Dardanus Calidus: The Hermit Crab

I'm home in West Virginia for the week, helping my family settle in to their new house. Last week I graduated college. I spent the week of graduation watching my roommates pack, and I also helped a few friends move in to their new apartments. In August, I'll be moving all my stuff from DC to store in West Virginia, while I spend a year at the University of Granada in Granada, Spain with Assemblies of God World Missions.

As I was moseying along in my beloved Honda Civic yesterday on my way to CVS, I switched into autopilot mode. 

Not to scare ya'll; I mean I was still driving the car. 

Do you ever do that? Surely you do. One moment you're driving along and thinking about the cars in front of you and the "separate the hazards" rule they teach you in Driver's Ed. Next thing you know, time passes and something snaps you out of this reverie that had apparently consumed you. You're suddenly hyper-aware of the traffic in your midst, and of your hand on the wheel. You realize you had been consumed with the thoughts or memories or images or to-do lists running through your your mind instead of the road. 

Ya, you know. You know what I'm talking about.

So anyhow yes, this happened to me. 

In my reverie, I kept returning to this image: hermit crabs. I realized that, well… we're a lot alike, hermit crabs and me. Hermit crabs change shells all the time. When the largest crab outgrows his shell, he moves into a new shell, and the second biggest crab moves in to his recently vacated shell, and so on. They move down the line, all the way down to the smallest hermit crab. 

It feels weird and awkward at first to try the new shell on for size, and sometimes I wonder if a bigger crab is gonna come along and steal my place. What if I'm not ready to move to a new country for a year? Shouldn't someone else more prepared and brave and stable and talented take the spot? What if I miss people too much? What if this dream is, well, just a dream? What if I fail?

What if.

What if I never said those two words again to express fear over what could be, but rather used them to speak potential over what is. 

What if failure was instead not trying at all? What if it's not about me? What if I'm just the means to the end? What if I'm living for the applause of nail-scarred hands? (Thank you Mark Batterson.) What if I need to vacate in order for others to rise up? 

I'm running afraid but contentedly toward the grandeur of adventure and purpose. 

Pursuing things that make me uncomfortable make me dependent on God, and give me more adventure than I could ever create for myself. 

Four years ago, God moved me up to AU when I thought I wasn't ready. They have been the most transformative years of my life. 

Now, I'm movin' on.

If I were chasing dreams, I'd be disappointed with the life of a hermit crab. 

No place would ever be big enough. 

So I guess that is the cool thing about chasing God. 

God-sized dreams may keep us on our toes, but they are never too small. 

Nothing to Lose, All to Gain

Before I share with you a poem I wrote called Speak, I want to share with you some words of Rumi. They've been a framework for my life the past few months, in everything-- in my relationship with God, in my view of myself and my hopes and fears and control issues, in my roommate relationships, in my relationship with my boyfriend. The words are simply these:

Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built up against it.

This, combined with a TED Talk by Brene Brown called The Power of Vulnerability, led me to writing Speak. It makes me scared to share it with ya'll (and reciting it at an Open Mic a couple weeks ago was one of the most nerve-wracking things I've ever done) but I know ya'll need to hear it. Though I still struggle almost daily with some of the things I wrote about, I'm on my way to being wholehearted. I'm learning that vulnerability has a purpose more than just talking about what I've been through. Not only does my own vulnerability help me build deeper relationships with other people; it also is a gift I give to others. 

Today, my gift to you is my vulnerability. Today, I say where I've been, and where I'll go no more. I say that where you've been matters. I say that you don't have to be there any more. Today, I want to say to you that YOU MATTER.
You are loved.
You are worthy.
You are worthy of relationships, of love, of wholeness.
And you matter.

Here it is. Enjoy.





__________________________________________

Speak.

You know you have the words.

Stop feeding yourself lies—empty calories, lies disguised.

Speak.

Tell Me more about you, daughter.

Speak to your heart, tell it to feel.

Speak to your heart.

It pumps blood

            rhythmically

            regularly

            predictably

Till the day you die and

Come here with me

Forever.

