Mrs. McCormick

It amazes me that after 23 years I still remember an incident from kindergarten as if it had just happened yesterday.

I sat quietly on the carpet waiting for the teacher to begin her lesson, when suddenly a little girl raises her hand. Mrs. McCormick calls on her to speak. The little girl proceeds to tell her that somebody stole her baseball cards. The teacher begins questioning the students, trying to pinpoint a suspect. The little girl mentions to her that she thinks that I stole them. I was stunned at this ridiculous accusation, I don't even like baseball! The teacher glares at me and directs me to go find the cards, and return them to the little girl. I was frightened, and therefore did what I was told. I remember going straight to the reading area, where all of the comfy pillows were located. All of my classmates were looking at me as I walked over to where I was to begin my search. Tears were streaming down my face. I turned over one of the pillows and lo and behold, there were the little girl's cards!! I looked guilty and I knew it. Weeping I told the teacher that I had no idea how I knew that the cards were there. She did not believe me. That day I went home and told my mom what had happened. My mom went to the school and had a lengthy discussion with Mrs. McCormick. The rest of kindergarten is a blur.

I often look back at how horrible that incident made me feel. If she is still alive, she probably has no recollection of this incident. It saddens me that for the rest of my life I will remember kindergarten as the time when I was falsely accused of stealing some stupid baseball cards!!

Mrs. McCormick you are one mean bitch!

Sentient beings

I visited an animal shelter today hoping to bring home a cat. As I walked down aisle after aisle of malodorous cages, it saddened me to see sentient beings trapped in squalor. Some dogs sat frightened in the corner of their excrement covered cages. Others barked in desperation, hoping to attract the attention of potential owners. The look in their eyes made me feel helpless. Somberly, I walked over to where the cats were located. I passed by the cat with the missing left eye, several feral cats and a couple of overweight beauties. They all seemed lonesome, I would have taken several of them home if it were financially feasible. I went to find out how much it would cost to adopt. I was shocked when I was told that the cost of adoption was $110! I had a verbal exchange with the woman at the counter about how unhappy I was that I would not be able to provide a loving home for a cat because of cost. Wouldn't it be more efficient to lower the price significantly, thereby increasing the likelihood that people would adopt?

I left the shelter deeply troubled.

Sometimes words are superfluous

In general, I express my emotions in words. However, there are times when I feel the need to draw rather than construct sentences. The following are just some of my "journal entries."

Spitting out my heart

Today I spent a few hours of my day reading. Reading always brings me a tremendous amount of joy. I re-read House of Incest by Anaïs Nin. Her work is absolutely brilliant. As I read her books, I find that I can relate to her in so many ways. I can remember being completely awestruck the first time that I read House of Incest. I had to pause several times so that I could savor each sentence and digest its meaning. Anaïs Nin possessed passion, courage and freedom. I admire her for not being afraid of expressing her vulnerabilities and most intimate thoughts. With that said, the following quote resonated within my being.

" The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart. There is an instrument called the quena made of human bones. It owes its origin to the worship of an Indian for his mistress. When she died he made a flute out of her bones. The quena has a more penetrating more haunting sound than the ordinary flute. Those who write know the process. I thought of it as I was spitting out my heart. Only I do not wait for my love to die."

When it rains, it pours

For a while things are great, and then suddenly the torrential downpour arrives. This is usually how life unfolds. Today I got some bad news. Throughout the day I had to keep asking myself, "is it serious?" I suppose in the grand scheme of things, not really. However, I am human, and it is difficult not to feel sad when faced with unfortunate circumstances. Physically this problem manifested itself in the form of a migraine. Right now, I just want to go in my room and sleep. I had difficulty concentrating while I was at work, and felt somewhat disoriented. What I find interesting is that last night I had a frightening dream. All I can remember is that I was bleeding to death. There was blood everywhere. I woke up terrified, and expecting to find myself lying in a pool of blood. I suppose this was a sign from the unconscious part of my being. A harbinger, foreshadowing what was going to transpire.

Sometimes I wish I could reach into my brain and "turn off" my dreams. Other times it is my obsessive-compulsive nature that I wish that I could amputate.

Of course, for now I must endure what I am faced with. I am ready for the challenge.

Sunshine

I went to visit a little girl that I know at the hospital today. She is currently in ICU. Her parents brought her to the ER after she exhibited several serious symptoms such as vomiting, extreme thirst, and incontinence of bladder. The doctors informed her parents that she had Type 1 Diabetes, she is only nine years old. She will have to watch her diet, and endure insulin injections daily.

She is like sunshine bringing warmth to everyone around her. She amuses me with her obsession with Hannah Montana, and educates me on the importance of knowing who the Jonas Brothers are. I hope that she feels supported and loved, and emerges from this situation with renewed strength.

Writer's block

"Write what should not be forgotten." ~Isabel Allende

When I was a young girl I had a diary that I would write in on a daily basis. All of my adventures, thoughts and emotions were contained within. It remained hidden underneath my bed for a long time. One day I came home from school and saw it on the dinner table. My mom had found it and read every single page. I felt not only embarrassed but betrayed. That day all of the pages were destroyed, but the memories that inspired my writing remained. From that point forward until about the age of 20 I stopped writing anything personal.

However, housed within my body was an insatiable desire to express my inner thoughts and feelings. Words were whirling around in my head, manifesting themselves in the form of dreams. I chose poetry/short stories as my primary method because it was a beautiful way to transform my memories and experiences into something that hopefully others could relate to. I could add some magical elements to my poetry/stories, and carefully craft what I wanted to say. In addition, the process has been cathartic. My poetry book has taken the place of my diary.

I no longer keep it hidden. Its location changes depending on the day. Sometimes it is on the couch, other days it is on the washing machine, and most days it sits quietly next to my nightstand waiting for me to nourish it words.