I’ve always kind of thought New Year’s resolutions were a bit of a joke. In a similar way that New Year’s Eve is “amateur night” when all the people that don’t normally drink and drive hit the roads in full force, it’s the same way with resolutions; people who don’t normally decide to make life-altering changes are all making commitments that they can’t keep.
Not that I’m necessarily a humbug about it; I mean, I’ll go out and celebrate. But it’s just not my holiday. 11:59 PM on December 31, 2017 feels quite the same to me as 12:01 AM January 1, 2018. The calendar is just a construct of human beings that love to quantify things, and New Year’s resolutions are just an excuse to get sentimental and feel guilty about the promises you’ve made in years past that you didn’t keep, then get fired up to make more promises that you probably won’t keep, either. A neverending loop of disappointment.
And drinking. It’s also an excuse for that, too.
I know I sound terribly pessimistic, and I don’t actually mean to be. If some people love the freshness that comes with a new year and can use that as an excuse to actually make changes and improve their life, who am I to rain all over that? More power to them.
I think I just get tired of all the hubbub around something that generally has a low success rate. To be fair, that also has something to do with my frustration with people not following through with what they say they are going to, and the fact that many don’t even care that their word means nothing anymore. So when people ask me if I made any New Year’s resolutions, I say no. No I have not. And I will not. I only say I’m going to do something when I actually plan on doing it. I don’t need a “fresh start” to decide I want to accomplish something. On a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of February, if I want to do something, I’ll make time to do it. And if I don’t, I never really wanted it badly enough, now did I?
Reading through friends posts on Facebook has been a mixture of emotions. Some people I know have had a really hard year, and I can sympathize with that. My year has been amazing, but in years past, I’ve had my share of really trying experiences so while I may not be able to relate to them completely, I am a close friend of heartache and struggle. On the flip side, I have friends that I watched travel all over the world this year or do other things that I always wanted to do, and I feel a sharp pang of jealousy. Friends who have had a truly spectacular year and experienced profound things. My heart hurts because I want some of those things too, and yet I recognize not chasing after them was my own choice. The funny thing is, even in spite of the fact that there are so many things I want (that I don’t currently see in sight or have) I can honestly say that 2017 has been the best year of my life (so far.)
Not because of any big or grand things I’ve experienced or accomplished. In many ways, this year looks much the same as years prior. Except for a few big things: Brandon and I moved back to Orange County, I fell madly in love with boardgames, and I started running (which reduced my anxiety and depression so much that this is the first year of my life I have ever felt like an almost normal human being.) The sheer happiness and freedom that running has given me has transformed me.
I’m not going to promise myself to climb any mountains, tackle any monsters, or change the world in a day. Rather, I’m going to recognize that life is not a paradigm shift, but a paradigm drift. Change doesn’t happen all at once, but slowly, over a long period of time. I don’t need to constantly paddle and battle the current with so much determination that I burn myself out; I can point my boat in the direction that I want to go, and let the river of life carry me there. I’m going to keep running, keep dreaming, and keep taking one step at time.
I haven’t been able to run for the last couple of weeks. It started with a bone that went out in my foot (that my chiropractor fixed brilliantly in one go) but continued because I’ve been having these terrible leg and foot cramps and my muscles have been hurting. It’s been frustrating, to say the least. Some days I’ve wanted to bang my fists against a wall and cry. Other days, I have. Last night, I couldn’t sleep because they were hurting. After a restless night, I woke up this morning in a total fog.
I have a mountain of work on my desk but sitting and trying to work was proving to be beyond ineffectual so I decided to just put on my headphones and go for a nice long walk. Fresh air, sunshine, a tiny droplet of exercise to make me thirsty for the cardio that I couldn’t have. And right at the beginning of the walk my foot started to seize up a little bit. I stopped and asked myself what is going on with me. I’ve been asking myself that a lot this last week, but I feel like the answer finally came down, a beam of light into my brain, and a whole bunch of things clicked.
Muscles. Tension. Tensing. Squeezing. Contracting. Holding far too tightly, trying to force. Trying to make something happen or be a certain way.
Just the other day, I was telling my best friend that I realized something about myself. Everyone talks about square pegs and round holes, but I’m not even a damn peg. I’m like a little blob of goo, that can sometimes fit into a round hole, and other times fit into a square hole, and even occasionally look like a square trying to fit into a round hole, but I never really belong anywhere. I’m holding myself in this shape so that I can be a part of the board that everyone else is on. And when I finally just stop and let myself be me, I ooze gelatinously out into the world, a ill-formed oddity, at a total loss as to who I am or where I belong.
