I shall live

I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a

brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dryrot.

I would rather be a superb meteor,

every atom of me in magnificent glow,

than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The proper function of man is to live,

not to exist.

I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.

~Jack London

Sharing the Center of the World

A single word. A smile. A touch.

Sometimes I wonder at the world. It’s size. The innumerability of it all. So many people. So many lands. Languages. Cultures. Joys and sorrows.

How is it that we are all here and sharing the same world. And yet will never meet, touch, smile or interact? How can this world be mine and yours at the same time? Both of us living at the center of it but never knowing the other is there too.

We’re in it together. We are. Even if we often don’t think we are. Even when we think we are alone. Lost amid the crowded streets and jostling subways and endless miles of paved highways and dirt roads. If we take one moment to stop. To smile. To speak. Perhaps we would connect and know. Know that we share the center of this world in our sorrows and joys. In our differences and our commonalities. Even if we never meet. We are here. Together...

I sat sandwiched between two strangers. Jostled by the racing train. The sounds of metal screeching against metal filling my ears. My eyes roamed the car from advertisement to advertisement. Never knowing where to fall. You’re not supposed to catch another’s eyes in the city. It’s an unwritten rule. Or maybe it’s actually written. I don’t know. But I know it. You don’t look. You don’t smile. You don’t say hi to a passerby on the street. The only exception is to help a lost tourist or a little old lady cross the street. Maybe not even that.

So I sat.

But I’ve never been good at following the rules. And my eyes wander the car. Seeing the faces tired from work. The friends giggling after school. The tourists certain they are headed for somewhere they don’t want to be and not sure how to get off. I see the woman across from me. Sandwiched too. Her bag and purse secure on her lap. Staring straight ahead. At the dark tunnel flashing by or zoned out at some distance time and place. This is what I am supposed to be doing too.

But I look.

And I see her eyes close. Tired from a long day? A brief moment of rest from nothing to see? Her eyes close. And then they shudder. Her mouth quivers. Her face contorts. I see the struggle. One I know well. A struggle to regain control. To stop the tears fighting at the lining of her eyes. Her hands come up. Covering her face. Squeezing her cheeks and nose and eyes. A deep breath. Another. Calm comes from chaos. Her eyes open. Rimmed with red. Glistening from unshed tears.

Our eyes meet.

She looks away. I look away. A rule broken. A private moment intruded upon. A stolen glance. Her calm remains. Did I imagine it? Another look. Then another. My eyes flit from her to the window and back again. The glisten grows. The redness spreads. From her eyes to her cheeks to her hands. Her struggle continues on as she fights to stay in control. I want to reach out. To comfort. To consol. To ask if I can help. But you don’t do that.

So I sit.

The train is screeching to a halt. My stop. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave without saying something. But what good is a comment on my way out? I make a promise – I will reach out if she exits with me. I’m not sure if I want to see her move or stay. She moves.

Her pace is slow on the platform. I am next to her. I don’t dare reach out. But I find my voice doing it for me. Four little words. One little question. The tears burst forth. The calm shatters. We pause together between the trains and the tourists, buried under ground. A few moments. A quiet explanation. A genuine gratitude.

We exit together. Two strangers. Two friends. Her life isn’t better. Her sadness isn’t gone. Her heart isn’t heavier. Two strangers in the same world touched for a moment. Sharing the sorrow and the joy. One word. One smile. One touch can make a difference.

To do before I die

I saw a list once. A list of things to do before I die.

I take pride in trying new things. Taking new risks. Fun and adventures and facing my fears.

I have done many of these things. And many left to do before I die.

But one thing stood out. One thing I thought I might never do. One thing I knew I COULD do but didn’t think I WOULD do. One thing that really shouldn’t be that hard.

Write a piece of original poetry and read it aloud to an audience.

I remember the first time I spoke in front of my church – the faces of the congregation looking up at me. I remember the first time I gave a speech at school – several hundred of my peers listening in. I remember the first time I competed in an oratorical competition – judges critiquing my word and style. I remember the first time I led a lesson in Spanish – children grinning from ear to ear. I remember the first time I facilitated a training session – staff members taking notes and raising hands.