Speak.

Get to know yourself.

Come to love yourself.

Get acquainted with your inner beauty

            inner purpose

            inner soul

Get to know yourself. Get to know every nook and cranny, every hope and fear, every dream and wrinkle and crevice. Wear it out, wear it in. Get to know yourself. Get to know yourself like you know the stairs that lead up past your parents’ bedroom, how you know the second and fourth steps squeak louder than the rest and avoid them skillfully when you come in past curfew and—

Get to know yourself. Get to know every inner working, every colour palette, every hue and shade. Paint with them, and don’t be afraid to mess up. Art is perfected by mistakes and, there are no mistakes in art so

Get to know yourself.

Speak.

Speak.

Throw away the sharp words, the words sharp as the knives you keep beside the stovetop oven. Throw away the adjectives and adverbs and euphemisms and reveries you hold in that brilliant mind of yours but use as weapons of destruction.

If you refuse them means of edification, then throw them out, for

As they say “one man’s trash is another’s treasure” and

My darling, you are no trash.

you

are

treasure.

Speak.

You have words.

You have value.

Now, SPEAK.

Speak, and may it be an overflow of your heart.

Speak, and the words will come.

You will not be silent forever.

Speak.

Claim a spot, the spot I’ve saved for you, in this moment, at this table.

Speak.

This is not a fairytale, this is more than dreams. There is a reality that exists far beyond the sovereign state of your land deemed Predetermined Possibility.

And your name is not Cinderella.

At midnight you will not dissolve, along with your pumpkin carriage, into a life that relegates you to a cellar with rats and brooms.

Speak.

The only pumpkin in your life is that one you picked last autumn

when the sun was high and the air was crisp and

you frolicked in the field eagerly, expectantly;

acutely aware that you were alive, you were free, you had air running through your nostrils and through your hair and across your skin.

Don’t you remember? I was there.

Don’t you remember? I was there in Cape Town, too, at the table that night one year and thirty-eight days ago?

I was there in the chair, and in the night air

as you counted the stars [lost count],

as you listened to Charlie Fink and

got chills and

were dumbfounded—amazed!—I’d walked with you this far, carried you this far

on My back, on the cross

—amazed  you were worth it all.

You are worth it all.

So speak.

Speak!

You are not your own.

Speak, for others who listen.

Speak, for others who are deaf. Numb. Mute.

Speak, for your words are laced with MY power, MY mercy, MY grace, MY love—

the stamp of a Savior more powerful than any drug or law or lie.

Speak, for your words will rescue.

Speak of how I saved you

Speak of where you were, where you are no more.

            On the phone, 3 A.M., freshman year, suicidal;

            On the floor, by the toilet, trying to throw up dinner but too scared to actually

gag;

            On the bed, impassioned, carried away by the desire for bodies and not for

hearts, blinded by the need for Agape love you most desire;

            On the scale, convinced you were nothing more than the number you

weighed—a number that only got better as it got smaller.

You are worth more alive than dead

You are worth more out in the world than crumpled on the bathroom floor

You are worth more when loved as Christ loved the church and

You are worth more than a low number on a scale, ‘cause

the only time a low number wins is in golf

and you don’t play golf.

My child, speak.

For though you’ve walked through the shadow in that valley,

YOU ARE REDEEMED.

Redeemed, for a purpose.

Not only redeemed, but restored.

And others need you.

Give the gift of vulnerability.

I am sending you

I am with you

You are my child, and I love you.

Now go—and Meredith,

Speak.

reflections on a park bench in the 52 degrees February sun

“Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” ― Frederick Buechner, Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation

Today, I'm thankful there's more to living than just getting by.
Today, I'm thankful there's more to living than just being happy.
Today, I'm thankful there's more to living than just me.

I'm thankful for the beauty around me, inside of me, running through me.
I'm thankful for my breath, for the capabilities of my mind, for the capacity for change and growth and transformation.
I'm thankful that God made us beautiful.

Today, I'm thankful there's more to living than just getting by.
Today, I'm thankful there's more to living than just being happy.
Today, I'm thankful there's more to living than just me.

