A conversation between Fear and Hope

 There is no rehearsal for living; It's one big improvisation. We wake up inside a symphony that we didn't write, choose, or ever hear before; The chaotic, astounding beauty and breathe-taking ache of life. Fear says, "Sit still." Paralysis by not-knowingness. "What will THEY think," it wonders, "Of our dissonance?"

"Sing. Sing anyway!" Hope retorts. "Sing out of rhythm, out of tune, a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants melody. Listen, learn. Listen to your own voice, listen to the sweetness of the violins, and the lament of badly tuned guitars; listen to the shouts and the cries, and the magic of an unexpected harmony. And then, whatever you can offer, sing. Sing the best version of you. That's all you can do."

STRAWBERRY MOON

Ode to Divorce

"Have a nice day"

said the courthouse clerk.

I wondered at what she meant

by saying such a thing

and how she could say such a thing

As disbanded vows

filed in and out

to be signed and sealed

unpromises,

stoic masks hiding

broken inner children crying,

"Why couldn't you love me?"

Where unified sands

disunited into the ocean

to learn to be themselves again.

Where tattoos

burned memorial reminders

that love

has nothing to do

with attachment 

And that memories, like love,

can not be erased

by paperwork under oath

and cover-up ink.

If only love

was so easy to discontinue

as the things that represent it.

Family photographs

exit their frames

less ceremoniously

than their grand entrance,

as if to recant:

"Beautiful creatures

are not meant to be captured."

Golden rings

Once full ~ now empty

Stammer

and stutter,

shaken, and shocked:

"I'm sorry for keeping you."

The Blue Ridge Mountains

showed me that, sometimes,

love is a wildfire.

It sets alight and sweeps away

all that is known

Leaving fertile soils

for new growth.

Photographic memories

burn me

with magnificent colors

though I yearn

for the burn out

when I can sweep up the ash.

For now

I throw our sands

deep into the Quinebaug.

'Maybe one day

pieces of me

will meet pieces of you

in the dance,'

I reflect,

as I sit beside myself,

sitting beside the river.

"Have a nice day."

I wondered

at how a simple phrase

could mean so much;

I mean,

if you heard it

for what it really means to say

no more ~ and no less.

I wish

words, and vows, and wedding rings

didn't so often

lose their magnitude

to habit and mindlessness.

"Have a nice day",

said the courthouse clerk.

Something like a tear

glistened in my eye

and I thanked her silently.

On The Subject of Art

As an artist, putting creative works out into the public eye to be judged is not always easy. Inevitably, the thing that you pour your heart and soul into won't be everyone's cup of tea. People will criticize your creative choices, your message, your genre, your skill, or your presentation. And often, the greatest critic is the artist himself. There may be times when confidence falters, the drive to share one's art diminishes, and you are left asking yourself, "Why?" If it is for profit, or to fuel the ego, then life as an artist may disappoint. But if the answer is quite simply, that you create because you must; that otherwise it would sitting inside of your heart, or scribbled onto a notepad, sung only to the walls of your apartment; that it heals, inspires, and rejuvenates you; that you hope it may touch another's life in a similar way; or any variation of these; then my advice is always to keep on joyfully with the process of creation and sharing, taking constructive feedback (from oneself or others) that resonates with your vision as a challenge to grow rather than a death sentence to one's journey. It is better to share with the world what you have to offer than not share anything at all; you never know what lives you will touch. And chances are, you're reaching someone.

The Night My Drink Was Spiked

The other night my drink was spiked.

This is a story that I share in the hopes that at least one person will come away from it more aware of risks and equipped with the appropriate safety precautions for themselves and loved ones. I was very lucky to come out of my experience with minimal effects, but any twist of events could have easily left me a very different story to tell.

