Por fin...el ultima dia de 2011! What a year! What stands out to me right now is the number of shooting stars I've seen this year. Despite the fact that I'm not exactly superstitious, I have wished on a few of them. Those nearly secret whispers that rise from a deep place within. I know if you read my blog, you know exactly what I mean. For the record, one of them has already come true. I'm hoping the other is right behind it. :) Wishes aside, it's been an interesting year, as usual. Choosing to live life deliberately opens those types of doors, and I am daily amazed by how blessed I am to experience all that is before me. This year has been learning Portuguese, traveling to Spain, creating more art, and meeting the most amazing man with the most marvelous smile to greet me in the morning. I've also learned a very important lesson. It's really not about me. I've spent a lot of time worrying about others' perceptions of me, but I think I finally understan

I've had a million thoughts run through my head today, but I will try to follow one of the important rules of blogging and stick with just one of those thoughts. It's been a most interesting Christmas for me. Another first...and I hope it's just the beginning of the next stage in my never-a-dull-moment life. It's no secret that I tend to live life with the idea that you make decisions for the day based on the information in front of you at that moment. I'm not a fatalist, nor do I believe in create a hard and fast plan for tomorrow. My approach is to have a general idea of what is and is not acceptable and adjust as needed. I certainly never intended to end up here...where I am in this moment. It's just the way the path unfolded. This morning, my love and I were talking, and I decided to tell him a little about my ex-husband and the way we interacted with each other. Making this decision was a great debate in my head because I wondered just how crazy it would so

As I write this, a gorgeous man with a pair of basketball shorts, backwards Yankees cap, and a white t-shirt wrapped around his nose and mouth is cleaning my ceiling fan. This is all because I woke yesterday morning with a slight cough. I endured a day of a million questions about my health and well-being. Did I feel any phlegm? Was the sensation in my throat one of pain or scratchiness? Did I have a fever? Were my glands swollen? Each question was followed by a quick check of my vitals--including an ear to my back to check my breathing. The cough gradually grew worse, and I woke this morning with a fever. I wish you could have seen the look in his eyes and his brief, "I told you something was wrong" as he brought me breakfast in bed and gave me an interesting concoction of medicines designed to alleviate my symptoms. This man has now completely swept my floors (including under the furniture), cleaned my furniture, the blinds, and the ceiling fans. He's given me a few lec

Sigh. My blog has been silent. My journal has far too many pages for this time in the year. My phone has been taking an extended rest. But my mind has been working over time. I feel much like the proverbial still waters. A single glance at my life cannot reveal the layers upon layers swirling deep within. If you know me, you know how much I like it. I've never felt this loved and comfortable in my own skin.

Last night, I found myself sitting in an emergency room with my love and his relative. We discovered that he had been taken to the hospital earlier in the day and immediately rushed over to check on him. Soon I was settled in among the friends and family--soaking in the Spanish and quietly honored by the way they attempted English with me. It wasn't long before some friends showed up. One guy walked in with a grocery bag filled with water, food, a blanket, and some other items to keep the patient occupied--and the biggest smile I have ever seen. This guy was so proud of himself. He dropped off the bag and pulled from another some food for himself. He commenced eating and watching the television. Later, we returned to the room and this guy was curled up in a chair, wrapped in his jacket--sleeping. I know from the pictures that he was there for the release from the hospital and is currently at the guy's house checking on him. What I find so interesting about this situation is tha

Little darling... the smiles returning to the faces... little darling... it seems like years since it's been here. I cannot believe that I'm quoting The Beatles since I find myself continuously clicking the dislike button every time they appear on Pandora. However, I do like this song, and it's more than appropriate for the way I feel right now. This has been one of those weekends that has left me speechless. All I can say is, "Wow", and the moments we need sometimes appear in the ways we least expect to encounter them. The people in my life who know the details share an odd mixture of feelings--from complete disgust to questioning my sanity to genuine congratulations. I tend to be rather vague on this blog out of respect for others' privacy, and I will continue to do so here. What I will share is that I've been in a bit of an emotional coma for the last few months. It's been bad--far worse than most people realize. Perhaps they will return, but they&#

