It Felt Like What I Wanted

I wrote this piece during an exercise in a memoir writing class I took this year. Each week we would write vignettes based upon phrases offered by the teacher. In this case, the phrase wound up being the opening line.

It felt like what I wanted. The tang of sweat above his lip lingered on my tongue as he pulled away. My lips felt bruised from careless contact with his facial hair. "He probably only shaves like, once a week," I spoke with great authority to my girlfriends that evening.

It was the sort of midsummer's day that made you wish that you lived at the beach rather than in the suburbs. As the sun baked my shoulders I sucked down every last drop of the fountain cherry cokes we bought at the corner gas station, then crunched each piece of ice left.

I could taste the cherry coke on his breath, too. He was older, 16 to my 14 and I knew it was fate when I learned his birthday was four days after mine. He loped down the street next to me like he had a guitar slung across his back. His red hair was between stages - him wanting to grow it long, his mother wanting it cut. He was tall and thin but I could see the definition of his muscles as he grasped my elbow.

We sat under a maple tree on a stranger's lawn just blocks from the building where we both took ceramics. Each day prior to today I had meticulously chosen my outfit in anticipation of seeing him: babydoll dresses with leggings, always black but sometimes small flowers to be feminine. This day though after sleeping through the alarm I pulled on beat-up, cutoff jeans covered in bleach stains - the rock n' roll equivalent of tie dye - and sharpee drawings of Led Zeppelin symbols. Of course it was this day that he announced that we should leave class and go for a walk to escape the clammy room of clay.

As we strolled down the neighborhood streets he'd ask me questions and then laugh too hard at my answers. We would halt momentarily to allow the occasional breeze to tickle our skin and the leaves above. In one smooth move he sat down cross-legged. I followed suit and felt grass and tree roots under my legs. I couldn't take my eyes off of his freckles and his blue eyes.

He smiled as he kissed me. The butterflies that had been dusting my stomach walls lifted up through my lungs and out through my shoulder blades.

Years later I would see him at a show where his band was playing. He shined when he smiled as told his friends gathered at the bar "This is the girl who taught me to kiss." I rolled my eyes, nudged his shoulder and announced that I would buy the next round.

As I turned toward the bartender I smiled and closed my eyes for a second. He was the one who gave me what I longed for. My first kiss.

Written of course, for Mike.

The Visitor Returns

My friend and neighbor Doug sent on these amazing pictures he took of a redtail hawk on the roof of my car. I see hawks in the trees around my house all the time but had no idea that they would come so close.



I love this shot that Doug got of the visitor taking off. I'm so grateful he stopped, documented this beauty and shared it with me.



It reminds me of a similar breathtaking burst into flight I witnessed on my one-year anniversary in my home that I wrote about then.

The Visitor
September 16, 2006

A hawk landed on the fence in my back yard. I was crouched over in the craft room spraying acrylic on felt bluebirds and I saw her land out of the corner of my eye. I didn't have my glasses on because I had just gotten out of the shower but I ran quickly quietly to grab them and peered out the back door. There she was, perched calmly on the fence, surveying the area. I could make out each dark stripe on her white breast; the yellow of her talons was far brighter than I would have guessed. I started to cry a little, moved that she would stop here for a minute, thinking how many years it had been since a large bird had been so near me. This first year on my house has been more about cardinals: their cheeky calls, their mating, their bold confidence building a nest outside my bedroom window, despite the cat nearby. The bird today was strong, solitary, majestic. She hung out for moment, taking everything in, then ducked down, stretched her wings, and took off in flight. Her tail was bright red; when I went to check out the spot where she had just been, I found a single black and white feather.

Just Lovely!

I had a wonderful birthday week and I am so grateful. It was kicked off by a visit from my parents to Atlanta. We had a weekend filled with beautiful flowers, delicious food, great companionship and even a visit to the Aquarium. My parents are my heroes; I got this great slice of time, lovely natural picture of them at the Botanical Gardens:



Mom took this slice of time of me and Eek in the afternoon sun:



My birthday itself was warm and lovely. My day started with two different bunches of flowers; one was sent by Sandy and the others by Reem and Emil. My siblings note referenced one of my all-time favorite Simpson's songs:



Later that evening, I was surrounded by friends. Mohammad called from the West Bank. Ela, Mica, Sandy, Carrie, Marie and Kirsten came over to my house and we drank too much champagne. Then we went to Solstice Cafe for dinner -- lovely Shelley and Becky joined us there. Our soundtrack was music by my Atlanta favorite DJ Swivel. He indulged me with some Arabic music mixed in.

The strawberry on top of this wonderful evening was that Mica made me my favorite, a beautiful pink cake (not too unlike the one I made her in July). Yes, you counted right- 33 candles - one for good luck of course!:



Thank you all for helping me kick off year 32 with love, laughter and hope!

Make Me An Instrument of Your Peace

I really didn't want to go to this Interfaith Prayer Vigil tonight. While I'm absolutely down with the cause, I'm not so much a church kind of girl. I kept questioning why I had to go and dreaming up different scenarios that would provide me an out.

Within the 30 minutes prior to me leaving to get to the service my bad attitude took over completely and I was a total jerk to my favorite person, taking out my frustration about having to go and the death penalty in general on him. It was after 1am where he was and he was bewildered yet patient with my rage. He has always handled my wild mood swings that mirror execution schedules better than anyone else.

