surrender

Wow. Talk about things not going as planned.

I had this idea of what this blog would look like. I had this idea of what my life would look like. Traveling the world, working as a sports physical therapist for Olympic athletes. And yet, I find myself back in Madison, Mississippi, surrendering to the fact that I am not in control of this life. And you know what, that is ok.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to listen to my inner wisdom–you know, that “gut feeling” that I’m learning is connected to something outside myself. And for many reasons, my gut told me that China wasn’t right, at least not right now.

My ego took a blow, that’s for sure. I won’t lie: pride is something I struggle with a lot of days. This need to validate myself with external things. I grew up thinking that my worth depended on accolades and achievements, letters behind my name. But I’m recognizing that pride is just another form of fear–fear and control and wanting things to go my way.

When I allow myself to surrender to that something outside myself, that gut feeling, that life force–when I give over my will and let something greater take charge, that’s when everything falls into place.

So I’m starting anew. My whole life, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to writing. Something about pen on paper, the way words can sift and change and make you feel. So, this blog is getting a makeover. Instead of its original purpose, to document my life abroad, I’m using it to share one of my passions: writing. I’m embracing vulnerability and doing something that speaks to me.

Today, I’m sharing a few poems. This blog is a work in progress, but I’m letting go and seeing what it turns into.

 

Things that remember me:

morning dew in between toes

and the way that road

was broken. The only thing

to make you cry,

even though I tried,

many times.

Have you forgotten

the race up-stairs

and mom’s straw-colored hair?

How she pulled it back

always reminded me of

timing. How it unfolds

in songs you heard

a time or two ago–

The times they are a-changing–

and wouldn’t it be nice

to catch what blew in the wind

when Dylan went and wrote

lines worth unwinding.

 

 

 

I Hate Poetry

I hate poetry

How when you’re twenty-one

It’s somehow wrong to rhyme

Even though every time I write of you

I think of Varsity Blues and how I said

“I love you” first.

 

I hate poetry

Because I can’t just say “I’m sad.”

That doesn’t mean as much

As saying, “The way you left

Makes me feel as empty as an Amarillo sky,”

Even though I’ve never been to Texas

(They’d never ask me why).

 

And I hate how I never know where to break

My lines just like

I never knew how to break

Our time.

Sometimes I just want to break the rules

Like I did with you

And say:

 

I remember the black and white nights when you parked

At the end of my driveway with your headlights off

Even though I couldn’t see because

Who keeps lights on at night in the middle of Mississippi?

And I remember that ring you bought me

How it made me think of staying here

And pints of beer on Saturday nights

And red-lipped blondes that define wives–

The kind I’d never be–

Because I wasn’t ever quite right

For Mississippi.

And sometimes I think of Yazoo clay

Beneath my feet as we climbed the top

Of a deer stand in camouflaged pants

Your father made me wear

Even though he knew I didn’t believe

In killing deer.

And the way you put your gun away

When he drove off in that truck

To find a better clearing

Where he didn’t have to talk to me

Or joke about my legs

And how they weren’t quite like Brittany’s.

 

But if I said all that the way I should

I don’t think anyone would see the good-

It’s all just words.

They’d tell me to write fiction instead

And cross my fingers that someone would pick it up.

 

But I hate poetry–didn’t you know?

I hate not knowing all the rules to break

Because without them I make my own.

And breaking your own rules

Is always worse

Than breaking ones

You didn’t make up.

 

 

Escape

They say you can’t catch fire

But tonight I caught it in a jar

With holes punched at the top

And as I stood bathed by stars

I thought it was a feat

That I captured fire

And yet it was I

Who could not escape.

Like that summer when I was caught

Between twenty and not too young

And managed to slip up just enough

To blur that perfect slate

Because you told me my hair was long enough

To get out of tickets only men gave anyway.

And how still the next morning

You pushed Jose Cuervo

Into a palm reflecting red

From an alarm that wouldn’t ring

For another hour.

How you told me it was ok

To drive slowly to the stadium

And park crooked in a spot they marked “reserved”

Because we were pretty girls.

I think of that Florida game

When you watched the team walk out

And threw your string of pearls

Forgetting they belonged to your grandmother

How we only thought to laugh

And stumble toward those tents

Where I pretended to care

When parents saw you flirt with all the fathers

To see who had enough whisky on his breath

That we could ask for sips from bottles

Tucked inside boots their wives had polished

Earlier that day.