I just recently found out that one of my colleagues is facing a divorce. I ran into this person in the hall today, and the unmistakeable look of shock was firmly planted in the eyes. The vacuous stare of someone facing what is arguably one of the most painful experiences known to man. We chatted briefly. The exchange was simple. "Life throws you curve balls sometimes." I replied with, "Yes, sometimes it just sucks." In my mind I added, "...the life right out of you." I know that look well. In fact, I recognize it instantly. This pressed on my mind for the remainder of the day, and I found myself realizing that marriage is certainly more than just a piece of paper. I think the pain surrounding a divorce is firmly rooted in the realization that you made a commitment...a vow that is now broken. Something in the loss of that promise is just simply painful in a way that words can never completely express. There are so many curve balls that life throws... Death.

During the last week or so I've been dealing with some heavy, heavy feelings of jealousy. They hit me hard, and I struggled to suppress them. I talked. I let them fester. I really tried my best because every Christian instinct in me said these were bad, bad feelings. I've switched my sleeping habits lately and started waking at 3 a.m. This has always been my favorite time of day. No one is on the computer. No one is available by phone. I am alone with my thoughts and my music and my journal. So far, I have discovered many different pieces of myself that need to be reigned in and adjusted. In the process I discovered that jealousy is directly tied to feelings of being invisible and unappreciated, and the words of one of my foreign friends echoed in my head. "You need to take care of yourself." As a result, I decided to do one thing each day to make myself happy. One thing. Yesterday, it was a walk in the dark. I tripped four times and was doused by sprinklers. Today is

This past week was Homecoming Week at my high school. As someone who was intentionally removed from the events that make up high school memories, this week is entertaining for me. It is a week long competition between the different classes, and the students and teachers easily get involved in the festivities. As a class sponsor, I am in the thick of things. All week, my students commented on my visible lack of sleep. We all worked very long hours preparing display boards and skits and participating in physical competitions. Despite the fact that it completely takes over my life...and I work 14 hour days...and my dishes don't get washed...and I cannot even return text messages in a timely manner...I enjoy the process of getting to know my students and watching them work. My students this year did a fantastic job. They won the board competition, came in second in the skit, and tied (although we're contesting this) for first place in the physical competition. I'm so proud of t

"You were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all." I'm sure I've used this line before. It's one that just sticks in my head on a regular basis, and it is especially poignant for me tonight. But I think this line applies more to myself than anyone else I've ever met. I called some old, dear friends tonight after hearing about an important announcement in their lives. We chatted for about twenty minutes, catching up on the more pressing changes since I last saw them five years ago. We ended the call with "much love" and a promise from me to visit the next time I am in town so we can do a proper update. Part of our discussion was my divorce two years ago and my subsequent traveling and language acquisition. She remarked that I have always loved people and their stories and my complete fascination with other cultures. (Was it always that obvious?) A little while later, I was talking with another friend who laughed at one of my

"It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds." This line is from a song that never fails to make me cry. I asked my students to analyze this line today, and their responses surprised me. It seems to me that I would have been able to connect to this idea even at the tender age of 16. But then again, that's a memory dependent on a faulty camera in my mind. It's a scary thought to think that I have the ability to distort the truth that once existed in the world. I'd like to think that I'm evolved enough to let the past rest on its own merits. Is it even possible? Am I--are we--all destined to shift reality in our minds? I don't know. What I do know is that the concept of time is very real in my life right now. It's understandable, given that certain experiences are bound by the seconds of a calendar year. The struggle, for me, is the space between wanting to embrace the seconds--as fleeting as they may be--instead

The next three weeks are already set up to be a whirlwind of activity, and I will be a very happy woman on the morning following homecoming. But you know what? I'm glowing right now. The happiness that swirls within me is very real...rushing through my veins. I've found my muse in the most unlikely of places. I'm relishing the connectedness I feel to myself. Speaking of muses, tomorrow I will be performing some old and new works. I'm also working tonight on a very interesting display method for the new stuff (stone and sandpaper...oh, my!). In the process I found new members of my tribe. It's a beautiful group. Okay, so I don't want to start sounding like a scene from The Hangover. It's just a beautiful place in my world now.