It was strange that my outlook fell so far so fast; this weekend has been a good one for me. I have been more active and taking care of things in my life this weekend than any since my favorite person departed across the ocean and sand. I actually got some important life details in order and I was proud of myself for continuing to stay motivated and not succumbing to the couch and bad TV.

I drove the church feeling guilty for being shitty to someone I love and still dreading the doors I was about to enter. I plotted how I would sit in the back and leave before it was over.

But when I got there I was immediately greeted by women who I love and respect dearly and beyond them was a beautiful, age and ethnically diverse community. I sought out Mary Sinclair and sat down with her, our mini-SCHR contingent. The minute Rev. McDonald started talking I felt the weight lift from my shoulders and I immediately reached for my phone to text my sheepish apology to the one faraway who I had just mistreated.

There is something about being in churches that makes me let go a bit. It doesn't always happen, but when it does it's unmistakable and familiar. I remember sitting in a church at Berry College - it was after midnight and I was miserable and pacing the grounds and saw a window partially open. I pried it wider and squeezed through into the dark, empty chapel. I sat alone in a pew and cried, then shimmied back out the window feeling so much better.

Today it was a couple pieces that got to me. Denise and Etsumi, two Buddhist monks that I've known since my first days in Atlanta chanted - their drumming and throaty calls were like a cool compress. But it was when Rev. Morgan led us in the Prayer of St. Francis that my head fell to my chest and the tears started flowing.

I cried for Troy, for Martina and all their family. I cried for the family of the slain officer who want justice and healing so badly. I cried for Mary Sinclair next to me and the loss of her dear Lewis. I cried for my own foolishness, self-centeredness and inadequacies. I prayed with my friends, for the first time in a long time:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace;
where there is hatred, let us sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Saturdays at Tiffani's Sky Blue Home

In honor of a lovely Saturday yesterday on the porch of darling Tiffani's home, I'm resurrecting a piece from a couple years ago.

Sundays at Tiffani's
Monday - March 13, 2006

I've been escaping on Sunday afternoons to Tiffani's house. About an hour away, it's the perfect distance to listen to music and let go of the city as the skyline fades behind me. I find comfort and peace in the warmth, calm, and gentleness of my dear sisterfriend, just by being around her. Her wise advice and insight is complimented with her deep loyalty to righteousness and a fire that burns in her belly. It's the kind of fire that warms you but also makes you dance.

Even with the sounds of gunshots from beyond the trees it is perfectly peaceful on her porch with piles of seashells and bluegrass floating out from inside the house. I notice new things every time I come here, all lovely little symbols of Tiffani's life, love, and spirit. I notice a clay hand, just a tiny bit smaller than my hand, cupping a tea light candle. The perfect tree line borders a clear expanse of sky- its dreamy blue today, last time we watched a purple sunset, the time before that, thunder and lightning. The gentle breeze flows through me. I imagine it blowing literally through me, taking with it the tension from my shoulders, the headache of the last 3 days, and the ever-growing to-do list in my mind.

The chirping of birds harmonizes with the bells of her wind chimes: a fish, a pyramid, a heart.

Thank You for Being a Friend

Haha now you're gonna have the theme song to the Golden Girls in your head! My work here is done. My fortune cookie reminded me to:



Thank you in particular to my beautiful girlfriends who have been so attentive and caring and have literally showered me in flowers (and Poison tickets) over the last couple weeks. Beautiful perfect flowers that let me know in no uncertain terms that I am most defintely loved.









Signs that you are loved by your sister include the most delicious dark chocolates on earth:



And the most perfect ridiculous shark toy a girl could ever ask for:

Shukran Jazeelan!

Mahmoud Darwish, Shukran, Salaam. Shukran

I can't believe the news that he is gone- the Poet of the Land, of the People, the great Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish.

His inspiration was the Occupation; he wrote while under siege. His imagery skillfully turned a key and unlocked the beauty, tragedy and people who are the world we love, a world we mourn, His words, like tears, fell from his pen, his eyes, his heart and his brilliant mind onto pages read by thousands. his words, sometimes set to music, always kept our hearts beating with hope.

You will be so deeply missed, mourned, and your words will continue beyond your life as a catalyst for resistance, solidarity, and deep hope for days when fredom and love will wash over all people, and families will not be kept apart by tanks, borders and prisons.

Under Siege
By Mahmoud Darwish (1942-2008)

Here, where the hills slope before the sunset and the chasm of time
near gardens whose shades have been cast aside
we do what prisoners do
we do what the jobless do
we cultivate hope

In a land where the dawn sears
we have become more doltish
and we stare at the moments of victory
there is no starry night in our nights of explosions
our enemies stay up late, they switch on the lights
in the intense darkness of this tunnel

Here after the poems of Job, we wait no more

This siege will persist until we teach our enemies
models of our finest poetry

the sky is leaden during the day
and a fiery orange at night… but our hearts
are as neutral as the flowery emblems on a shield

here, not “I”
Here, Adam remembers the clay of which he was born

He says, on the verge of death, he says,
“I have no more earth to lose”
Free am I, close to my ultimate freedom, I hold my fortune in my own hands
In a few moments, I will begin my life
born free of father and mother
I will chose letters of sky blue for my name

Under siege, life is the moment between remembrance
of the first moment, and forgetfulness of the last

here, under the mountains of smoke, on the threshold of my home,
time has no measure
We do what those who give up the ghost do…
we forget our pain

Pain is when the housewife forsakes hanging up the clothes to dry and is content
that this flag of Palestine should be without stain

Continue reading Under Siege.