful for my mama. for her love. her care. i see myself in her. and herself in my grandma. it's a story line. there are patterns that run through all of us. like wanting to do it right. or checking the car four times to make sure the brake is on. or asking for reassurance. or needing the kitchen to be clean. they are annoying but they also tell me where i come from. they are roots. yet, i am free to turn my crown in any direction i like. i don't have to carry those roots up my drunk. my oma didn't learn that. my mama had to learn it. her puberty didn't start until she was 40. her parents still see her as a little girl. i see my mama for who i think she is. strong. powerful. emotional. beautiful. soft. caring. quick. loving. i am thankful i have my mama.

his name is nick.

he lives in my apartment. he is my boyfriend. partner. lover. friend. we share a bed. and sometimes a glass of water.    nick sleeps on the right side of the bed. he wears black socks. i remember i wrote a poem after i first met him. and it said how i would love to drown in the dark chocolate brown of his eyes. steaming hot.    nick speaks a little german. he reads my opa's text messages to me. it makes me laugh cuz it sounds like russian. he reminds me of a happy dog from a children's book i used to read when i was little. the dog had  white fur with black dots and wore a red bandana around his neck. he went on adventures. he was very curious. just like nick. his curiosity inspires me. nothing is permanent. and he swims with it.    nick asks a lot of questions. it's like he found a bone and he is not gonna let go until he has an answer. that's annoying at times. because it challenges me to put my thoughts into words. and they live so peacefully and perfect in my brain.    nick gets scared. but he is not scared to say it. he asks for help. he is very picky about food. he doesn't like to get his hands dirty when he eats. he usually crosses his right leg over his left when he sits.    nick can run like the wind chasing the clouds. he pulls his knees high, high up in front. and he loves it. i sometimes let him win when we race cuz i love the look on his face (and well, he IS very fast). how happy he is when he wins. but he pulls me in. he loves to share.    nick is my mirror. he shows me where i can grow. i learn how to set boundaries in his presence. how to speak up for myself. it's awesome and sometimes it's hard. it's a challenge. to know what i want.  but he is a communicator. whenever i push through my wanting to shut down we have amazing conversations.    nick's office is organized. nick's way. there are stacks of paper on the floor. to me it seems messy but to him it's perfect. sometimes it drives me crazy. cuz i like it to be organized my way. it takes him hours to do our dishes. he loves watching me do them cuz he thinks it's magic. how fast i am. working at the cornerstone trained me well.      nick's handwriting is very beautiful. there is a rocking chair in his office. it reminds him of his grandpa. his grandma lives in montreal. she reminds me of a bird. a yellow little bird. excited. curious. i could see the two of them go on adventures. the dog and the bird.    nick knows me. and sometimes that's scary. vulnerable. his good heartedness and innocence touch me. he is a still a boy. and passionate. about life, love, theatre, people.   nick's hair is black. although he thinks it's dark brown. it's parted in the middle. always. he cries when he laughs. he sits on his rocking chair and his fingers are like raindrops during a heavy storm. typing away on the key board. he writes beautifully. the words are like flower pedals and he arranges them. delicately. he plays with words. just like he plays soccer. thought-through. clear-headed. his eyes go blank when he thinks something through. he can disappear, focusing on his thoughts. and when he comes back the words are put together like pearls on a string.   nick loves to travel. i think if he had the option of living in a solar-panel-powered vw, i think he would. traveling the world. creating theatre wherever he stops. taking photos with his throw-away cameras.

wearing his red bandana.

nick takes risks. he gets nervous. he walks around while on the phone. he has a box of momentums in the closet. he doesn't have much. but what he has he values. i love the smell of his skin on the right side of his nose. it's perfect. whenever i smell it, i know i am home. i still get a bit scared when i tell him that i love him. but i do. and one day we will have a dog with white fur and black dots who wears a red bandana.

omi und opi

that's what we call my dad's parents
my grandparents.