It's Friday night. I'm sitting here in the midst of a very, very dirty house. I'm staring at my computer screen. I'm fighting a losing battle with all the words and ideas in my head. I'm supposed to be writing. Last month I accepted a part time position as a writer. So I've been writing. What I'm learning is that writing for someone else--on a schedule--is a challenge for someone who prefers to be free from the shackles of another person's agenda. But everything within me tells me that I need to do this. It's a sacrifice of my most precious commodity--my time. It's humbling to have someone else critique my work and offer suggestions. It's exhausting to deal with the panic that washes over me as I struggle to find the right way to express ideas about topics that are still a bit foreign to me. And I still have a regular job to do. It takes a lot of work, and I brought a good deal of that work home with me this weekend. On top of that, I three a

I called one of my dear friends early this afternoon and announced, "Every once and a while I have a moment that reminds me how different I am from everyone else." He laughed as I regaled him with the story of my first trip to the local Brazilian supermarket. It all started when I was in the local American supermarket and discovered they no longer carried my favorite Brazilian coffee. As I wailed and bemoaned this grievous offense over the phone to my dear friend, he tried to convince me that one of the Cuban brands would suffice. There was one problem with this logic. Once you've tried Brazilian coffee, you cannot go back. Just the fact that he could not grasp this fact forced me to drive over to the Brazilian store. I've wanted to stop in since I first noticed it along the edge of the road, but time and--more recently--a fear of running into a certain South American have kept me from wandering the aisles in search of imported delicacies. Today left me wi

Student X: ***says something unintelligible*** Me: Can you explain that? Student X: You're the teacher. Me: Yes, thanks for clarifying that. 10 minutes later while I am explaining something to the class... Me: ***rambling about something*** Student Y: Ms. Aren't you the teacher? Me: Yes, I believe X pointed that out to us earlier. Student Y: Just checking. I was trying to figure out why X was talking right now...if YOU'RE the teacher.

The school year is about to begin again, and I am anxiously awaiting the morning when I will meet my new students and embark upon the journey that will end with a trip to Portugal and Spain next June. I've been sorting through chaos. Preparing a classroom. Negotiating terms for a new part time writing job I've accepted. Sorting through dreams. Excavating some dark corners of my soul. I'll share here in the coming days some of the thoughts I've had, but I still have some articles to touch up and send in, a set of lesson plans to put together, and some incidentals that need to be attended to before I slip between the sheets. A few hours ago, I stood on my porch and watched my dogs romp in the front yard. I think it's impossible to watch the bliss that exudes from their hops and quick chases. The smile that quickly spread across my face reminded me again that life is beautiful.

I have a confession. I am not a English teacher. I had this epiphany last week during a training I attended to prepare for the courses I will be teaching next year. The workshop was filled with real English teachers. The ones you remember from high school, with their favorite books and deep insights into the writer's meaning of punctuation marks and interpretations of sentence structures. They all love a good story--as long as it's filled with the appropriate rising action, climax, and resolution. That's not me. I know that many writers just like punctuation marks because they can separate ideas. I've also learned that sometimes the best stories on the planet would show a flat line on a rising action graph. The better ones often have no resolution. Just a vast empty space waiting to be filled with a dream. Teaching English is one of those things that I can do well because...well...I can just do a lot of things sufficiently. It's one of my gifts. But it doesn't f

"The memories of me seem more like bad dreams. Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred."

My new friend in Barcelona has a habit of taking pictures of the "urban art" that can be found all over the city. The spirit of art is very much alive throughout the city, and I'm not sure if that's just a by-product of being in a large city or more reflective of the culture itself. Either way, if your eye is on the look-out, there is much to see. I took this picture in one of the Metro stations on my last day in Barcelona. After returning from my brief visit south, I spent the day doing my souvenir shopping and just enjoying my final moments in the city that I have grown to adore. I was feeling an odd mixture of homesickness and restlessness, and it was the first that I felt rushed there. Then this gem popped up on the stairs, and I was once again reminded of the simplicity of living that I discovered there. This was my gift from Barcelona, courtesy of some stranger who has no idea how he or she brightened my day.

