9/11

I remember that day like a foggy dream.

I was 10 years old,

at school

in my sleepy Minnesotan town,

with a world view no bigger

than the woods surrounding my house.

So much fog.

So much smoke.

First came the fear, 

Then came the hate.

Fear, fear.

Hate, Hate.

Fear, hate, fear.

The towers fell,

Dad sat us down,

the military called,

he served,

we moved,

I woke up.

First came the understanding,

Then came the love.

Understanding love,

Lovely understanding,

that the divide between good and evil 

runs along no border

of country,

creed,

or race,

rather it cuts through the heart of every creature,

leaving it up to us,

which we choose to emanate,

leaving it up to us

to remember those who have gone before,

leaving it up to us,

to understand,

protect,

and love.

Hey, mamasita

Words cannot adequately even begin to capture the soul that is my mother, but if I don't try then I'm doing a great disservice to humanity. Because she is the kind of woman you write about. The kind of woman you preserve in word, thought, and deed because heaven forbid that any generation go on without her, or anyone think her less than a goddess, even in her own dark places. For she is the light when the power goes out, the glue to repair life's chipping, and the hands that hold it all together while it dries. She's the kind of woman that glows. The kind of woman that makes everyone laugh, cry, and love more. And 9 times out of 10 she's laughing, crying, and loving more right beside you. She's the kind of woman that leaves her path better than when she came, each passing traveler a little lighter, her home a standing sanctuary to all. Anything she touches, in fact, becomes safe: the fears, the hopes, the dreams, the heartbreak. And if you don't believe in magic by now, you will when you meet her. For she is the kind of woman magic is made of.

Come as you are

Shortly after our first steps

society demands:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

So, we answer:

Maybe a mom,

A dad,

A firefighter,

A garbage man,

An explorer,

A veterinarian,

A pilot,

A doctor,

A rockstar,

A gymnast.

Perhaps some combination of all the above,

All noble attempts 

to sketch out our life

and prepare,

predict,

play pretend,

the way the world seems fit.

But then one day,

a few of us wake,

with delayed cramps,

and growing pains,

to find 

that

        we 

                                                                                      don't

                                               fit 

                                       as  

                       nicely 

                                                                                        as 

                                                                                                                           we 

thought.

Into the mold created

by the roles we thought we'd fill.

And suddenly what we are isn't enough

to satisfy that divine quench.

We feel empty,

unfulfilled,

lost,

even deprived

of the question no one was ever brave enough to ask:

Who do you want to be when you grow up?

But it is never too late,

to be who you might have been,

and this most important path of becoming,

requires no particular test, degree, or title,

just an open heart,

a questioning mind,

and willing feet.

"There are many roads to the top of Mt. Fiji".

So come as you are,

stay a while,

and the what's, where's, how's, and why's,

will fall into place,

I promise you.