i went to see them yesterday. sat at their table and drank tea with them. listened to their stories. i noticed how many of their sentences start with 'during the war'. more often than i remember that they used to. i love listening to their stories. i try to image how the world must have been like at that time. they were children. my opi tells me how he regrets that he didn't pay much attention when his dad showed him how to harvest the flowers of a basswood. for making tea. but he does remember how his dad would put them on a table in the bedroom to dry. and then during the night there was a bomb alarm and they had to open the window. 'you had to decide', he said, 'if you wanted broken glass all over your bedroom or basswood tea'. they chose to keep the windows. but with the windows open all of the flowers were blown away.
i wonder how it sounded like. bomb alarm. what they thought when it happened. and if that fear still sits in their bones. they were children then. now i study their faces. the lines. the wrinkles. the grey, grey hair. my opi's hair is white. snow white. and is still combed to the side. just the way it was on their wedding photo. i studied that too on the way to the washroom. their eyes haven't changed. they still look young. their eyes. except that my omi can't see anymore. or at least not much. i wonder how i will look like when i am old. if i will have young eyes myself.
they tell me about their day. my opi loves to get up early. 5:30 am early. but lately, my omi holds him at his arm and makes him stay in bed until at least 6am. then he is allowed to get up. they have their routine all worked out. he does his morning routine in the bathroom while she sleeps. at around 7am a nurse comes by to help him put on his socks. he can't do that anymore. my opi is tall. real tall. but his bones or muscles or tendons seem to have lost their flexibility. so he can't bend forward. after the nurses leaves he makes breakfast. 'you gotta find yourself a husband like mr. krauss', he tells me. that's what the nurse said that morning. i can see that comment made him proud. the twinkle in his eye is still there. he is a boy in an old body.
at 7 am they eat breakfast. then opi lies on a massage blanket that omi has put on the bed for him. it massages his back. after 15min it's my omi's turn. after that they lie down on the couch. or go to the market. just before noon my opi makes lunch. omi puts all the ingredients on the counter in an order so he knows what to use first. she can't do that anymore. but she used to cook for about 15 people. christmas at their house was always a riot. huge, huge christmas tree. 4 or 5 feet tall. lots of food. lots of presents. and lots of people. christmas used to be my favorite holiday.
after lunch they nap. it's his favorite activity, my opi tells me. napping. then they heat up the left-over coffee from breakfast and have something sweet to eat. my opi loves watching animal shows. he tells me that he would love a baby lion. they are just so cute. my omi sits on the balcony and knits. it's quiet where they live. omi watches the other seniors walk their circles in the yard.
sometimes there is a community dinner downstairs. they love the food there. 'you order it a week in advance. and if we don't like what's on the menu for the next week then we don't go', my omi tells me.
sometimes the two of them speak at the same time. i feel like i am watching twins trying to get my attention. and i don't know who to listen to. my omi and my opi. she is small and round. he is tall and thin. i always loved how they looked together. opposites but they match so well. opi calls my omi 'schatz'. that means treasure.
he was a tailor. retired years ago. but wherever he lives word gets around and so now, he is 'working' again. other seniors in the house bring him pants to take in. or shirts to fix. when i arrived he was standing over the ironing board. working on some corduroy pants. 'they just can't be in a hurry', my omi says, 'we won't do anything in a hurry anymore. that's no fun.' she knits for other seniors.
the air is soft in their apartment. the doors are open. lots of light. lots of pictures. of my dad. his siblings. of me when i was a child. some of the people on the photos don't live anymore. the radio plays german country music. my opi whistles through his teeth. especially when he works. i noticed that my dad does that too.
there is a lightness in their day. no business. they had worked hard enough. they are still the same. just a little older.

my omi and my opi.

she

bows her head
her knees are bend
and
her elbows are lower
than her palms
who are open
flat
facing the sky.

she is asking us
who are passing
her
for some thing.

her forehead is touching
the ground
i can't see her face
but her palms are clean
open
facing the sky.

she rests like this
for as long as i can see
her
as i am walking past.

her elbows are lower than
her palms
as she kneels with her heart to the
ground.
the clothes don't match
her hair is hiding under a scarf
but her palms are clean
and they are facing the sky.

her forehead is kissing the ground
she seems comfort
able
and i wonder how the ground smells
how do i our footsteps sound to her
down there
is she praying?

she
bows her head

her knees are bend 

with

her elbows lower

than her palms

who are open 

flat    

reaching

facing the sky

she

and i keep on walking.

meet...