I’ve been doing this a lot more these last few weeks, even in my personal life. I’ve been trying to inwardly and outwardly conform myself to who I think I’m supposed to be, to who others expect me to be. I’ve been trying so hard to do things that other people want me to do, believing that I need to do them. But it isn’t working. Almost no good has come of it. I’m tensing up my entire self, contorting myself into weird shapes… it’s no wonder my muscles are starting to cramp.
I’m resisting the aspects of myself that I don’t like again, and I know I’m doing it. The lack of exercise has removed the band-aid that I was using to grind through it and now I’m forced to feel all of the things I’ve been resisting. Life has a funny way of doing that. Pain is an invitation for us to look at ourselves, and be honest. I don’t have the solution, but I know it starts with consciously letting go in the moment, as much as I can. And by letting go, I mean allowing myself to be who I really am, allowing myself to feel all of the negative emotions that I don’t like and try to run from. Relaxing. I don’t need to cling so tightly to the bank of the river out of fear. I need to relax and let it carry me away to where it wants to go. I don’t get to shape the river. I get to ride in it.
I slowed down, breathed more deeply, and took my time on my walk. I consciously relaxed. And for the rest of the walk my muscles were fine. It felt so good to just be outside and be moving.
There is a lake nearby that Brandon and I occasionally go walking around. During the day it is infested with ducks. But at night, all of the gaggles are gone. Where do they go? I don’t know. That sounds like the start of a kids book. “Where do the ducks go? I don’t know.” They go… wherever ducks go. But every so often there is this one odd duck — this weird little loner that is always the only featherball to be found by the water, quacking around the grass at night by himself. He’s always waddling through a shower of sprinklers, slurping up juicy worms to his heart’s content.
The first time we saw him I laughed and said to Brandon, “that duck is my spirit animal.” I’m the one weirdo, happy with my late night worms while the rest of the ducks are sleeping. Every time I see him, he makes me smile, and reminds me that sometimes, it’s just better to be yourself. Even if you’re the odd duck.
Flying is a distant, forgotten memory, lost in haze and obscured by an oppressing unknown. Somewhere, deep inside, I know it should be me. I should be up in the sky with that hawk, circling overhead.
I can practically feel the wind whistling sweetly through my feathers as I ride that warm thermal up, up, up past the clouds that float like cream. I can count out the rows of whatever those clay colored shingle things are called that they line up all along the roofs here in California. I can see out across the town and watch the cars inch like ants; slow and purposeless from my perspective, but in their two-dimensional world they are caught up in a whirl of determined, self-important intent. Carrying crumbs along blindly to some cause or another. I can breathe in that humid, salty air as I watch all of them from my panoramic place in the sky.
Being that hawk is second nature to me, I know it. I can feel it burning in the bowels of my heart. More than a desire, it’s a deep, guttural need. So why I am I tied here, this unwitting balloon that aches to soar, clinging to the ground by cord?
I gave up on flying long ago. I’m not quite sure at what age I determined that I couldn’t fly; probably six or seven, not long after I started devouring books like a ravenous monster. Something about the fact that everything was possible in those stories made me look around and wonder why they weren’t possible here. But since evidence (and everyone else) insisted the contrary, I eventually realized that they were right and I succumbed to the limitations of reality. I stopped listening to that part of me that whispered in my ear late at night: “you were made to fly!!!”
Still… deep down, a tiny little part of me clung to hope. On every birthday, I would spend my candles on the request to fly. On every star that I hung a wish, I would beg for it to pull me up into the clouds. In every fountain that I tossed a penny, I would squeeze my eyes shut tight and my heart would flutter as I thought: it might come true. It might. But as the years passed, candles stacked up, caked with dried, cracked frosting, and I realized that my wish would never come true. I was being naïve.
I gave up on stars and fountains and birthday candles.
I resigned to my fate on the ground, and adopted a love for walking instead. At least I was going somewhere; at least the scenery was changing. I bought a convertible so that I could always have the wind in my face. I accepted that my dream was impossibility, although now I realize that even in the midst of disappointment, a tiny voice inside of me insisted quietly: improbability.
Truth be told, I think I could never quite let go of that yearning for the wind in my face and the world waving to me from all four horizons. I definitely tried. I stuck it on a back shelf in my mind, let it bathe in dust. Every time I would go in there looking for something I would notice it and jump, startled into yearning all over again. Quick, shut the door, latch it closed before the tears can fall, breathe a sigh of relief and try not to go back there again if you can help it. There’s nothing more painful than a dream you can never touch and hold.
