Warm Heart & Cold Feet Make Season Bright

Once upon a time I was a little girl curled up on the end of a brown suede couch with my mom, cuddled between the warm, soft fibers of my grandmother’s crocheted blanket. My feet poking from beneath the edge of that handcrafted hug, I always complained to my mother that I wished that the blanket was bigger so that I could cover my frozen toes. Many evenings, I would hop back and forth between the couch and the floor, curled up into a seated fetal position six inches from our wall heater, my legs and feet turtle-tucked into my over-stretched nightie as my back nearly seared from the radiating warmth. After thawing sufficiently, I’d move back to the couch where my mom would kick a little extra blanket my way and say to me, “Warm heart, cold feet,” referring to the phrase etched in ink on my favorite pink Cathy nightgown. My family was convinced Cathy’s author wrote that especially for me.

It’s true; I’ve always had cold feet, feet so glacial that their touch feels like blades across warm skin. Blame poor circulation if you wish, or blame the fact that I don’t eat much meat. I prefer to imagine that my heart is so big that it rations its warmth for the people in my life rather than for my limbs. And perhaps that’s not so bad. Warm feet are good, particularly when they share the bed with another person. But, a warm heart…well, the only thing better than that is a warm puppy. In fact Charles Shultz said, “Happiness in a warm puppy,” so it must be true.

Looking back this season, I hope that my heart warmed at least one person. My imperfections are vast and my tactics are unintentionally raw, but my intentions are pure. Sure, they say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. But I don’t believe that. Heaven is lit with them. A truly good intention is so powerful that it begs action, so much so that a glimmer of it can often be seen in the failed attempt. And a failed attempt is simply the heart’s inability to warm the feet into action. Therefore, the only thing I can hope for as I reflect on the past year is that my world doesn’t “glimmer” so much that it means that I’ve let down those who counted on me most. For any time that my cold feet touched someone, I pray that my heart touched them twice.

I bid you seasons greetings, my friends…from the top of my heart and from the depths of my soul. You are my inspiration, and the breath in my life.

Stand & Deliver

Autumn is here. And although the weather is more likely to cause a bought of heatstroke than to motivate you to slip into a sweater, it makes for a perfect “End of Summer” story.

A walk on the beach at the end of summer is soothing to the soul and to your soles. The feeling of velvety sand squishing between your toes, forming around you heals and up into the arches of your feet, is therapeutic. The smell of saline air cleanses the sinuses, and the sound of waves breaking on the shore puts the mind back into rhythm with nature. Yes, the beach is a refuge for over-stimulated city girls like myself.

I recently joined a group of friends for a bonfire night on Carmel Beach. We hunkered down near the Thirteenth Street access point, in a cove with other bonfire aficionados. We sprawled out our blankets and towels beneath the sunset-smothered sky, threw on some jackets as fingers of fog curled over the horizon, and dug into homemade caprese salad and other equally delicious and decidedly non-bonfire dishes.

It had been nearly 10 years since my last bonfire, which was a much … different … experience. That experience was one that involved too much firewater, and a frightening run-in with Mary Jane. Despite her reputation, Mary Jane did not provide me with hearty laughter or an evening of feasting. Nor did she provide me with the usual spike of ingenious discovery. Instead, our relationship resulted in an evening of chaotic mind-swirl, including an hallucinogenic episode where I had passed on to the netherworld, convinced that witches—who were walking on the waves, oh yes—were summoning me to swim out into the ocean, where my friends would aptly drown me. My then-boyfriend (now hubby), spent the evening trying to console an otherwise illogical mind. Adolescence is full of good self-advice, isn’t it?

Thankfully, this summer’s bonfire escapade took a more mellow approach. We chuckled at the teenagers camping next to us, as they practiced cheer routines and played a surprising mix of music that included both Britney Spears and Queen. We also celebrated a birthday for a friend, and indulged in the pot luck spread.

Night had fallen. The only light that breathed came from the spotty orange glow emitted from bonfires on a pockmarked beach, and from an exhibitionist moon that seemed to take pleasure in “mooning us,” jumping out suddenly from behind a blanket of clouds, then retreating just as unexpectedly. I swear I heard it snicker once while I attempted to take advantage of its temporary glow. In a cruel joke, the mood closed its cloud-cape just as I inadvertently grabbed the dog’s bowl instead, and began to eat out of it. Lucky for me, the pooch was not eating Dog Chow that night.

As the hours got on, and as water and wine filled our bellies (and our bladders), Mother Nature began calling.

Sporting the sexiest 3-way Trident headlamp you’ve ever seen, I trudged through charred-wood-laden sand with a friend, climbed the stairs (which feel steeper when you’re two glasses of wine in), and hiked to the bathrooms. After waiting my turn for the first stall and passing for the next due to the “condition” of it, I cautiously opened the door to the second, and formed a plan of potty attack. My first impression was that outhouse had been under siege by blind, hose-wielding, bandits with full body Tourettes. The odor was so pungent; it lined the walls of your nose with a thick layer of ammonia, one that stayed with you for minutes after you left. The floor was gritty beneath the feet where toilet paper and sand mixed with seawater. Soaked toilet paper lined the toilet seat, the walls dripped with various fluids, and my headlamp provided only a spotlight of illumination, which was probably a saving grace considering the decor. After deciding that the conditions were not sanitary enough to use the seat for its intended purpose, I rolled up my pants, and using the handicap bars, I hoisted myself up onto a platform beside the seat, and, as my friend suggested, I stood and I delivered. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly added texture to an otherwise smooth evening.