Antilamentations, and thoughts on regret and pain

Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

____________________________________________

My Antilamentation by Meredith Daniel

Those moments when you read something and can't get it out of your head.
Those moments when you read something and it trips a sensor, unlocks a door, knocks down a wall, removes a veil, triggers a memory
    a memory of pain
    or regret
    or a before-and-after image you're afraid to hang up on the wall because you like the end product         
    but not what it took to get you there

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE PROCESS?

WHAT'S WRONG 
with the pain in crying, screaming, punching a wall?
with the pain that leaves you so numb or paralyzed you can't do any of that at all?
    raw
    broken
    sore
    shattered
    numb
    doubtful
    jaded

WHAT'S WRONG 
with the pain that fills you with nothing true? 
with lies that feel closer than a brother but nothing like a friend?
    shame
    fear
    depravity
    loneliness

WHAT'S WRONG
with a pain that makes you retreat?
scared no one will understand
    wishing they would
         knowing deep down inside they will
         knowing deep down inside there is a commonality to our human experience 
         knowing deep down inside there is a commonality to our human experience it'd be a sin to deny.


____________________________________________

This is my antilamentation. 
This is my declaration that pain is not escapable until it's valuable. Pain is not something from God or of God, nor does it send him balking or shaking in a corner. 
God has conquered pain. And fear. 
If you think our God is afraid that pain has a deadly grasp on us, or that it might separate us from Him even further or possibly forever, you are mistaken.
God is not afraid of pain.
God is not afraid of doubt.
God is not afraid of questions or anger or apathy.
God stands up to scrutiny.

I'm going to say something bold.
God uses pain to love others. God uses my pain to love others. God uses my pain to love me.
In the moments we feel the most desperate, those are the moments we glimpse what we are missing; those moments are the ones that lend our lives eternal significance. If a shadow proves the sun shines, then pain proves there is a God.

Experience your pain. 
Do not run from it, or justify it, or brush it aside as something insignificant.
It is not.
You are not.
Go through the process and experience His promises.


You have authority, and agency, and hopes and desires. Don't let pain cloud them.
Make a choice, and make that choice surrender.
Surrender, and let God prove Himself to you.
Surrender, and let Him reach out to you in your shadow.
It doesn't have to be this way.
You are not a captive.
There is nothing wrong with the process.

there's a good post in the works, but as of now it's drafted on the pages in my mind.

just thought i'd put that out there.

when thoughts become words

today is sunday, the first sunday in august, and the first time i've had a moment to myself in months. i cozied up with that moment, wrapped myself in its floppy arms all awkward like a prom picture, and set about to putting away the laundry i'd done the day before.


to set the scene for the thoughts you're about to read, i should tell you i'm conflicted. not the Ohmygod I'm just so sad and my life is desolate because I'm not where I want to be and it's painful and I know where I should be but I can't get there and that's the worst part! kind of conflicted, but more of the What do I freaking DO with myself now that I'm exactly where I want to be, which is where God wants me to be? I've never felt so aligned and perfectly placed in my life and I almost feel like stepping out of bounds just to mess something up and feel human again! kind of conflicted.


you know, the conflict that comes from making peace in war, from finding purpose in pain, from knowing that there's nothing good in me but there's everything good in a God who orchestrates it all.


i've been traveling around a bit lately. i've been working at my part-time internship with this great organization called DC SCORES tuesdays through thursdays, but on the weekends i've been bookin' it. went to the Outerbanks with my mom and brothers and aunt and uncle (ok well i cheated and missed work for that); to Newport Folk Festival and Boston with friends, made a pit stop in Jersey along the way; headed to NYC just 2 nights ago to see the honorable Jon Foreman put on a show, contemplated life on the Brooklyn Bridge and drove back to DC through the night; awoke and went to West Virginia yesterday morning to meet up with friends from back home.


which leads me to today, this moment, on the 8th floor, on the carpet of the Rudeshack. thinking. 
i have a question for you. when traveling, do you ever find yourself thinking Oh yes, I could see myself living here! or Holy crap, WHY would I ever subject myself to living here?! 