And here I am, staring up at this hawk, watching it take for granted the world in which it lives every day – the world for which I reach, and return each morning with empty palms. I try to slip between the feathers and settle inside of his skin, gaze out at the world through those shrewd yellow eyes. For a moment, we are one, and I am looking down on my head, a brown speck in a fenced in square of dusty land, far below.
Then it is over, and I am me again, looking up into nothing but blue. Maybe if I imagine hard enough, gravity will shift upside-down, and I will fall into the sky. I hope, halfheartedly, for a second.
No luck. Hope drifts away on a breeze, carried off to someone else for whom it might serve better.
I dug this dusty old poem of mine out of my writing folder not to long ago and it made me smile. It’s just me trying to figure out me. It’s imperfect, but I kind of like it that way.
For so long, I’ve been reaching.
Stretching, straining, groping —
Fumbling in the dark;
Fingers closing on nothing.
For so long, I’ve been sculpting.
Stretching, flexing, molding —
Carefully creating forms;
That in the end, resemble nothing.
My imagination has long been this curse,
Tormenting me with things that cannot be.
It is not fair, that I cannot make my life
Resemble all of the wonderful ideas
That I have for it.
I am a parent, with years of experience
Convinced that I know what is best;
I know how things should be.
And my life is my child,
Damn you, imagination!
If you did not torment me with your
I would never know
What I am missing out on.
I was lying on the ground,
Envisioning all of things that
Would probably never come,
Lost in a dream of maybe
When it hit me.
The gift of my imagination
Is that so much of it
Never will be.
This long lamented curse
Is actually a boon;
Only I did not have eyes to see.
While my experiences may forever thwart me,
My imagination will be eternally loyal.
Whenever things do not go
According to carefully laid out plans,
When life does not live up
To my mightily important ideals —
All I need do is close my eyes,
And everything I have ever wanted
In the middle of a dream
To discover you are still dreaming,
The lucid can choose a new path.
I can close my eyes, and choose
Or ten outcomes,
Each better than the last.
In my mind, I can have
A perfect experience.
And even if I open my eyes,
And the world around me
Looks nothing like I want it to,
I can close them again whenever I want.
I do not ever need to force an experience of
I don’t need to cling desperately to desires
Or hopes, or wishes
That only fill me with sadness and frustration.
The stars in the sky can go on extended vacation —
I do not need them to hang around
While I ask them to fulfill my requests.
I can simply dream
And find deliciousness in dreaming.
For in dreams, you can do anything.
There are no rules, no boundaries —
Not a single limitation to speak of.
Forget about it.
Every imperfection is smoothed over,
Every frustration dissolved.
Every whim can be lived out,
Sampled and tasted and savored.
And when you open your eyes,
You no longer resent the imperfections,
Or the frustrations.
You appreciate them,
Because they give you more reason
I’m not sure I can put my finger on the domino that fell first in the line, but somehow over the last six months I have been experiencing a shift. It started with being periodically attacked with severe bouts of social anxiety and depression; worse than I’d had in years. At times, it was so crippling that I felt certain I was going to drown inside of my own mind. For a while, I couldn’t exercise. I had nothing that I wanted to do and I couldn’t motivate myself to be active. I felt lethargic, depressed, tired. I would exercise whenever I could make myself, but it was forced, and I was easily deterred. But this year I started exercising a lot more consistently, and it’s been the best possible thing that could have happened to me.
There is a gym in our complex; and while I loathe gyms, I love running on the treadmill. I put on my headphones and tune out the world and just run without stopping, sometimes for an hour straight. It is better than any therapy I’ve ever had. I get uninterrupted thinking time to process all of the insanity floating around in my brain, all while the while pummeling it with endorphins, and I gain clarity. When I’m at my worst, it helps me to not feel quite so bad. When I’m feeling down, it lifts my spirits. And when I am middle of the road, it makes me ridiculously happy. Things tend to come into focus while I run, and my body feels clear and free. Some days I just feel like I could keep running forever. Those are the BEST days.
Anyone with bad anxiety will tell you that they know that what they feel is illogical, yet they can’t help themselves from being so caught up in it anyway. It consumes you in such a way that you don’t feel free. In many ways, you really aren’t. So all of the therapy in the world that tried to bring attention to the fact that the anxious thoughts were unrealistic didn’t do me an ounce of good. “Yes, and…?” Was the response I had to this approach.
When I am in a really dark place, I am absolutely convinced that I am a terrible, unlovable person that has no purpose and doesn’t deserve to be alive. It’s that extreme. I find myself looking at things that have happened to me, and am able to find endless evidence to support this bleak and dystopian view of myself. I make the most convincing arguments against my worthiness, and I believe them.