Autumn is here, my friends. And, while there may not be many more beach-friendly holidays on the horizon, I look forward to the next bonfire escapade since they seem to provide me with a new story each time.

Bonfires, beaches, and bathrooms: all in a day’s work.

An Afterthought

There's a reason that people reflect on high school and the ensuing years, because those turbulent days that blanketed us in hollow self-esteem now seem so far away, as if the memories we retain belong to another person. As though those memories are the fibers of a dream we once had or a movie we once watched.

Yet, in the distance that has been created between the past and the present, a familiarity of those days lingers, and coils up with the child inside of us. The sensation being one of comfort and awkwardness.

As this reverie takes hold, I begin choking on my adulthood as it collides with my childhood. I begin asking myself, "Who am I? How did I get here? And who would recognize me as I am now?" The following poem emerges:

Afterthought

You don’t remember me

because I’ve never stood

out in a crowd.

Before I began dying

my hair red,

I was a muted honeycomb

that slithered the halls of life,

pillaging insecurities

from the dungeons

of other people’s

warped minds. I wore

a smile that lurked

behind my eyes but

avoided the purse of my lips,

the crinkles of serendipity

hidden in the fringes

of my acquired flavor. Men

shook me, of the

coconut sweetness

that drew them in, like

a rabid mother in a torrential

rage with a fitful infant.

You don’t remember me

because my eyes

were green with disloyalty.

Once upon a time

I avoided contact

with your gaze, took

vodka shots with a head

hung low, foraged for

semblance, for acceptance

in my liquor reflection.

I harvested pollen from

other people’s

flowers, and left my petals

to wilt, back then.

I was a stray

who tasted sensuality

and bitter arguments

with a snake's tongue,

fasting and feasting,

a medicinal touch, a

warm lie.

You don’t remember me

because the spotlights

didn’t shine on my

cracked delusions.

Yesteryear offered me

a cup of coffee, but I declined;

preferring frothy

highs caught by

circumstance, absorbing

the jitters from passersby.

Now,

I comb the world

with curious eyes,

friendly lips,

and a siren’s intent;

harboring no shame for

my arsenal of lessons,

no apologies

for my love, no barriers

for my permissions.

By the time you remember me

I confess,

a storm will wash me

from this flashback,

because

I’m spindrift in time,

a white flame,

a prayer left to wither

into wishes.

I know no other way,

than to change

with the seasons, without

reasons, while

committing treasons

of the written kind.

So, no,

you don’t remember me.

I was born

an afterthought.

Fire on My Tongue

My mother has always said that my mouth is a crevice that houses a knife so sharp its edge could slice a diamond. Okay, that’s my interpretation of what she actually said, which was more along the lines of, “Watch your mouth, Young Lady.” Nevertheless, I was raised to be a no B*** S*** kind of woman. I speak from my heart, and I speak with intent; however, there is a delicate science to doing so in a way that doesn’t offend or alienate. Alas, my filter breaks, and it breaks often. It leaks like a sieve. And so, I find myself crooning over my mother’s other words, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” So, what happens when you are asked to give input that you know can’t be labeled as “nice” and silence is not an option?

I find the greatest problem arises in this very scenario: When my opinion is requested and I know deep down inside that it will not furnish an answer the asker wants to hear. Yet, a gift of honesty (sometimes in the form of a tidal wave) is bequeathed to the asker. I wish I could say that this phenomenon only occurs in personal affairs, but I would be lying. I am a bull in a china shop full of syllables. I am a drunk driver of sentence structure. My victims lay in pools of crimson frustration from the blunt blows of my tongue before rolled out on a gurney from the scene of the crime with distaste for my colloquy. Despite my best efforts to be tactful in truth delivery, I find myself tuned into an addiction for pure, unadulterated honesty. All the while, I should be dressing my “truth monsters” with pillows of compliments and niceties. Isn’t that what they taught us in college communication classes?

Recently, I endured a humbling beat-down by someone I respect. After much consideration following the topic of discussion “my bluntness,” I’m coming to the conclusion that there is an intersection at the corner of honesty and dishonesty; that, sometimes, fire on the tongue is not the culprit for another person’s misgivings.

Each of us occasionally seeks the opinion of those we admire, trust, or respect. But, we take for granted that even they are susceptible to having different thoughts than we have. Whether they are work colleagues or family members, sometimes those we admire or those we are close to become those we despise when we find that their ideas may not fall in line with ours on a specific topic (most notably, a topic close to our hearts). In other cases, perhaps they do agree with us, but they use spectacles that focus on a different array of colors of the subject. Maybe we do not understand how they see things this way and that, and so, feeling as though we have lost common ground with them, a rift is created.