well i think about these things all the time, so my recent travels have been no exception. here's what i've come up with:

• i've decided i want to live in New York sometime-- soon, preferably. every time i'm in that city it calls out to me and gives me a new reason for blessing it with my presence
• i definitely never want to live in the Outerbanks; i can think of many a beach on a better coast (cough the West Coast cough) that offer a much better vibe and raw beauty 
• West Virginia is great because life is simple and slow and open, but living there would leave me unstimulated and sad
• and as great as Newport and Boston are, Newport is just a bunch of Sperry-wearing sailors and Boston gets NASTO weather in the wintertime

and then there's DC.
and this apartment, the Rudeshack.
the Rudeshack and i are going on our 3rd year together, and it's feeling like home. DC is feeling like home. DC has felt like home. but each of those places i've just mentioned, albeit some of them places i'd NEVER want to inhabit, communicate some variation of that this is home feeling to me when i'm in them.


which leads me to ponder that perhaps home isn't a place; perhaps it's something more.


perhaps Jon Foreman has it right when he sings This is Home. maybe home isn't a place on a map, and maybe it's more a place within. a place of peace and aspiration, a place of purpose and action and dreams and reckoning.
a dwelling place, in which dwells a God more personal and real and loving than i know what to do with.
come to think of it, maybe Jon Foreman said it even MORE right when he sings House of God Forever. or maybe, just maybe, i should stop stalking Jon Foreman in both the literary and the literal sense, and point out that David said it right AND said it first, when he wrote Psalm 27.

One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek Him in His temple. For in the day of trouble He will keep me safe in His dwelling; He will hide me in the shelter of His sacred tent and set me high upon a rock. (new int'l version, verses 4-5)

maybe home isn't a place, not yet at least, that i can find. maybe home is wherever God takes me in life, because He's with me and in me as He takes me. maybe home is wherever He is. which is a pretty beautiful thought.


i'll leave you with one final thing i created. (see below.)
i wrote it just a few minutes ago, when i couldn't stand the hum of the three air conditioning units any longer. as grateful as i am for air conditioning in this DC heat, i sure did damn those things under my breath. or maybe it was aloud; i'm not really certain, as i am home alone and i can say anything i want because no one is here to hear me!


ps.
just kidding, air conditioners. you're great! and appreciated! and loved!!!1!1


anyways. here you go. enjoy.










title: a poem, a cry


i've forgotten what silence sounds like.


HELP! CAN'T ANYONE HEAR ME!
don't leave me alone with my thoughts


but worst of all,
don't leave me alone with the souuundds


ah! why are they so amplified!


why could i never before hear the jangling of my bracelets?
why is the air conditioning unit SCREAMING at me?


I WANT TO SCREAM BACK.
i want to make a sound, ensure this isn't a dream, that i'm real, that i matter.


GET AWAY YOU DAMN THING. STOP CHASING ME INTO MYSELF.


the water faucet makes a sound?
who knew a spicket could sing.
sounds more like the screeching of a crow than a chorus of angels...
maybe i should start some music.
it will slow things down, reduce the jitters, ease the tension, provide an escape


an escape
from the sound of silence
that attacks me randomly, repeatedly, acutely
sharp and short like a blood sugar test
heavy and raw like an undercooked steak hitting an empty stomach: unchewed, hard to swallow, impossible to digest.


silence quick and relentless like an infantry on battlefield, led by cavalry and weapons and flags,
each one waving and poking and pushing at me as he passes.