When I’m in a good place, I feel almost healthy and normal. I drive around everywhere with the music blasting on my stereo, singing along at the top of my lungs, I have comfortable conversations with strangers, and I’m able to be myself around people and enjoy it. I’m at peace with the fact that I’m the odd duck that doesn’t fit anywhere. I feel inspired, and hopeful, and I’m kinder to myself. I don’t beat myself up for the fact that my brain only remembers song lyrics and refuses to hang on to a single useful fact. Suddenly all of the evidence supports the opposite of what I had convinced myself of before. I see that the anxiety and depression are mud-colored glasses that completely distort everything around me. I wipe the mud off, and life returns to normal.
The most interesting thing about swinging so sharply back and forth between the lows and highs in shorter periods of time is that it has brought attention to my thoughts in a way that I never could through sheer willpower alone. It’s a little jarring to believe one day that you are the scum of the universe and then the next day believe you are actually kind of awesome in your own way — with no good reason to switch between the two. This alternation has been disorienting to my brain, and it’s allowed me to pull a little further outside of myself to a higher vantage point. The lows feel like they’ve shifted, and they aren’t quite so… real… any more.
And then I realized something that I thought was interesting. That piece of me that is a lawyer at heart and can argue any side of a debate, that is sensitive and both empathic and empathetic and seeks to understand people and walk in their shoes, the writer in me — that is the same piece of me that is also the voice of my anxiety. It gets out of control and starts spinning this dark, glittering story that’s highly plausible and feels impossible to look away from. I am always telling people that the thing that feels like your biggest curse is often your greatest gift in disguise, and here is perfect evidence of that. The part of me that causes my terrible anxiety is the very same part of me that sees the world in this utterly singular way, that allows me to connect more deeply with people. It is something I would never trade away, even if it meant losing the anxiety forever. I will keep this double-edged sword. I am finally getting better at wielding it.
My belief in my own self-doubt is the only thing holding me back. I cling to it like a life preserver. Yet just now I’m shaking my head, coming out of a dream, realizing the life preserver is actually an anchor and it’s dragging me down while I struggle to stay afloat.
Just because I sometimes let fear get the better of me doesn’t mean I am not also sometimes courageous. It never ceases to amaze me how when it’s something I really, really want, I can push myself through a sickening sea of extremely dark negative thoughts in order to put myself there. I’ve been wearing all of these expectations that others have of me like they are actually a part of me, thinking I have to take on every single thing. But I can’t do that. When I spread my energy too thin I wear myself down and spin my wheels. If I save my energy for the things that matter most, I can do anything.
I’ve been struggling with feeling directionless lately because I’ve been pulled creatively in about ten different directions at once. I have more ideas than I know what to do with, and more than a dozen dreams that I’m in love with. And because I create best when I follow the inspiration and allow it to pour out of me unhindered, I find myself jumping from project to project. It takes me forever to finish these projects (at least it feels that way to Miss Impatient Me) but I do eventually get there. I’m getting close to putting a box around my latest project and getting ridiculously excited to share it. But it’s not quite done yet so I’m going to try not to get ahead of myself. (Really… SO FREAKEN CLOSE THOUGH! The anticipation is killing me.) I have learned the hard way how important it is to wait until projects are actually ready before you share them. It’s worth taking the time to make them as good as you can without being such a perfectionist you get stuck in revisions forever. Patience, Tien-san.
The journey of life is very much like putting together an oversize jigsaw puzzle without ever seeing the front of the box. For a long time, you’re grasping at pieces, trying anything to see what fits. You have no idea what your goal is or where you’re going, just a blind faith that eventually some of the pieces will fit together and start to make sense. Over the years, they kind of begin to; but you still have no idea what the final picture will look like. Then one day you somehow manage to put a whole bunch of pieces together at once and a great number of things come sharply into focus. It’s been so slow in coming that all at once it seems like you can see the whole picture. It takes a while before the glow fades and you realize that it may be a big piece, but it’s not the whole puzzle. There are still more pieces that are missing. So you keep sorting, testing, searching. And then one golden afternoon you look down at the sheet of paper that came with the puzzle and realize that it says “Infinite piece jigsaw puzzle”.
It’s never, ever going to be finished. And the moment you stop fighting with that fact, the puzzle becomes a lot more fun. You realize that every single day you get to add your own brand-new pieces to it — and the picture will continue to become what you choose for it to be.
You will hurt. Parts of you might never stop hurting. But you don’t have to let yourself be defined by those hurts. They are not all that you are. That pain gives you the gift of a deeper, richer, and more fulfilling joy than you can possibly imagine. It starts with deciding to love yourself exactly as you are — millions of flaws and all, imperfections that stick like needles — not with the expectation that you have to act or behave a certain way to be a lovable person. You decide to forgive yourself for the things that feel unforgivable. You are lovable, even if you don’t always feel that way.