You would pick out boys

You thought I should approach

But I would only shake my head

And point out how they stuck flasks

Between girls’ breasts

And how mine weren’t big enough.

You’d laugh that southern boys

Couldn’t be men until they’d dipped

Or held bloody antlers in both hands

Or bought their first Ford pickup truck.

You taught me everything I know

About Dixie and what it means to

Call this home.

And so last night I thought of you

And how your cheeks never burned

Even under an August sun

As we sat on bleachers singeing

Exposed thighs and eating

Barbecue just because we could,

You and I.

How you told me not to blot off grease

Because it was better this way:

Eating barbecue in dresses and drinking pitchers

Because, you told me,

Boys always like it

When you can’t escape.

 

 

 

 

Unfit.

He cuts like sand on broken skin

Or Kansas wind–sharp

And hard to keep.

His words, they bleed, and I can’t be

An ear for their hypocrisy.

He says the words, but they fall deaf,

As actions can’t confirm their depth.

He lacks the courage to admit

That we were never meant to fit.

 

 

2008.

Every time I hear that song I think of him

And summers when the road was ours

And cars could get us anywhere

I think of weathered hands on steering wheels

And stolen glances from cheap shades

And restless fingers reaching for my face

I feel the evening on my legs

Stretching out in country grass

The way he stops to look at me

And asks if I’m okay

His voice is soft but harsh

Under stars that seem so innocent

And when I pause to answer him

He silences me with a kiss.

 

 

The Road.

There is a road that I know well

Made up of broken sunlight and headlights from old

Boyfriends’ trucks. It’s pieced together haphazardly

And glued by memories and the mistakes that made you you.

This road is lined by remnants of honeysuckle

Dew from yesterday and rain from the skies

That were eaten up by the night.

It’s here I laid my faults, burying them in the reflections of the stars

So as not to disturb reality. You see, I’d buried all my history.

So now this road sees barefoot paths and scars from

Walking down with mason jars full of poisons we thought

Were only rites of passage. We used to catch fireflies

In the same glass and hold them up as lanterns

To light the path down that road to freedom. But once that road

Became a bridge from youth to seventeen something changed.

And suddenly its only right was to hide me from the moon’s spotlight

As I ran to meet him under midnight shadows.

We littered the road with cigarettes and smoke from arguments

That never lasted long. We picked up the debris with fingers

That stretched like the Pleiades and embers

From the butts of tobacco.

 

 

When everything changed.

When you looked at me and said you’d killed a man at twenty-three I only blinked

Then after weeks of muted calls and tempered talks, I pictured you–

Your car, a faded blue, and weathered leather cracked by Mississippi sun.

Your glasses hanging carelessly and rearview reflections of your immodesty

As you turned to push back your hair.

Your jeans and the way they hugged each curve

Of time long spent on dusty baseball fields

Your skin tanned unpurposefully with flecks of burns

You’d unexpectedly acquired.

I pictured this as you, moments before that afternoon

When everything changed.

 

 

 

One step away

Rain tastes like last Saturday

When you were away

And all I could think to play

Was my broken ukulele.

I wondered why our last mistake

Came before you thought to say hello

And suddenly I’m thinking

Isn’t it funny to see your name

And touch your face (by mistake)

And drive you back to my place

Where you thought those years could all be solved

By rain and guitar strings and the way

You looked at me. But think again–

Lately, those times have changed.

It seems to me we were just one step away,

One last break

One breathless name.

 

 

 

Opposite of goodbye

Remember how we ran

Across your dad’s land

To your truck, the way

I almost got stuck climbing

Out your window.

Remember the way we laughed

As we drank from tin cans

And awarded ourselves for

Being young then.

Remember, when it all changed?

When he said she said

Became a game

And who you laid with

And with whom you stayed

Became just more

Plays to make.

I remember that day.

It rained. And you-

You stained my lips

With all your “what-ifs”

And isn’t it time to let go

Of promises.

I counted the times

I replayed the lines

You told me,

The way you could hold me

The way you’d mold me

To make me fit

Inside your glove.

I’m tired of playing

But I can’t stop chasing

Whatever it was that made me

Crazy, cause all of that

Just reinforced the

Opposite of goodbye.