I HEAR YOU GOD
I AM LISTENING


You haven't given me much of a choice have You?
okay, well.
what do You want to do? ...can You say something please? because all i hear is this pen against the paper and the creaking of the walls and the traffic down below and the wind as it rushes up against the panes, and all the while the stupid air conditioner marks time with its steady hum, making me wish i knew what key ihwe89128795#$!@5l2gye21 was in, because that's what it sounds like. making me wish i had an ear for telling what key things were in at all.


is this what You had planned?
for me to be alone,
plagued by the sound of silence and the constant Simon and Garfunkel references that phrase brings to my mind?


maybe it is.
maybe You're saying:
I AM HERE
CAN'T YOU HEAR ME?
can't you feel Me poking and prodding you to get off your sorry ass, kneel down before me, and worship me simply because 
I WAS
I AM
and I WILL ALWAYS BE?


okay, God.
ok ok ok.
i get it.
no more going through the motions, no more being surprised when you "show up."
i get it. you're shown up. you're here.
in the mundane.
full of glory and mercy, power and humility, the sweet and the savory, finality and temporality.
painfully tangible yet soothingly ubiquitous.
you're here.
i get it.
count me in.

a blog is for blogging

i am the Queen of Unfinished Projects. 
crown me, put me on the face of a coin, but whatever you do-- do not dethrone me.


today, however, i did finish one project: belated spring cleaning. i went through bags and boxes of belongings in my apartment and pared them down to three boxes (plus clothes). impressed? i know, don't make me blush any more than i already am. i rewarded my new Minimalist self with a pat on the back, some peach caffeine-free diet coke (who knew that existed, right?), a black bean burger (yum) and a viewing of His Girl Friday, a 1940s flick with Cary Grant in it. he's so classy.


most peoples' to-do lists probably consist of time-sensitive items: check-offable, contained, and quickly completed. my to-do lists are more abstract than concrete, more long-standing projects than quick checks. overarching, really. books i need to read. art projects i want to construct. letters i want to write. conversations to have. places to frolic. to some, this way of prioritizing may seem irresponsible, naive, fruitless. and maybe it is.


so, you see, all this makes me Queen.


a slight concession:
at this point in a post, my counterintuitive gushing usually propels me to make sense of the mess in my head, or else i risk staying still and never getting over the hump. sometimes that's why i blog: it helps me process things. historically, i'd feel it incumbent upon me at this "tipping point" moment to break out a killer quote by a super intelligent thinker, one that lends logic to my ridiculous verbiage and lays out a solid plan for rectification and action. after all, that's what the tipping point, any tipping point, requires--- does it not? you know, the conclusion: that ribbon on the package, the neat and tidy argument, the words that wrap it all up nice and pretty and make a series of inconsequential events important. 


but i can't do that, not this time. 
i can't quote another thinker, and i can't go any further.


but the thing is, i'm not stuck.
or down.
or out.


i'm ready.


i'm ready for adventure. you know, that adventure on the horizon. the one that's getting closer and closer though still all i can see is a shadow of a figure.


i'm ready for the hands of Time to tick right and tick left; counter clockwise, or not. either way they go they have no hold. life moves along, as it always has and always will. to-do's will fall into place. they'll find their way onto my calendar, and i'll find my way in a world i've come to love so dearly. all the while, i'll walk on-- knowing that now, i'm living just a prelude, an introductory movement, an overture. i'll walk on, smiling throughout the glorious prelude and into a life yet to come.


for now, i'll rejoice in the Unfinished Projects, because i'm learning i am just that: 

i am an unfinished project.

beautifully unrefined, originally crafted, and in due course, completed after years and years of pressure and shaping and molding. 

when i forget that i'm unfinished, i get caught up in the to-do's. i find myself believing satan's lies that i'm not productive enough, not solid enough, not focused enough. the worst days i have are the ones when i forget that the purpose of life is not in the living, but the dying. it's ironic, right? Christ died for me, and i live in Him only because i die to self. remembering that integral component of His holiness brings me more liberation than i ever could have imagined. 


i've hidden behind needless productivity, behind emotional stress or final papers or powerplays and pursuits. i've hidden behind those trivial to-do's.
ah, so pasé. 


