Old Eyes

The photograph fell out of the book and slowly drifted to my feet. I picked it up, curious, and flipped it over. Recognition gripped me: I knew her long ago, in a time so far away. I stood rooted to the floor but my heart begged me to look away.

"Put it down. Put it away. Forget about it." My heart pleaded.

"I can't help it." I said.

Those eyes. Her eyes. That sweet face pulled me backwards through time into decades long forgotten. She was the picture of innocence. She still is.

My heart spoke again, "I can't take this, please, I'm begging you. Stop looking at it."

I flipped the picture over. Someone wrote 1988 on the back in blue ink. Kodak paper. My heart slowed its tremors but my stomach was churning. I almost hadn't notice that my fingers were pale and a bit unsteady. I wandered the house for a moment, book in one hand, her photograph in the other.

The book was Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and the photograph was a girl that I once knew. I finally found myself outside, sitting on the back porch. The sun was setting behind the cornfield, casting a golden glow over the impending twilight. A cool breeze drifted over me. I felt feverish.

There are things in this life that are hard to admit and there are some that you simply cannot admit. I am struggling for words. The book slips to the floor. The photograph is curled in my hand. My heart begs me to leave it alone, but I am a fool, a glutton for selfish punishments.

I look out over the golden twilight. It is a gift to be alive, to see such things as this set against a backdrop of crickets and emerging stars. I have come so far... only because I... This is what drives my guilt: with every glance at that photograph, I see someone who got hurt, someone who never deserved a thing that was pushed on her, someone who was changed forever. I see a girl I left behind.

How do I make amends for that? Tell me now, heart of mine. What am I supposed to do for her now? You beg me not to look at her face, her eyes... but doesn't she at least deserve the acknowledgement? Tell me now. All the days and years that have grown between then and now... my eyes are older and sharper. My stomach drops at the sight of her. It tears me up inside. What am I supposed to do?

I opened my hand. The photograph remained curled. Somewhere in the distance, I heard an owl. I closed my eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

Tonight

I cannot close my eyes. I never rest when you are far away. What would you have me do?

Mornings find me weary. I struggle to keep the fear inside my skin. That it might show terrifies me more, but these days, I am fighting something all the time. You said it would be fine. I wanted to believe you.

I tried. But I remember that night. When it all changed. The night I changed.

There are broken pieces, love, and they are scattered about us. Pieces of you and me and our life. How do you reconcile innocence and poison? It seeped in like rainwater, like pride. We can run or we can stand against it. You know I'd follow you into hell.

What would you have me do now?

Tempest

It is always the same dream.

The storm is approaching. I know the tornadoes are spiraling down. Or, I can see the tidal wave headed for shore. Maybe a hurricane looms on the horizon. Either way, I am caught in a tempest with no sign of escape.

I watch the sky grow dark and pregnant with fury. Someone I love is nearby but doesn't understand the storm is coming, that it is going to be devastating. I begin a maddening dash to warn them, to save them. Sometimes, I find them and they won't take me seriously. I beg and plead for them to come with me. Sometimes, I find them but we can't get far enough away. We race upstairs to avoid the water coming in through the doorways or we jump in a car and try to out run the funnel clouds touching down all around us. Sometimes, I just search until the sky rips open. But I always wake up just before I know it's too late.

In waking hours, storms give me peace. In sleep, they are monsters.

I remember in one these dreams, I was at the beach. Surfing. Sea glass hunting. I noticed that the waves were getting higher, crashing with more ferocity and foam. I backed out of the water and saw the sky turning purple. The color of a traumatic bruise. I looked around but all the other beachgoers were happy and clueless. Lightening struck. Thunder rolled. Waves crashed. Still, no one noticed. I ran for the boardwalk to warn my mother and sister. As I ran off the beach, my legs felt heavy and each glance over my shoulder made me panic. The sky was alive with destruction.

I often wonder if it means anything at all. A long time ago, someone gave me a book about the interpretations of dreams and imagery. I read that dreamers of tempests will be beset with calamitous trouble and friends will treat them with indifference. I'd rather face down a real tornado.

Letters from 1938

I just read through a stack of old love letters that my grandfather sent to my grandmother when he was stationed at Fort Monroe, Virginia. The letters start in October 1937 after a vacation they spent together. I assume it was the beginning of their courtship. (I'll have to verify this with my mother.)

The letters have yellowed with time; the edges of the envelopes are fragile. Three one-cent stamps adorn the tops. In the middle, my grandfather's neat handwriting addresses the letters to "Miss Mae Chapman Greenbackville, Va" and there is only one interruption: an old postmark stamp. I handle them with care. These are a part of my history.

I read the letters in which my grandfather announces that he wants to marry her, that he is in love with her, and that he's just sick over it. In one letter, he says he was nearly heartbroken when he discovered she had taken another date with a young man. He said he feared the new man might be a better man than him and he hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with him.