I know this isn't a picture of Spain. It wasn't even taken in Spain. This is the airport in Germany where I spent 10 hours before flying to Barcelona. I'm a bit of an interesting traveler, and I tend to meet interesting people. (Just ask my students.) On my flight from Miami to Dusseldorf, I struck up a conversation with my seat mate. He's an Italian scientist on his way home to visit his family, and he ended up being my buddy for the seemingly endless day in the airport. We spent the day searching for Internet, sleeping on airport benches, watching each others bags and talking. Lots of talking. I took this photo after I was enlisted for bag patrol. Before he stepped away, he threw his jacket across both our bags. The image you see here struck me because it is a beautiful symbol of humanity. Stranded in the midst of a new world, I was embraced by someone who stood by my side and helped me pass the time. I cannot help but feel blessed.

I found it interesting--coming from the "land of flowers"--the number of flowers around Tarragona. Everywhere I looked, there was some sort of plant life. Tall, shady trees. Scented flowers. Long, dangly plants. It's beautiful and romantic and sentimental. I'm not necessarily a big nature person, but it was impossible to ignore the feelings elicited by nature in the cities. I think the Spanish have managed to combine the natural and the human made worlds in an exquisite manner. Even in the greatest heat of the day, there was always some shade...and you needed a sweater when standing in it.

I was fascinated by windows during my time in Spain, most likely because of a voyeuristic streak in me that wanted to gather as much information as possible about the interior lives of the people. Something about the nature of life that can be seen through windows intrigues me. This foto shows the window of a home that rests along the oldest wall built outside the city of Rome during the age of the Empire. I can only imagine what it must be like to live with such a piece of history each day. It's a continuity of time that never ceases to amaze me. And it's beautiful.

Perhaps my favorite part of Spanish culture is the sense of humor. This stands prominently in a playground in Castellon (at the base of the hand sculpture), and my first reaction to it was, "Can you imagine the 'morality' groups in the States who would protest this?" There is just more freedom here for artistic expression and less analysis about how people will be offended or misinterpret that expression. That leads to more authenticity in personal interactions, and that was a refreshing change from my world in which I am constantly forced to evaluate myself so that I don't offend people. One striking example of this was when my new friend in Barcelona gave me a tour of the city. A discussion about the differences between European and Latin American Spanish quickly turned into a discussion about "bad" words. After much cajoling, I shared some of my "dirty" Spanish. In the States, I would have been quickly judged for what I said. There, however,

Two things stand out to me about this picture from a Barcelona street. First, keeping plants on the balcony is a very Spanish habit. (My dear Spaniard told me this.) If a woman lives in the flat, chances are that plants will be on the balcony. Second, I was completely fascinated by the balconies because they were glimpses into the lives of people--filled with laundry, toys, political signs, and flags. They were also places to watch the world go by. I cannot wait for my own.

Spain is filled with parks, and as I wandered the streets of Castellon de la Plana, my eye caught this tall, colorful sculpture. It is the center of a small play area for children, and the whimsy captured in the outstretched hands is remarkable. The place is filled with imagination, and this is one of the shots I took. It reminds me of the Michelangelo painting.

This sculpture sits outside the main church in Castellon de la Plana. The church is a Gothic style cathedral originally built in the 13th century. I don't know exactly what it was about this angel that captivated me, but she did.

I hate waiting. A few weekends ago, my dear South American snapped at me because I was running about 5 minutes late to meet him. What all my friends found funny was that the American was late. I may be, perhaps, the only American on the planet who is consistently late for everything...except work. There's a reason for this. Reread the first sentence. I have worked diligently to be as prepared as possible for my upcoming trip, and I am very surprised to be able to admit that I'm even packed...except for some incidentals that will go in my carry-on. My homework is as complete as possible. The laundry is done. I will soon load up all the dogs' stuff for the kennel so it is ready for me in the morning. This, my friends, is something new. And now I wait. I did all this because I have a very special surprise for someone, and I wanted to make sure that I didn't ruin the chance to experience it with some last minute, frantic flurry of activity to leave for the airport in time.