modified to-do list, in no particular order and subject to change, for the new Minimalist in me:  


hike Old Rag, Half Dome
make redred
sleep under the stars
go to the moon
get a job
Bob Ross day
get pilot's license 
graduate
climb a tree
call mom




yours sincerely,
meredith

part I

In the last sixteen days, I have seen two oceans. Flown in four planes. Lived in two countries and three separate time zones. I have ridden, a blissful passenger, through five different states in a menagerie of cars: a Pontiac, a Honda Civic. A Chevy Suburban. A Volkswagen Jetta, Volkswagen Jetta convertible, and yellow Volkswagen bug. A Toyota Camry, an Acura, and a really old Saturn. I've stayed the night in D.C. twice, gone home to West Virginia, slept at my sister's Beverly Hills apartment, and crashed at Brooke's La Cañada abode. I've walked among the eclectic shops at Venice Beach, smuggled 8 whole Tilapia fish through U.S. customs, long-boarded, enjoyed wine and cooked good food, gone hiking in the beautiful California coastal mountains, read my first Dan Brown book, dog-shopped, road-tripped to San Diego and Santa Ana, gotten in a tiny fender-bender (don't fret; we're all alive), been introduced to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, consumed more coffee than is physician recommended, talked about Ghana to anyone who'll listen, rocked out to more Needtobreathe than I can bear (almost), watched all three Lord of the Rings, gotten sunburned, eaten even more delicious food, listened to Johnny Cash while drinking Diet Raspberry Snapple, and become a Pinterest addict. More has transpired, but I surely can't continue boring you with it. I will say that while I should be exhausted, I'm more rested, refueled, and inspired than ever.

So rest easy, because this post is about to get more interesting. Let's get to the meat of it. Or, seeing as I'm a pescatarian again, I might say: I've got bigger fish to fry.

The bigger fish, you ask?

I am going to try my hand at fiction.

This is a big step for me, and I can't believe I'm taking it. I guess you could say this is my maiden voyage. I will in no way guarantee its splendor; I could certainly sink it, as I have no idea what I'll write about. I haven't written fiction since… well I honestly don't know the last time I wrote something fictitious. I'll eat my hat if this turns out remotely enjoyable to you, the reader. As it were, just today I decided I was past-due for a new post; but a blog post about what, I did not know. So I asked my other half, Emma, for ideas. She suggested fiction, a post on Returns, or a post on the glorious West.

For some reason, fiction beckons.

Enjoy.

__________________________________________________

"You don't smoke, do you? Like, cigarettes?"

Spence wheeled around on the heel of her worn flats, searching her mother's sun-kissed face and wrinkled brow for any sign of jest, clearly caught off guard by the direction the conversation just took. Five minutes together, and already her mom was peppering her with questions.

"Mom, I don't smoke. I have asthma, remember?" Ha, smoking. Of all things. I've been gone a couple of years, but there's no way she could forget that fun time in my life…

Spence temporarily checked out, her mind wandering back to all those years her mom sat on the edge of her bed night after night administering repetitive Nebulizer treatments; fetched her Canada Dry ginger-ale from the kitchen downstairs to soothe her burning throat; scratched her back until Spence, subjugated by exhaustion, dozed off. She felt a rush of gratitude, mixed with that proverbial twinge of guilt, at the memory and quickly pushed the thoughts into the recesses of her mind.

The only thing that mattered now was that mother and daughter were together, in New York, united, again.

"Mom, let me take your bag. That's it, okie, to the right, this way," Spence said as she extended her arm, gently sliding it over her mom's petite and bony frame. She guided her through the revolving doors of her apartment complex The Jetty, an unassumingly tall structure, complete with gaudy foyer and unusually friendly front-desk assistants. Spence appreciated how The Jetty employed friendly people, because that way her mom couldn't argue that all of New York was too rude, fast-paced, and impersonal a place to live.

"Is that your sister?" asked the assistant on duty as the two women walked up to the desk. "Oh how nice, she's come to visit!" she exclaimed at the sight of the the small yet eye-catching fuschia suitcase.

"Actually, Ms. Pammy, she's my mom," Spence replied matter-of-factly, trying real hard to keep her thin lips from breaking into a smile. She always did like shocking other people with this little diddy. She glanced over at her mother: short, slender, sure of herself. Just like Spence, only with sandy-blonde hair-- and a few greys, if you looked hard enough. Her mom wore a black dress cut just low enough in the front to reveal the slightest bit of cleavage. Scandalous. She called it her "city dress." Said she couldn't wear it back at home because the small town folk judged her for it.