I never really knew my grandfather. He had a massive stroke when I was about 3 years old and he never really spoke much after that. I have always wondered what I missed, what experiences we could have shared, what I might have learned. He passed away a few days after I turned 16. Our story ended there.

Until tonight. Luckily for me, there are many letters left to read.

I know that no one is reading this. Tonight, it's better that way.

Over the past few months, I have struggled to find a balance in time and creativity. I long for more time to write, but the course of life pulls me in so many other directions. Most days, I lay my head on the pillow and I haven't written a thing. This begs the question: who is a writer that does not write? I am scared of that answer.

But here I am tonight, writing something... something that no one will read or critique. Something that will be forgotten as soon as I press a button. But it is more than I have done in days, weeks. Honesty is bitter pill.

Tonight, I write because I am overwhelmed and putting words down has always saved me. Mostly, from myself.

PAC 14

On Thursday, April 9, I will be recording a segment for PAC 14 television.  As I understand it, Phil Tilghman will be interviewing me about Crossings, the Sophie Kerr prize, and Washington College.  (Phil is a fellow WC alum!)

Something Old

Searching through an old trunk, I found this. It's an Endgame essay that I wrote in December 2000 for The Collegian - a monthly magazine at Washington College. I was 21 when I wrote this to a friend of mine who was the editor of The Collegian. We had been using the Endgame essay at the back of the magazine to banter about life and youthful philosophies.

___

I am no longer reproachful of the days I spent lost or too hopeful for my own good and I refuse to apologize for the moments when I triumphed and the seconds I spent trembling in naivete. I made my choices and they led me to this place - the end. But we've all wandered our own broken and homeless roads and found our own conclusions: these are my conclusions, dear friend, these are mine.

You said I know I am brave because I've gone bungie-jumping and you said I know I am lovely because someone once told me so. These must be easy assumptions for someone who writes to tell the world his biggest fear is chocolate chip cookies and that his life is centered on what he cannot figure out; mostly himself. But what you fail to recognize about me are the shades of gray that lie between your simple white and black mathematics.

Standing in the middle of the sky with a rope to my back, I was far from brave - pins and needles ravaged my scalp and neck. There was a brief moment of hesitation and then weightlessness. Falling back to earth was falling into an understanding with a more experienced version of myself. I wanted to jump because I could not imagine the fall; I jumped because I could never describe the landscape with the horizon at my feet. Bravery is not living life without fear, but living life to challenge those fears which we dare not rouse.

I think you are wrong, however, loveliness is not in my gray eyes, nor is it in my cheeks that flush when I cannot do the math in marketing class. I have my own imperfections that peek though my skin in the form of scars, freckles, and sometimes wart. But these are my eyes, my scars, and my distinctions to marvel at and love. (I remember the first time someone told me I was pretty - I threw a rock at his forehead and was sent to the principal's office. Young girls are taught to be beautiful but not to admit it out loud.)

But in the end, I am proud of us. You tell all your fears and I, in turn, announce my shortcomings. Sharing secrets with the world is a precarious undertaking. No one wants to go back to 5th grade gym class and be laughed at because you stole the ball from your opponent only to run the wrong way down the field. Being picked last for the game is the same as being disregarded in the public eye. Biting our lips, we retire to the comfort of our pens and the twilight.

As writers, we take this risk with every word we write, every story, poem, and essay we create and publish for a stranger's eyes. You and I are brave because we understand the risk and take it anyway. This is strikingly similar to bungie-jumping: we tie our words to our fleshy spines and dangle over the edge for a moment and free fall into ourselves. Writers are not brave because we write without fear. Writers are brave because we expose our soft underbellies to the harsh scrutiny of critics who may laugh at us once we get down the field.

So, my friend, if you are nervous about your future, let it go. If you are anxious because you don't know who will greet your worst times with a reassuring smile, let it go. If you are confused about how your happy ending will be scripted, let it go.

Can you hear me? I said let it go because we are brave and we are five words beyond lovely. Strict mathematics of white and black are for elementary school politics; now, we face those shades of gray where it is up to us as individuals to decide where we fit, what we believe, and who we want to be.

My shades of gray: I have fears and I am imperfect. I am in love with my childhood sweetheart and I am searching for a career that doesn't involve too many numbers for me to blush over. But I've never been so happy and so unaware of what lies ahead and therein lies the loveliness of my life.

I will tell you: there is no reason to be afraid of the things you cannot see in your future. Were you ever afraid of Christmas presents wrapped in solid red and green paper or the friends you would meet down your forking road? But you will say you are afraid of your parents passing or your unexpected failures and your unforeseen ulcer. Then I will tell you this: there is no reason to be afraid of life on a forking road because at the very least, you're still walking. The journey is the happy ending.

I will be using this site to publish information on book events and signings.  I'm also working on my second book so I'll post updates on that as well.  Hopefully, I will have a good update very soon! 

New Around Here...

This is my first post on Blogger.