Statistics suggest that 1 in 10 people have had their drinks spiked, although the real number is impossible to tell. Contrary to popular belief, most modern day drugs used to spike drinks cannot be detected by testing, so victims will have no hard evidence and may not report, thinking that nothing will come of it or that they will be disbelieved. Contrary to popular belief, only 20-30% of these incidents are followed by sexual or physical assault; the rest are prank spikings, usually carried on by a perpetrator with no criminal history who's only intent is to watch their victim's response.
The other night my drink was spiked. The man who bought me the drink was a new acquaintance among our circle of friends, generally considered to be at times creepy and disrespectful but otherwise harmless. And while I wasn't exactly thrilled by his relentless requests to dance, buy drinks, and play music after my repeated polite declines, overall he seemed jovial and innocent. That night he told me that he had been playing music with his daughters and invited me to join. "You have to accept my friend request on facebook though!" He teased. "Oh yeah! I'm really bad at keeping up with that stuff. I will," I chuckled. Anyone who knows me knows it can be a pain in the butt trying to get in touch with me through social media, email, or phone. As my husband and I watched him and yet another woman swing and laugh around the dance floor, we concluded that if he was a bit clueless, he was at least well-meaning.

About an hour later, I took a sip of a round of drinks he had bought my husband and I while we played a set of music with the band; the first drink I had taken all day, on a full stomach from eating right before the event. The drink didn't taste like what I had asked for, but I assumed he misheard me. I took another sip between songs. Within minutes, the world around me began to spin and the music boomed and muffled. My ears rang. The song we were playing seemed to last an eternity, but I leaned into my keyboard for balance and soldiered on before excusing myself to sit down. Instead of getting better, my vision and hearing started fading out. My hands went numb. I desperately crawled towards the nearest person, and at the risk of embarrassment muttered that I thought somebody might have put something in my drink... a claim that must have sounded unlikely in a room mostly full of friends. "Maybe it's just the lights," he replied, and quickly walked away. Some well-meaning folks offered water and suggested I eat something, then left me to recover. I thought about begging someone to stay with me, but decided I'd already made enough of a fool of myself. "It's probably just some bizarre panic attack or weird health issue," I tried to convince myself. Alone at the table, I immediately regretted my hesitation as, to my horror, my muscles seized up into partial paralysis. I could only stiltingly move my arms, head, and facial muscles at a snails pace: a stillness that wouldn't seem uncanny to anyone who knew me to be a quiet, reserved individual. The idea for shouting for help was embarrassing, if I could even vocalize at all, given that I had just been disbelieved; the idea of lurching my half functional and disoriented body off my chair towards the nearest bystander seemed impossible. I craned my neck around to see if I could wave anyone down. I locked eyes with the man who bought me the drink; the only one person in the room, who, every time I looked at him, was intently observing me throughout the whole ordeal. The man who, in my short time of knowing him, was always, always flirting with women or dancing across the room with a jovial smile. The man who had never failed to take the opportunity to approach me, especially when I was sitting alone. Now he sat across the room by himself, staring at me blankly. He did not dance with the other women. He did not speak to anyone. He did not smile or approach me, and he did not shy away from my gaze as I stared back at him unwaveringly. Then, he grabbed his things and left.

Shortly afterwards, the nurse at the ER informed me that according to my symptoms I was likely given one of the many modern day substances that do not show up in testing. I mistakenly believed that any drug would show up in testing, and that therefore no one would ever spike my drink in a room full of friends. But he likely knew it would not be detected; that there could be no legal charges against him. That night I looked up our acquaintance on social media: the man who had jovially invited me into his family music project and reminded me to accept his Facebook add only hours before had canceled his friend request to me that evening.

In retrospect, I am fortunate that things turned out the way they did. At high doses, these drugs can cause seizures, respiratory failure, coma, and death; what if I had guzzled down half the glass in the few minutes before I started to feel its effects, instead of two sips? I could have wound up telling a very different story.

Admittedly, sharing this is uncomfortable for me. In general I prefer to present my learnings to the world gently and joyfully, or hide behind the stories and statements of those I deem wiser than myself. I could sweep this under the rug and remain quiet. It would be less risky, less embarrassing. It's something I have done before. It's something many women have done before. But I think it's important I share this; that sometimes hearing the story of someone in your community hits home and registers as reality a little more than vague statistics and distant news stories. I know if I had heard a story like this before I would have thought twice about taking the drink. I've made it a life mission of mine to be a teller of difficult truths, to motivate action through awareness and speak for others who may have been silenced. So I share this in the hope that at least one person will read it and emerge better equipped to protect themselves and their loved ones. Let this be a note of precaution to us all.

Peace and love,
Nymphaea