Anna
she's my friend
we know each other since high school.
she inspires me.
she calms me.
her homes, wherever she lives, are always
so nicely decorated. bright. colorful. open.
there is space. a cute note beside the toilet.
Anna's homes are simple.
she is simple. and she is nice.
she helps me grow.
every time i leave her, i feel
'i can do this'
Anna works with old people
who have forgotten who they are
and she loves them. she cuts their toast and feeds them their coffee.
she holds their hand. she greets them and tells them her name even if it
is the hundredth time.
Anna's laugh starts in her belly.
i love watching her move things around.
she is so personal with everything. so gentle.
everything has it's place.
Anna loves gentle music. She cuts carrots very thinly.
she enjoys a good meal. she loves conversations about life.
and death.
but she lives now. here and now.
Anna can cry and ask for a hug. i love that.
her closet used to belong to her grandparents
so did her table and her nightstand.
she still sleeps with a pillow she got when she was a child.
there is a white rose in a little vase in front of a round mirror
in her room.
Anna is love. She is home to me.
Anna is my friend.

i am sorry.

do you have moments that you look back on
and wish you had done something different?
said something.
or stayed quiet.
i find it such a blessing to have a chance to face some of those moments years later.
to say 'i am sorry'.
or
'i love you.'
or
'thank you'.
it's hard to realize what pain i caused to some people
i dearly cared for.
how hurtful i can be. it scares me a bit.
how i can turn off my 'caring'
and instead i become cold. and hard.
i tend to ignore situations i don't like because i have this
thought that it might just go away if i don't look at it.
it will shrink like a plant cuz my glances are its water.
but those situations are like a cactus. they survive.
and they keep poking me. every now and then, when
i try to look in the opposite direction.
they poke me in the guts. it's a familiar feeling. i know it well.
but i keep turning
turning away.
until this visit.
saying sorry for hurting someone i really liked isn't easy.
because i know no matter how many times i will say 'i am sorry', it's not up to me to decide whether it will make a difference.
i do believe that everything happens for a reason. and i did learn my lesson.
but this thorn i have sticking in my skin
between my heart and my guts
that thorn sometimes whispers 'what if you just didn't do what you did do? what if'
it scares me how quickly we, i can go from love to hate. how we, i can shut down.
shut out. nobody home. and how much we, i still haven't learned from our, my mistakes.

maybe i am the one who needs to accept my 'i am sorry'.
maybe that's all that it takes.
it seems the easy way out.
i am sorry.

stuff.

why do i have so much stuff?
it's crazy.
i could easily give every person that comes to my front door
one present
for the next year
(!)
and the pile of stuff sleeping in my room right now
would still not shrink.
there are letters and cards and books and then there is
stuff.
you know?
the little things.
like
a dinosaur key chain thingy that has lost it's hook to attach to a key chain.
it's cute. but what to do?
there is the bottom part of my chair that i had for about 20 years
it has dinosaurs on it's cover. (i guess i must have loved dinosaurs...) there are two holes in it and the back broke off.
stuff.
yet, it's not totally useless. it's till usable. but where to dump it?
putting this stuff in a garbage bag doesn't seem right.
i image all these little dinosaurs-without-a-hook, broken dolls, self-made wooden toy boats (yepp, made that in 7th grade. but WHAT to do it with it now?), half-burned candles, the lid of a garbage bin (where the heck did the basket go??), one sandal (don't even ask) and lots and lots of used but not broken folders from 13 years of school..
i image all of this stuff in an even bigger pile of stuff. the Huge Pile.
does anybody ever use them again?
what happens to them?
and should i rather keep them before they become part of the Huge Pile?
i still like to image that stuff can actually talk. and that they have conversations with each other once nobody is around or we're sleeping.
it must be scary to know they are on  their way to the Huge Pile.
what would they talk about?
...
broken doll: guess it's my time. well, well, well. you leaving too?
dinosaur: roarrrrr
sandal: you know, i always thought we would go together. me and sandi A, but i guess i am all alone now.
half-burned candle: just make sure you end up on top. that's all that matters. where there is air, there is light.
lid of garbage bin: i must find my bottom before it's too late. i know he must be still in this house. oh, how i hate this house that took my bottom away.
self-made wooden toy boat: oh, hold on every body. here we go. there comes the plastic bag. hold on tight now. it's gonna be quite a riiiiiiiide!!!
...
part of me really hopes they find a good home.
a safe place. where they make someone's world. cuz they were just what somebody was looking for.
well, off you go!