I've been busily preparing for my upcoming trip to Spain. In doing so, I have been frantically working on a project for work, completing homework assignments, and packing. In what has been uncharacteristic behavior for me, I am almost finished with a little time to spare. I just finished updating the playlist on my iPod shuffle, and I chuckled as I searched for just the right songs to accompany me on this trip. This is perhaps my most important decision...more so than clothing options. Last summer, in Peru, I found myself feeling a bit homesick, and the only thing that cured it was the sound of one of my favorite Spanish bands. I cannot tell you how many times I listened to the song, Estrella Polar. To this day, the moment I hear the opening chords, I am transported back to the streets of Lima. As excited as I am about this trip, I'm also a little nervous. It has nothing to do with traveling overseas by myself and everything to do with the repercussions of the date I chose for

I'm a bit giddy today. Jokes with one of my dearest friends. Compliments about my work from co-workers. Decent looking hair. Lots of laughter. I like this feeling.

I posted something yesterday. However, as I've thought about the circumstances that lead me to write that post, I felt that I needed to delete it. It just didn't convey the message that I was trying to express. Let's just say that something happened this weekend that essentially empowered me and made me realize just how far I've come in my life. And how far I have yet to go. What I've discovered is that one of my great strengths and weaknesses in life is the fact that I accept people as they are. I do. One of my dear friends told me this weekend that I have America's biggest shoulders. I like this quality in me, but I also know it works to my detriment at times. I'm the master of line blurring. However, it's one thing to accept people as they are. It's quite another to let that be an excuse for someone to take advantage of and walk all over me. Yes, that happens. During the last few years, I've compiled a list of what behaviors are and are not ac

The end of the school year is always a whirlwind of activity, and it doesn't help that I very happily take on extra tasks. Like prom. And freelance writing. And learning new languages. Fortunately, I've found a method that seems to work well for me: work on one task...take a break...work on another task...take a break. You get the idea. It seems to keep me sufficiently occupied and eliminates some of the frustration I feel when things don't move along as quickly as I'd like. But I digress. I took a mental break earlier to let some of the thoughts in my head run like a hamster on a wheel. One of the thoughts that bubbled up was something a dear friend said to me last year after I had broken up with my boyfriend. I was complaining to him about how everything that happened between us was just one giant lie since the relationship ended and that I couldn't believe I was stupid enough to think he ever loved me. His response was classic. "It doesn't negate anythin

I scribbled some new lines of poetry in my notebook. I'm writing tonight. I think.

I'm happily saying good-bye to April. My head is still pounding and my stomach is still churning from the emotional roller coaster this month has brought to my life. Right now, I'd be willing to invest my life's savings in emotional Dramamine, confident that I could make my fortune and be able to retire on a beach in South America before my passport tells me I'm forty years old. I went to lunch with two of my dearest friends Friday. We have a chunk of time in the middle of the day that allows us to go off campus when we don't have meetings or duties, and Friday tends to be a good day for that. This week, we escaped to one of our favorite places. It's a small restaurant with only one English-speaking employee, and we all smell like the kitchen when we leave. The food is amazing and affordable and the atmosphere just cannot be beat, especially when the lone English-speaking employee is not there. When we arrived back at the school, we still had a few minutes befor

Last night I sent a text to a friend telling him that I was ready to re-invent myself. This skin I'm currently wearing is starting to sag and feels a bit uncomfortable. *** If I could sculpt you from the clay of the Earth, shape the curves of your limbs with the palms of my hands... I'd cast your eyes blue and clear as the still waters of the Caribbean on a summer day that see into the depths of life and death. I'd stretch your skin across bones of steel that carry the weight of your dreams too marvelous to rest on fragile shoulders of common men. I'd mold your face with drops of rain delicate enough to sense the tenderness of a lover's lips and joy that courses the veins. You would be my own superhero. A superwoman willing to follow the wind or the waves of the sea that call to you in the whispers that bind hearts and mend fences of souls. Brave enough to love without fear. And seek truth without regret. Bold as the stars in the Andean sky. A fire that leaves its o

Forgive me. I'm going to do some thinking here. Some sorting. Some processing through the process of writing this blog. The last week and a half has been a whirlwind for me. Thoughts and emotions have swirled in my head. I'm sitting here still letting them wander around my conscience and hoping they will eventually find a place to rest. A few days ago I had a conversation with my dear Lawrence who told me that he thinks I'd finally find happiness if I embrace the gypsy in me and live my life with the reckless abandon I seem to crave. This cardboard box of traditional living is certainly worn, and the duct tape I've been using to hold it together is separating along the seams. But what next? I have some serious questions to answer in the upcoming weeks. Deep down, I already know the answers, and I have no doubt that the people around me will question my sanity as I make them. And you know what? None of it really matters at the end of the day. I fully intend to find mysel