I remember the first time I wrote a poem.

An ode to the stars and night sky. A message to me of dreams and hopes and wishes.

I don’t remember feeling butterflies in my stomach. Or nervousness in my heart. Or anxiousness or doubt or shaking hands or rapid breath. Not in any of those moments of speaking. Not in any of those moments of standing before audiences and sharing myself.

Only once. Not when I was speaking. But when I wrote. When I wrote a piece of poetry about my hopes and dreams and fears. When I let my insides come out and flow into ink – permanent and impressing. Indentations in paper that burn into my skin and heaving chest.

My poems were printed once. In a hand-bound book just for me. My poems were submitted once. In a district competition I didn’t win. My poems were published once. In a scholarly collection I thought no one would see. My poems were shared once. On a blog I pretended was my own personal diary.

My poems were me.

I pride myself on doing new things. On taking new risks. On facing my fears.

Wings fluttered in my abdomen. Anxiety seized my heart. Nervousness shook my hands and clenched my fists and sped my breathing.

My poems were spoken once. To an audience I did not see, but they saw me.

Looking In, Looking Back, Looking Forward

You Look at me and see the girl
Who lives inside the golden world
But don’t believe
That’s all there is to see
You’ll never know the real me

Hmm
She smiles through a thousand tears
And harbors adolescent fears
She dreams of all
That she can never be
She wades in insecurity, yeah
And hides herself inside of me

Don’t say, “She takes it all for granted”
I’m well aware of all I have
Don’t think that I am disenchanted
Please understand

It seems as though I’ve always been
Somebody outside looking in
Well, here I am for all of them to bleed
But they can’t take my heart from me
And they can’t bring me to my knees
They’ll never know the real me

Mariah Carey, Looking In

My favorite song. I sang this everyday. To myself. In my head. Out loud. Listening to it over and over. Wondering how Mariah Carey put words to my every inner hurt and need.

Somebody outside looking in.
A window stained with tears I’d shed.

A smiling face. A golden world. Success and happiness. No reason to worry.
That’s what was on the outside. That’s what people saw.

Inside was the fear. Inside was the loneliness. Inside were the tears. No one could see them. No one could see me.

In fifth grade, I did a class project. Ceramic face images of ourselves. I made two. The top one was me – blonde hair, green eyes, my papa’s big smile.
The one beneath, smaller, sadder, crying.

I drew a picture. One side was sunshine and flowers. The other side was storm clouds and rain. My sister saw it and cried. She hugged me fiercely to her. I told her I was okay. I could handle it.

I knew how I felt. I knew who I was. I knew why I struggled and why I was sad. I knew no one got me and I was okay. I knew I was stronger. Stronger than what, or who, I don’t know. The loneliness? The fear? The anger or sadness? But I knew I would win. I knew that I really was alright.

And I was.

I’m well aware of all I have.

They can’t take my heart from me.

Please understand.


I don’t have a favorite song today. Maybe nothing can match what this song once was. When I look at these words, when I think what it meant to me. It almost makes me sad. Almost, because the sadness that made me love this song is overshadowed by the fact that whatever the writer of this song thought or meant, it meant to me that I wasn’t alone. Someone understood. Someone knew what I felt. Someone else could put it into words. The world around me spun, but someone, somewhere got me and wrote this song.

To write like that is a gift. A gift we probably won’t ever know we have. To know that something we say. Something we write. Something we do. Has such a profound and powerful influence on someone else. That is an awesome possibility.

I am thankful to say today that Mariah’s song no longer holds the same meaning for me. I no longer hide behind a veil of happiness or cry unshed tears. I am thankful today that people know me for who I am. I no longer feel the burden of shielding myself from others’ eyes. I am thankful today that this song was there for me when I needed it. And I am thankful today that it may be there for you when you think you are the only one standing on the other side of the window looking in. You are not alone. And you can be stronger.