life in a box.

they lie side by side
under the cover
s
there is dust
thick grey dust covering
the lid
of my memory box.
those letters
written by friends, lovers,
my mother and my father
my sisters
and my grandparents.
i read and the words help me recall
the times when those letters were written.
and it's sweet and it's bitter and it's beauty and it's painful
and it's all life.
it's my life in a box.

i can almost smell how much i have grown between the first layer of dust
and the one sticking to my fingers
now.
i gratefully throw letters away,
i can feel my shoulders lighten instantly. so many words. so much paper.
who will ever read them again?
but some i will keep.
like the one when my mother tried to reach out to me
during puberty
trying to be there for me
but i didn't listen
couldn't listen
cuz my mind was too loud
 keeping me busy with negative thoughts
and self-hatred. i have those letters too. diary entrances that make my heart wince at
how i was talking to myself back then. some of them desperate.

and i will keep all those cards from my grandparents. because i can tell their health status by the way my name is written on each envelope. how steady becomes shaky  becomes computerized letters
still full of love.
full.
my life is full. and this box...
 this box is my library.

time.

it's so precious. time.
we say we 'have it' or we 'don't have it'
as if it was an object
but you can't hold on to it
it runs through your fingers
sometimes i can hear the ticking of the time
m m m moving on.
it feels so good right now. where i am.
i want to stay. dig my toes into the ground
and hold on to my teeth
leaning against the wind that is tearing at my clothes
pushing me forward
i see my grandparents moving on. their bodies
are aching. how must it be like if you have to choose to
go back to bed at eleven am because you are already tired?
there is this tenderness i have towards them.
their hands.
i always feel tears rising when i look at their hands.
the skin on the back of their hands stretching.
the birthmarks like little islands scattered across the ocean of beige
hills and valleys.
the fine lines, i wonder when they formed?
and their faces. i hope time won't fade my memory of their gentle eyes.
they are still here. my grandparents.
i sometimes wish time would stop so they could stop aging.
but part of me has this feeling that they might not want that.
maybe they are reading to move on. after all they have been here longer than me.
time is a funny thing.

moving forward.

I feel it behind my eyes.

It’s a pressure

Tasting sweet and also a little bitter

I leave with my heart in my back pocket.

It’s scared. I am quiet as I start walking

because the story is so strong.

I realize I am underestimating the power of what we are doing.

Our creation.

It’s haunting. I read articles of women whose voices are not heard.

I stop. I swallow. I say out loud.

This is why I am doing all of this. To grant a story it’s voice.

I walk. Step by step, my belly still heavy. It’s lying in there.

The story. The voices. Your voices.

It’s sweet and bitter because watching you I see your trust. Your innocence. Our innocence. And I can’t stop thinking how important this piece is.

my heart is thawing. it drips through the fabric of my jeans.

it's still beating strong. 

and it assures me. move on. keep going. the story will unravel.

it so needs to be heard!

so i plant my feet. and i step my steps. and the wind drives through my hair. and the world turns. and the stories hang on to the edge of my coat. 

and i move forward.

there is a piece of trust sitting in the back corner of my heart. i will blow it up into the biggest balloon and sail towards the horizon.