Last Friday, I participated again in the Collaborative Arts Experiment in Fort Myers. This year, the theme was based around community, beauty, and joy. My group decided to create a piece that reflected a universe vs. Earth perspective, and I wrote two poems (in one week) that were read at the beginning and end of the work. The first is simply my reflection of the universe and the wonder I feel when looking at the night sky. The second is my attempt to capture the sense of life I often feel surging within me. You hold in your dark depths the secrets of our first breath wound and wrapped in your swirling orbs of light and dust That stare at me... A million sparks of glitter and gold Singing and cajoling Evolving and revolving... Shining in the eyes of men who dream hope wait for the fate and fortune of foreign travels. *** Oh mystics and dreamers and weavers of words... You carry in your sinew and bone a celebration of the sun of the Earth the dr

I went running this morning. My iPod stayed in the pocket of my running belt. It was beautiful.

Why are you so petrified of silence? Here can you handle this? Did you think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines? Or when you think you're gonna die? Or did you long for the next distraction? Sometimes I like to talk. Sometimes I like to listen. Sometimes I like the distraction of music. Sometimes I crave silence. I'm acutely aware of the messages that silence brings us. I think that we learn more about ourselves and other people through silence than through the distraction of conversation.

I showed up work yesterday with my curly, unwashed hair pulled on top of my head in a wild ponytail sticking out all over my head, an over-sized t-shirt, black jeans, and the unmistakable look of a the six hours of sleep I'd had in the last two days hanging in the shadows around my eyes. Everyone who looked at me smiled politely. I was just happy to be standing upright. It's no secret that I live my life in a blur of activity that would make mere mortals crumble. I mean, it's no secret that I will sometimes knock out a four page essay for a class, stay up half the night talking to someone, teach my students on two hours of sleep, and finish the afternoon with a five mile run. I like it that way. Yesterday, though, I reached my own breaking point after having one more wrench thrown in the spokes of my life. My dear friend across the hall wandered into my room, sat across from my desk, and took in the sight that belied my own brand of chaos. When he asked, "What's wr

I'm currently obsessed with the Modest Mouse lyric "when time and life shook hands and said good-bye." The imagery in that line--and in that song as he describes the ocean meeting the sky and the earth folding in on itself--has been stuck in my head since I first heard Mark Kozelec sing it on his MM tribute album, which happens to be one of my all-time favorites. I cannot listen to this song without crying. Sometimes the tears form in tiny wells along the bottom edges of my eyes that do little more than temporarily blur my vision. Other times--like today--the tears overflow onto my cheekbones, accompanied by slight hiccups. The soul of an artist is keenly aware of the fact that life is temporary. Regardless of your religious beliefs about the afterlife, our time walking the earth and breathing the air is limited, and we are powerless to stop it. This truth reverberates through my own psyche in nearly every moment of my life. It was there this week as I sat cross-legged

One of the best parts of aging is perspective. I was thinking yesterday about how sometimes--many times--doing the right thing is difficult and painful. This is even true when trying to do the right thing for yourself. Like letting go. This week, though, has been a bit of a struggle for me. A younger version of me would have caved to the sinking feelings and succumbed to the internal message that something was wrong with me for not being able to see something--a relationship, a project, an idea--through to the bitter end. Instead, I am well aware of the feelings raging within and willing to let them roar up from time to time in a wave of anxiety over my body, tears in the corners of my eyes, or a far off look into the unseen world. I'm still unsure of what the future holds at the moment. I'm not quite completely decided about what action to take next...or not at all. I am willing to let the thoughts run through my head with the knowledge that they will eventually find a home in

I really didn't think it was possible to top last year's birthday which I spent watching my new hot water heater being installed in great anticipation of a hot shower. But I think it happened. The day was filled with lots of text messages, phone calls, Facebook posts in multiple languages, songs from my students, and a vocabulary skit designed around my special day. That in itself made for a beautiful day. I've told most of my friends that I always suspected 34 would be my year. I can't explain it; it's just a feeling I've had for a long time. I think it might be true.

