The freedom revealed in moments of clarity are fleeting. I know that as soon as I find that moment of peace free of the lists and the responsibilities of my transition, I will begin to worry. Why is it that insecurity stalks our peaceful moments and leaves us breathless in fear? I sometimes imagine that my happy thoughts and daydreams are frostbitten waiting on a change to take me on a vacation. They are packed and ready for the sunny beach bungalows filled with books, friends, wine, and cheese. Every now and then, they send me little snippets of the happy daydreams to keep me feeling light as air. And I embrace them like a deserted soul grasping for mercy. Even the smallest of the memories, and dream, and moments are enough to inspire me to seek clarity’s freedom.
Today, I am as light as air. I know the moments are fleeting, but I don’t mind. What is life if it isn’t living for the next? What is today if we aren’t trying to make tomorrow better? My daydreams and happy moments are motivators. As long as I am light as air, I can stay above the fray that consumes so many of our dreams. What is it that you want more than anything? Does it benefit anyone besides you? Will it hurt anyone for you to have it? Take stock of your purpose, influence, and responsibilities to society. Dream in peace and never stop seeking the clarity that makes you light as air. Freedom is forgiving and fruitful; share it with the world.
Contemporary hip-hop is as fake as a square two-cent penny and everyone is trying to spend that crap on a Furby. I don’t listen to the radio anymore. I hate hearing the lyrics so simple, vulgar, and pointless that either have the words are censored or a two-year old can sing the entire song like repeating a presidential list of Fry words. Don’t get me wrong. I know that music evolves and there are some great artists out there repping the craft; but, what happened to the real backbone of hip-hop? What happened to relevance and feeling? What happened to relating to life and not expecting drug money glamour and shiny plastic round bottoms? None of that is for me. Most of us are everyday people who are cool like that, right? I miss the golden age of hip-hop. I guess that’s why I love the movie, Brown Sugar, so much. A love letter to hip hop. Now, it’s more like a Dear John.
I wrote a poem about it on my other blog. Here’s the link. And you thought you knew
Cotton candy. I can remember going to the carnival and waiting in line. The air was always sweet from the sugar of the cotton candy machine and salty from the popcorn machine. My mouth watering, I was gloriously juxtaposed between the two alluring treats. First, it was always the cotton candy. I loved pinching off little sections of the fluffy mounds and letting them dissolve on my tongue. i habitually licked the sweet off my fingers and then wiped my fingers on my shorts before I pinched another sweet cloud. I was mesmerized by the candy floss artist as he flicked his wrist and twisted the paper cone around machine collecting a perfect pink cloud with every try. I recently tried to master this skill. Needless to say, I ended up with more stuck to my lashes and hoodie than I could attach to the cone.
Bedroom. My bedroom was a Better Homes and Garden photo-op staged by my mother. From the pink ruffled canopied bed to the Laura Ashley floral wallpaper, my room oozed “Darling Little Girl.” At night, the bed and the walls glowed pale in the moonlight. It was so pleasant that nightmares sat for a spell and enjoyed a cup of tea. Speaking of tea, my mother collected miniature tea sets and cleverly duct-taped them to the pink shelf above my headboard. In the daylight, my room became a Spring Sunday afternoon, bright and cheery. I would often fling myself across the bed only to be told to not get the spread dirty. I have so many wonderful memories of that room.
Medicine. Every child of the 80s remembers that bubble gum pink concoction, Amoxicillin. Why make medicine taste so good? I would look forward to that stuff only to be teased by two spoonfuls. I think those were the only times I ever finished the doses of any antibiotic. On the other hand, I ran from Pepto Bismol with the gusto of a life-sentenced fugitive fleeing the law. I would rather suffer through the episodes of vomiting than take one tongue’s lick of that unearthly muck. I can remember thinking that I was going to die from a stomach ache that I achieved from eating too much junk. My mother had to bribe me to take a dose of the Pepto-Dismal (as I called it). Even then, I convinced myself that my death certificate would read “She took Pepto.”
I recently suffered a setback. Knowing better, but feeling mortal, I got my hopes up on an endeavor that I considered the perfect opportunity for me. For a little over a week, I sweetly suffered through daydreams. Decor. Quotes. Dreams of desktop adorableness and rewarding work. Then, as if sharing the punishment of Prometheus, my daydream dissolved in a mere nanosecond. To say that I was upset, is a severe understatement. I cried the tears of a grieving soul. I cried until my eyes and cheeks were red and raw. I cried for the loss of the daydream and the happiness that I envisioned as its accomplice. Mainly, I cried because I felt like a failure, unequivocally unaware of my shortcomings. I rested and then I cried some more.
Until now, I never understood how the loss of hope, even a hope so small that it could sit on the tip of a needle, could feel like the loss of a loved one, a part of myself, or a piece of my soul. But I am reminded that the loss of hope is temporary. It won’t last forever. This daydream wasn’t for me. Someone else is enjoying the visions of my future and that hurts me a little, but it doesn’t end me. This setback is only temporary. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. And just like it never happened, I will dream and hope again.
I hear a song and get forever lost in memories. Music is often playing in the background as I go through the day in automatic; and it often reminds me of ordinary life events. Today, a song took me back to a middle school dance. I remembered nervously laughing as a boy failingly asked me to dance. I don’t remember dancing and I don’t remember the boy, but I do remember that weird feeling and the song. Music is an emotional and chemical mental scrapbooker. Like turning the page, it never fails to bring me back to a nostalgic moment once lost in my memory.
Today, I celebrate a milestone birthday. You know it’s a milestone when birthday cards emblazoned with 40 and Over-the-Hill blanket an entire section of the card aisle. The Big 4-0 is upon me and I am Over-the-Moon happy. There is no sadness or sense of regret in being four decades old. I may not have accomplished all that I wanted, but I have far more than I dreamed. My life is what I have made of it. So I celebrate with my version of an afternoon tea.
I love tea. Hot. Cold. Tangy. Creamy. Chai. Iced. Unsweet. Honeyed. Lemoned. Powdered. Bagged. Bagless. Morning. Noon. Night. On this late afternoon, I sit lazily on the sofa with a good book in my hand, an assortment of savory and sweet treats on a small tray, conversations in the background, and I drink my loose leaf tea from my Harry Potter mug with Mr Tea Pants perched on the side. Today is the day that I order myself a special treat, a tea set not unlike the tiny china ones I had as a child. I will pick some Over-the-Top, yet cheerfully beautiful mixed-matched set that delights me. One day, it will sit in my office. And, at 3:30 on each afternoon, I will celebrate with afternoon tea and remember this special day.