Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Toe Gratitude

I like to make lists of the things I'm grateful for; yellow flowers and books, warm beds and warm words. But there are the kind of days, my lists are listless. I'm sad over accumulated little things, tired from endless homework assignments and emotional rolling pins, my fingers itch and the architecture of my face is not pleasing me in the least. And it's those kind of days, these kind of days, I'm grateful for my toes.

I always hate when girls say they hate their feet because they're ugly. How on earth can you possibly hate your feet? By definition, feet are feet. There really aren't beautiful feet and ugly feet and mediocre feet and plain feet. Feet don't wear makeup and you can't have botox or liposuction on your feet. Feet are just feet. They don't follow an attractiveness scale. No dude is going to say “I think most attractive thing about such and such is her feet. Her feet are so hot!” So why on earth would you hate you feet?

I love my feet. I love my toes. I'm grateful for my toes, because they are just toes. They aren't something I can beautify or think of ways they would look better. Unlike my face, from which I can pick out a million ways for it to improve, my toes are adorable. They are little, they are toe-like and what more could I ask from them? They are uncomplicated. They exist to help me balance, to help me walk. And I could certainly use some help with balance.

My toes are adventures, they are wanderers. And they aren't great at waltzing, but they can keep me walking on tippy toe for a very long period of time. My toes haven't grown since 6th grade and they don't like toe rings. All in all, they are just toes.

So on days when I find myself struggling to remain grateful for all the great things in my life, when I'm upset about things I'll laugh at later and confused about life in general, those days I'm grateful for my toes. They are just toes. They aren't ugly or beautiful, they don't ever confuse me, they aren't emotional or nostalgic, they don't have anything to do with poetry and they don't ever wonder about meaning.

They're simple. They are just toes. They are my toes. And I'm grateful for them.  

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Trick Candle

April 10th, 2013
Inspired by "You Can't Have It All" By Barbara Ras (absolutely amazing poem)

You can't have it all
But you can have middle school notebooks filled with your first poems and the smell of worn leather
And when Spring comes, you can have all of Spring, with her soft horned bucks and sunshine flowers 
bees buzzing with an intensity your washing machine will never know
Spring, with her warm mornings, brisk afternoons
fog tantrums and quiet rain beckonings
Such a wily  child and she's all yours
You can walk in her beauty, hold her lupine and wet grass
take your old notebook to her fields 
and fill all those pages you always meant to fill
lose your dog and lose yourself in her bright yellows
and royal purples
feel sun beating on the nape of your neck and 
against that one beauty mark your grandma's look at with suspicion
"make sure you wear sunscreen, make sure you cover that up."
that one mark you've just begun to love
And you can have the bird songs, tribbles, screbbles, and twipples
push wet hair off your forehead
You can keep the dog barks and chicken clucks
all those spring tea parties you had
pink dresses and rose embroidery
And today, you can have all 17 Springs you've known, the red shoes, dirt stained fingernails and bouquets for momma
You can have all of Spring,
her wild flowers and wild ways, her earth awakenings and vibrant voices
You can't have it all
But today
 You can have all of this

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Why I Am Taking Back My Apology To That Gnome Table

There's this little table, this little table in our old living room. It's a little red and green gnome with a long white beard and rosy cheeks holding up the top of a tree stump. I always thought it was a dwarf, though I have recently come to realize that dwarfs are not as jolly creatures as this being appeared to be. The little tree stump the gnome holds is made of plastic, serves as the table's top and was often covered with books or coffee cups.

 My mom gave it to my dad for his birthday and yet I've always considered it mine. No one in my family is agrees with this, but I know it's mine. See, I always thought the table was real. 

And because it was real and yet never moved, it was obviously enchanted. So once when no one was looking, I kissed its cheeks and then its little red lips. It did not stir. 

But then I became very afraid, very, very afraid. My kiss hadn't been enough, and such made sense. I didn't truly expect it to come to life by my kiss, it had been very unlikely I was the gnome table's true love. I had just kissed it in case there was any chance I could save it. 

But now I became afraid, afraid and very very ashamed. I had wasted my kiss on a gnome, a gnome I did not love. And so my young heart was thrown into guilt. Why would I kiss that which I did not love?

And for a long time I felt very guilty. I felt guilty that I had so carelessly thrown a kiss away. I finally confessed my sin to my mother. She held me as I cried. I doubt she remembers it now and if she does, it probably amuses her.

  Today, I dropped a little gnome I have and broke his hat. My immediate impulse was to apologize to him and kiss both of his cheeks. And so I remembered this. And I laughed.

But now that I think back, I really don't think I've changed much from that girl. I'm impulsive, I always have been. I always feel guilty. I've tripped over my own heartstrings too many times to count, but I never tell till I crack. I don't believe in breaking my own heart and I guess I still believe in kisses bringing enchanted beings back to life.

Sometimes I wonder, I wonder, how long I plan to feel guilty for feeling, for feeling a little too much. How long am I going to feel the need to confess that I cared too much? It's been almost seventeen years and I constantly tell myself to stop throwing my emotions around. Why can't I just feel and not feel guilty for feeling so much?

I've always been the one who cried at little things, who picked up bugs stuck in buildings, and apologized when no apology was needed. I've always been the one who promised not to write poems about that one person but did anyways. And I've always been the one who's felt guilty for being that one. I've always felt guilty for feeling so much sadness, so much happiness, so much compassion, so much infatuation, so much mortification. So much emotion. 

So I'm taking back that apology to myself, to my mother, to that gnome table. I'm not sorry for kissing that gnome. I'm not sorry for feeling and acting upon compassion. I'm not sorry.

I don't want to apologize for my heart anymore. I don't want to tell myself that tears and goosebumps and blushing cheeks and butterflies and sighs and flashing eyes are all wrong.

One day I just want to feel everything, everything but my guilt. And that day may not be today, but I hope it's coming. So today, I'm starting by taking back that apology to that gnome table.

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"