The laughter is silenced and the clothes hung out on the drying rack for all the neighbors to see from the porch have been packed away. And I cried for you. The dishes lined along the sink have been washed and dried and put back into their dark home in the cupboard where they wait for their single use. And I cried for you. The nights are quiet and the Dominoes and cards are no longer spread out on the dining room table ready for a late night game. And I cried for you. The kisses are resting firmly on the cheeks of loved ones who are closing their eyes tonight on another continent after catching up on the last seven years. And I cried for you.

I've been chatting with my brother this morning. He has a new girlfriend now, and this seems to be a bright spot for him since his divorce. This sort of conversation is the perfect breeding ground for a reflection on the past, and we've already covered the ideas of life paths and consequences. This perfectly coincided with a conversation I had with Nadia yesterday in which she reminded me that we recently made a pact to leave our baggage behind as we move ahead. (I have to admit, though, that I've been keeping mine on rollers.) My personal struggle is rooted in the fact that in any relationship I've had, I've either been cheated on or been the back-pocket girl (the one left behind when something better comes along). It's a place in my heart buried in scar tissue, and no matter how much I trust a man, in the back of my mind is the lingering wonder of when he's going to find something better than me. The sad reality is that we have all been deeply affected by

I have a taped interview my neighbor did with me when I was thirteen. In it she asks about my hobbies, and I respond with a scripted sounding list of activities that included writing music and playing with my brother and sister. She then asks me, "What about talking on the phone." Apparently, I've been a talker for a long time. I went to South American Soccer Night this week and caught up with my favorite Brazilian after the game. He told me how much his sister liked me, and I laughed as I pointed out that I held my own in Portuguese as we talked about my family and living in Orlando and about our jobs as teachers. "I know," he said. "She told me that you two would have talked all night if my mom had not interrupted." I laughed, remembering her poking her head out the door and telling us that we needed to stop talking and go to sleep because I had to go to work in the morning. Like any obedient children, we followed her orders. Yeah...we would have tal

I like boys. I understand them. A lot of this has to do with the fact that I come from a family with a lot of boys. They just make sense to me. Last weekend I met the most beautiful, intelligent pre-teen girl. Our initial interaction involved me telling her in Portuguese how much I liked her alternating pink and blue nail polish. She's very shy, and I noticed that she tends to sit back and take in her environment before jumping in. Fortunately, I'm good at respecting that. We eventually bonded, though, through our walking tour of touristy Orlando and a few comments about the frigid air. The 8 year old girl who traveled with us eventually complained, "You keep holding hands and hugging each other." Yep. We did. We talked in Portuguese about the rides and rated the roller coasters. We discussed the fact that her uncle is one of her favorite people and which American music she liked. We smiled and laughed and I felt such a protective instinct about her that I gave her my

I like certainty. I crave truth. I thrive on authenticity. I think that's one of the reasons I like kids so much. They have a way of carving right through the b.s. and digging in to the heart of the matter. As we sat at Dunkin Donuts this weekend, the English-speaking 8-year-old asked me, "What's your name again?" The Brazilian looked across the table from her and responded, "Every time you see her you ask her her name five times. When are you going to remember it?" She sat there quietly for a moment before answering, "I've only seen her one other time...not like that other girl who was there at your birthday." I laughed internally because she confirmed what I had suspected about his three month absence and knew would not ever actually get a straight answer about. The Brazilian shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable and shot me sideways glance with a quick, "Don't listen to her. She's crazy and doesn't know what she's t

Whenever I meet foreigners, they always tell me that I am unlike other Americans. This used to confuse me a bit because, as far as I'm concerned, I'm just me. I've grown accustomed, though, to the statement, "You're different." This weekend I found out just how much that statement applies to me. The South Americans and I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts for a brunch Saturday morning, and after coordinating all the orders, we sat down with our collection of donuts and flatbread sandwiches and coffee. Lots of coffee. Because Brazilians like--no love--coffee. It wasn't long before I heard, "Voce comi?" followed by an offer of whatever someone had to eat. I ate. Right off the food, and often right after someone else had already taken a bite. There's no such thing as breaking off a piece of food. You just jump right in. My American friends were all a bit grossed out by this. "You don't even know these people!" they would shout. That's