Spence laughed to herself while her mom chatted up Ms. Pammy. Her mom did look rather young, especially in the face. She had laughing eyes, and good skin. Spence hoped to goodness she'd inherited the same skin and, hence, the same good fortune. 'Cause she sure as hell wanted also to be mistaken for a 23-year-old's sister once she began nearing the 50-year 'Over the Hill' mark.

The pair left the foyer, turned the corner, and made their way up the back stairwell. Along the way, her mother-- being the type of lady who appreciates the luxury of an elevator more than the simplicity of a stair-- berated her daughter with the usual remarks, which Spence endured with practiced patience:

"Tell me again why don't you get a place with an elevator? God knows you can afford it, with that hoity-toity magazine job of yours."

and

"Are you still on that no-meat kick? What do you even eat? And how much do you spend on groceries? You look too skinny."

or, her favorite:

"Move back home, honey. You can get twice or three times the square footage for the same price! Plus a washer and dryer. A place down the street from me just opened up. And besides, Adam Cooley-- you remember him, he played quarterback when you were in high school? Well he just moved back to the area. Saw him in the pew in front of me at church the other day, looking good as ever. And, he's single again!"

Smile and nod, Spence repeated to herself. Smile and nod. She was very good at the smile and nod.

Her mom could talk on and on and on until she was blue in the face-- Plausible, Spence mused, since mother often strikes up lengthy conversations with the dullest of characters-- about how a change of scenery or occupation might be good for her daughter, but Spence had already made up her mind. Though she didn't like to admit it, certain circumstances presented an exception to the 'Mother Knows Best' rule of thumb she'd always followed. Because, the thing was, Mother didn't know at all; she was in the dark, completely and totally. As much as Spence loved her mom, and as guilty as she felt for keeping her secret, Spence couldn't tell her the truth. It was for her own good; the less she knew about what Spence really did for a living, the better.

Because lately, even Spence had to admit things had gotten a little too risky.

...To Be Continued...

suitcases and storms

Dark storm clouds are moving in. 

I have been watching them for the past fifteen minutes from the window behind the desk at which I sit, the fifteen minutes I set aside to write this post. They are moving very fast, and I fear I will be caught in rain on the walk back to my hostel. As beautiful as the rainy season is, maybe its inconvenient timing is Ghana's way of making my exodus in two weeks' time to the motherland less bitter and more sweet.

I've been thinking about suitcases lately, mainly because I'm wondering how the hell I'm going to fit everything I've accrued this semester into mine on the way home. I will be leaving several things here, but I've also bought heavy stuff and I'm taking a Kente garment to my Ghanaian roommate's mom who lives in Alexandria, VA. Kente is really heavy and expensive stuff; it's Ghana's premier fabric, the stuff chiefs (or sometimes Bill Clinton) wear on special occasions. 

Suitcases are funny things. They make our lives easier, but only on international flights. Fly domestically with one of these suckas and they'll charge you $25 USD before you can bat a pretty eyelash and say "boo." 

So this is a poem about my suitcase, and how it can't carry everything.

Which I am okay with.

See you in two weeks, America.

movementONE.

precious contents bound by nylon, lock and key

bulky

wheels for toting,

handles for lugging

it lags behind me, clutched in the grip of my curled fingers

i look ahead

movementTWO.

security checkpoints, x-rays,

herded through, as cattle

destinations and printed labels

i release my grasp, let it go;

whirrs past on a conveyor belt

out of sight

see you there

freedom

movementTHREE.

step one: disembark

step two: show passport; prove identity

step three: claim what is rightfully mine

movementFOUR.

we step out together through automatic doors

it lags behind me, clutched in the grip of my curled fingers

did i forget any thing?

rather, could that thing be stuffed in a suitcase?

wooden trinkets, Kente fabric, ticket stubs and red dusty clothes: 

altars of a land i used to tread

substitutes for a life i cannot pack away