The problem is, the truth is built with thorned words, and thorned words are … sharp. The truth can be an unpleasant catalyst no matter how soft one’s voice or how the syllables are sung. While some people will bruise less from these attempts to soften the blow, others will inevitably see past the niceties that were thrown in-between criticism, and they will build a Great Wall between you and forgiveness simply because they “can’t handle the truth.” They will feel betrayed, they will act dismayed, and they will put you out to pasture.

People say they want to know the truth. They say they want to learn another person’s thoughts and ideas. But these unfiltered waterways are corroded. They have pieces of glass imbedded into their bedrock, and their waterfalls are multi-level, offering steep declines not fit for the faint of heart.

Honesty hurts. It’s a devil of a character in life because it’s the voice that proves how fragile we are.

The fire on my tongue does burn innocent bystanders. I won’t deny that. And each time it does, a part of me singes when I reflect on the harm I may have done. But, luckily those incidents are few, and I can put most of those fires out with my compassion, because harm is never the intent. However, there are individuals who will always condemn me for disagreeing, no matter how many ribbons I wrap around those conversations. It is with these individuals that I must decide: Do I continue to offer locked and loaded opinions when asked, knowing far well that I could be poisoning myself with impending isolation? Or, do I compromise my integrity; ice my tongue altogether, and avoid the dispersion of soggy news so I can salvage the relationship?

My mother would say, all that depends on the importance of the relationship. Perhaps honesty isn't always the best policy. Perhaps I should put out the fire sometimes.

A Little Piece of Me

by Andrea Stuart

Seated on the warm, red bricks that unevenly blanket three quarters of my backyard, my face is drenched in sunshine for the first time this spring, and my ears buzz with the songs emanating from the Brazilian pepper tree rooted in my yard. Unencumbered by nagging phone calls or the slightest urgency to complete a task, I let the sun’s rays wash the chill from my toes. As I melt into the tranquility of the morning, I’m caught up in a web of nostalgia.

Growing up, my mother used to repeat this daily mantra to me: “You’ve got to toughen up, kid.” My natural heightened sensitivity forced my mother to be very cautious about how she handled any misfortune that involved me. Had she been an over reactor like so many parents I’ve observed, I might have wound up retrofitted to a straight jacket, pleading for the men in white coats to keep the “voices” silent. Luckily, my mother—despite her uncanny ability to create a tornado of worry within herself—always maintained her composure in times of distress.

If I tattooed gravel into my knee by falling off my bike, my mother would simply grab the hydrogen peroxide, kiss my forehead, and say, “It’s not the end of the world. Falling is part of learning to ride a bike. Bet you’ll be more careful next time, won’t you?” It didn’t matter that uninvited pieces of the driveway were indiscreetly protruding from my knee. She remained the unruffled mother hen that I found so comforting. And her lessons spilled over into the sentiments of life as well.

I had always been taught that with age comes the ability to shrug off the smaller things in life like insults and emotional pandemonium. Yet, as I snaked my way through childhood, I noticed that my sensitivity only seemed to grow more intense. Once I reached adolescence, my emotional delicacy reached unimaginable proportions. One afternoon while I was driving a friend home from school through the suburb neighborhoods of Danville, a Monarch butterfly collided with my windshield, making a Jackson Pollack of itself on the sun seared glass. I stopped the car and began to weep. My friend — sweet thing that she was — talked me down with a story about how the butterfly grew new wings and flew away to Heaven.

This sensitivity was the impetus that translated my emotions and thoughts into tangible forms. Writing became a therapeutic and artistic medium for me to release both the beauty and the wickedness that consumed my thoughts and the world around me.

Friends and family encouraged my writing obsession. One friend remarked that writing “made my spirit shine through my eyes.” A nice sentiment, even if it was just an exaggeration embroidered into a compliment.

Yet as therapeutic as it was, writing could not block all of life’s bullets. In an ironic twist of circumstance, the one trait that kindled my writing flame also came close to extinguishing its blaze.

One semester in high school, my English teacher rewarded me with a D grade in writing and poetry. Her reasoning was that my style was too esoteric; that my poetry was unstructured and erroneous: “You should really stick to what you know,” she told me. Her comments unraveled my self-esteem. I felt like an un-swaddled infant placed in an open field during a thunderstorm. But, my mother, unnerved by this teacher’s audacity, was determined to bandage my wound by secretly entering one of the poems that the teacher criticized into a national contest. I received an editor’s choice award and was published in a poetry compilation; a modest yet effective accomplishment. The teacher’s voice finally began fading into the background, where it remains most days.

While I’m certainly no Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson, and I’ve not achieved a fraction of the success as acclaimed writers Dean Koontz and J. K. Rowling, I’ve involuntarily thrown myself into the daedal practice of interlacing words until they form patterns that harmonize with whatever emotive corsets I may be wearing.

Nostalgia fades. I’m waiting for the finches’ encore musical performance before I put this ink slinger’s musings to rest. A breeze cools the sting of impending sunburn as I remain on the bricks and think to myself: The world is my tablet. My written words are merely thoughts incarnate, healing my sensitivities while giving birth to intimacy through shared experiences.