I'm finally home and have a million things to do tonight that I normally would have finished Friday night or during the weekend. There are no complaints here, though, because my weekend was as magical as I expected it would be. On Saturday morning we loaded up the car with the Brazilians and started our trek to Orlando. It was a slightly rocky start because I was afraid to practice my bad Portuguese and had already been warned not to use my Spanish. You know how much I love kids, though, right? The 8 year old started out by asking if I would play soccer with him again. He and I practiced our English and Portuguese for most of the ride. Colors. Animals. Numbers. That seemed to break the ice, and before long we were all doing our best to communicate through my broken Portuguese, Spanish verbs and lots of hand gestures. So much happened, and I plan to share pieces of it over the next few days. To read it all now would be overwhelming. This family is a group of beautiful people who ope

As I've had the time, I've been reading an amazing book by Brene Brown . Brown is a shame researcher in Houston, and her book, I Thought It Was Just Me, but It Isn't, has been life changing for me. In the book, she shares some of her research on shame and vulnerability, and the most profound piece of information I've uncovered is that we all feel shame, and we're all deeply afraid of it. Like I said, it's changing me. I'm very aware now of what I say to other people. I'm also very much aware of situations which stir my own feelings of shame. To do this, you answer two questions: How do I want to be perceived by others? and How do I not want to be perceived by others? I want to be perceived as authentic, empathetic, free-spirited, creative, and joyful. I don't want to be perceived as stupid or mentally unstable. Problems arise when either of those perceptions are challenged. The funny thing is that the two ways I don't want to be perceived are mos

It's 10:00. My race clothes are laying across the top of the dog crate. I've already consumed my all-natural sleep aid. The alarm is set for 4:45 in the morning. I should be sleeping, but my mind is spinning at an unnatural rate. Remember this poem ? The subject of that poem married just a few weeks ago, and I just finished looking through his wedding photos. It's a strange feeling. Not one of loss. Or Regret. Or even wistfulness. I'm thoroughly happy for both of them in a way that will seriously not make sense to most of the people I know. I suppose there will always be an odd sense of knowing in a situation like this. I know the feel of those lips. I've seen that look in his eyes. What I felt for him was real and pure and drives the feeling of satisfaction that is currently overwhelming me. I love knowing that he's in love--even if it's not with me. I even saved my favorite photo to my computer because the image stirred something in me that needs to be sti

Today didn't turn out quite like I expected. I wasn't prepared for the blasting cold that greeted me when I let the dogs out this morning. I certainly wasn't prepared for my car to refuse to start this morning. But there I was at 5:30 this morning. 30 degrees. In the dark. Behind the wheel of a car whose engine attempted, but never fully woke up. I have a back up plan. Since I live alone, I have two vehicles, and I ran inside to find the key to the other one. The interior lights didn't even turn on. As I waited for my friend to pick me up for work, I thought about how, sometimes, even with the appropriate preparations, life doesn't follow the plan. However, I'm not writing to wax poetic about those little twists and turns. I know you get that. My little silver machine decided to crank this afternoon after the mercury climbed a bit. This meant I got to spend the afternoon at the auto parts store. I have found the auto parts store to be an interesting place for a

A dear friend confessed to me last night that he had lost his muchness and found it again. I confessed the same and even admitted the ridiculous series of events that recently sapped my own muchness. That little confession seemed to do wonders. It's so easy to fall out of step with myself. In fact, I do it quite naturally. Growing up in a Christian home, I took to heart the instructions to love my neighbor more than I love myself. Oh, wait! I just checked the scripture. "Love your neighbor as yourself." I may have been doing this the wrong way. I ended 2010 with the resolution that I would no longer make decisions out of fear. I am starting 2011 with the resolution to make decisions based on what I want. I've struggled with this because I've always believed that I should consider the needs and wants of others before my own. I'd like to think this is a valiant approach, but the truth is that it only leads to martyrdom...and I don't think I was given the opp