[Good] Grief

Finally, the tears came.

What came forth was everything that I had stashed into the back recesses of my mind. Fifteen years of sorrow. Fifteen years of denial. The consequences of choosing to forget.

I dreamt that I was at home. It was desolate, empty. Someone had sold everything. The garage was empty. The car wasn't missing; it just didn't exist. There was no car -- anymore. Nothing remained other than a few tokens of happier times -- my brother's fat-tired motorized scooter and an old bike --, things that couldn't be sold.

My father was there. He brought us a Christmas tree from the mountains. It was too big. And, something else was wrong about it -- it kept dropping seeds. Seeds were everywhere. It shouldn't have been cut down. It was his effort to make things right. But, something seemed wrong about it, eerie even, that its life was taken.

As I approached the open door of the house, I saw a clipping of a magazine ad for a stereo taped to it. My brother wanted it for Christmas. Hidden in a crack of the door frame was his picture. He wasn't too young to master the art of subliminal messages, but he was young enough to be in denial. The house before me was empty. He wanted a new stereo system.

I entered the house and sat down on a step overlooking the empty living room. I watched as my father and an aged filipino man, a grandfather of some sort, brought in the tree. Next to me were my youngest sister and brother. Suddenly, they were both three, cherubic-cheeked and wide-eyed. The three of us just sat there and watched as our father and this unknown man busied themselves with this tree and I thought to myself, "We are the only ones; the only ones that weren't ruined." I looked in my father's direction and cried. I cried for my two sisters who weren't there. I cried for those of us who were. It was all the same.

Between sobs, I looked up. Sitting among us was another one of my sisters. She was three again too, her cheeks fat with childhood, her hair golden brown cut chin length with bangs. Instantly I remembered her cheeky smile and the light in her eyes, but when I looked at her she too was crying. We were all crying, silently in our own ways. My father and the man still worked on the tree.

I woke up heavy-hearted, face dry. I felt like I have been crying for hours. I still wanted to cry. I couldn't get it out of me. I was done, for now. But I couldn't help but feel that this was just the beginning.

ART CREDIT: "Tears Above a Sinner" by Bernita Stark.

Exploring: Julian, CA

PHOTO: On the 78, just outside of town.


PHOTO: Jeff, outside of the High Peak Mine, contemplating if he should hop in the cart and take a ride.


PHOTO: Oh! This is where the ride leads -- over the cliff! There used to be a mill down there, but it was scraped for metal for WWII.


PHOTO: A view from above from the "Haven of Rest," Julian's cemetery, at which one of the town's founders, a former Confederate soldier, is buried.

The Fortune Cookie

I don't have that much faith in fortune cookies, especially the ones in which there are no fortunes, simply just "words to the wise."

However, the other day one stuck with me --
"Set realistic expectations."

Normally I would respond sarcastically. "Oh great," I would say with a shake of my head and a roll of my eyes. "This really changes things."

If not, I would point out -- with great amusement -- how hard the makers of the fortune cookies work to keep actual fortunes out of the "fortune" cookies, perhaps for liability purposes?

And, of course, if with friends, I'd join in the tradtional round of read-your-fortune-and-add-"in-bed"-to-the-end-of-it game. My turn would come and I would say, "set realistic expectations," quickly addding, "in bed!" And we would all laugh and have a good time.

But, this time I am not laughing. How well timed was this fortune cookie, I thought. Or, how well I am reading into something that doesn't matter at all.

"Set realistic expectations" --
I was just talking about that with someone today, an acquaintance.

As a woman more than twice my age, this acquaintance shared with me something that she has learned about life and what she had learned about life is simple -- it is to keep things simple, to not make things harder than they should be.

She used herself as a example, starting in one career, constantly moving up by the prompting of her supervisors, and then one day finding herself doing a job that she never wanted. When did this happen? How did this happen? Why?

But, it wasn't until she was laid off that she realized this -- that everyday before going to work, she would do every little thing possible to delay the inevitable, to go to work -- she no longer loved what she did for a living. It took a big jolt, a lay off, to cause her to finally realize that she had to get back to what she had originally set out to do. She used that opportunity to do so. And now, she's doing it. She seems happy, very happy. Back to the basics.

Having that conversation with her made me wonder about myself. Where am I going? What am I doing? Are the decisions that I am making decisions that I am making because the opportunity has presented itself or because it is something that I want to do?

Sure, opportunites are good, but what happens when you take too many in the wrong direction? Do you lose yourself along the way?

Postmodern Thoughts for a (Post)Modern Woman?

When did it become a bad thing to want to become a wife and/or mother?

Is something wrong with me because -- despite having a Masters degree -- I prefer to work part time so that I can stay at home and raise a family? Should I be pitied? Or worse, stoned?

Should I instead want to make as much money as I can and/or gain as much power as I can just because I can? Is that my obligation to myself? All of womankind? Society?

What if that doesn't make me happy?

If I choose to stay at home as a wife and/or mother, does that mean that I waive my rights as a woman with rights? That I subject myself to man? That I am crutch on him? A financial drain? A freeloader?

Is that what I am for what I choose?

Aren't there good reasons for choosing to be a stay at home wife and/or mother? If so, what are they? More importantly, why, why, why do we overlook them?

What are we really looking for?

A Proud, But Blistered Big Sister

Alas, the Cross Country season has begun. It is now time, once again, to live vicariously through my little sisters, Jessica and Jarre.

The ladies had their first big race this past Saturday in Long Beach. Jarre, running a three mile race for the first time, ran a 22:35, which for a first cross country race is really good. She is going to get even better with each race. I just know it.

Jess, a third-year cross country veteran and her league's one mile track champ, ran a 18:25. Of course, me, the long-ago cross country vet, ran at a blistering pace, literally, to catch her at each pass.

Cocky and overconfident [in my comfortable, but non-running shoes], I sprinted across wooden bridges and rolling hills to catch "the action." As a reward for my zealous enthusiam (and stupidity), I now have matching blisters -- one on each foot where the strap of the shoe crosses over the top and meets the ankle. Stupid girl.

Nevertheless, this unfortunate event did not curb my enthusiasm. Barefoot and blistered, I eventually limped over to kid sis to squeal about her 2nd place victory in the race (3rd overall for the meet). Especially proud was I that she did so overwhelmingly well considering that she had practiced for no more than a week during the three-month off-season.

To view a two-minute clip of kid sis in action, visit this link.