Today I feel the most incredible sense of peace I have felt in a long, long time. I’m a highly imperfect person, filled to the brim with flaws and fears and regrets. And you know what? I’m also fucking awesome. It’s amazing how much fear I have to say that. I’m like, “if I say that does that make me vain?” It’s a very tight shoe for someone that has spent her life feeling inferior in just about every way. But no — there’s not a damn thing wrong with me saying hey, there are probably a lot of people out there who don’t like me for one reason or another. They perceive me negatively for whatever reason. But those people don’t get to define who I am. Don’t I deserve to finally know for once what it feels like to actually really like who I am? Why does my insecurity get to be the box I hide myself in forever?
It’s such a peaceful feeling to own your power. No, I’m not going to set myself up for the expectation that I can live in that 24/7. But when I’m connected to my own heart and I say to myself I’m going to love you, Tien, even when you fall on your face, well… I feel like I can do anything.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” – Hemingway
Well fuck you, too, Hemingway. I’m not quite sure why you think it’s so easy to sit down and put words to your deepest and darkest thoughts, but if I had to hazard a guess I would say that if you think there’s nothing to it, then you aren’t truly bleeding.
I certainly don’t find it easy to do so. They say that it isn’t worth writing about if it doesn’t scare you shitless, so by that reasoning, I must have a lot of things worth writing about. Everything seems to scare me shitless. Especially these days. You can’t do anything without someone having an opinion about it and I’ve never been very good at not caring about what other people think. I have this frustrating need inside of me to be liked by everyone, so I doom myself to failure by default.
I don’t want people to see me as rude, or angry, or stupid, or cold, or weird, or embarrassing, or dorky, or deluded, or bitchy, or overemotional, or uninformed, or untalented, or scared, or inferior in any way.
Why am I so scared of being all of these things? Is it maybe… because I am all of these things?
I’ve dedicated my life to fighting against all of those aspects of myself that I don’t like, because I don’t want to take on all of those labels. I’m afraid that if I let them too close, admit that maybe they belong to me, they will completely overtake me and that is all I will ever be.
What utter insanity.
Everything in life is dualistic in nature; light/dark, inner/outer, hot/cold, pleasure/pain, everything/nothing. There can’t be one without the other. So why would I expect myself to be any different than the world around me?
I cannot be only a rude person or only a kind person; I am both. I can be either smart or stupid, depending on the moment. I am both ugly and beautiful. Generous and greedy. Free and caged. I cannot be anything without also being the opposite. The right half of my body has been running from the left and I’m finally standing here, out of breath, realizing that both sides are attached to each other and I wouldn’t even be able to run without both of them.
It’s okay if sometimes I do things, and other people never understand why. I cannot stop being half of who I am. I cannot be a bad person without also being a good person, too.
The same goes for my emotions. I’ve spent my life trying to cure myself of my social anxiety. I chastise myself endlessly when I lose my temper. I feel guilty when I have a depressed day. I hate myself for wanting things I think I can’t have, I’m always trying to meditate my way back to serenity, and I hit myself over the head internally with logic when I feel illogical emotions, even though I know it serves no purpose other than to make me feel terrible about myself.
I realize now that sometime long, long ago, back before I can even remember, I bought into this idea that I’m sick and I need help; that I’m broken and if I can just figure out how, I will find a way to fix myself and become the happy, free person I’ve always wanted to be. The person I already know that I am, that is just covered up sometimes.
The mistake that I keep making is to think that I can leave half of myself behind. I will always be both caged, and free. And I will continue to fluctuate between those emotions that I put in a row and label “good” and those emotions that I kick into the corner and try to cover up and hide and mutter “bad” under my breath so that no one knows I have them.
Maybe the problem I have with my emotions is the same problem that we all have with other people. Why do we have to label everyone and categorize them? Why is she only a bitch and not also a human being? Why can’t a badass also be a sweetheart? That guy who seems like an unfeeling robot is probably also tormented somewhere deep inside, tucked away. And yes, even the nicest person you know can become irate under the right circumstances.
Why do we as a society feel so compelled to sweep the “bad” emotions under the rug? When someone cries, we rush to comfort them and try to make them feel better. When someone is upset, we try to calm them down. Why can’t we ever just let people feel what they are feeling, without trying to fix or change them?
I’m not talking about drowning in misery forever and ever, I’m talking about this need we have as human beings that the moment someone switches from “good” to “bad” to try to run over and drag them back as fast as we can, as if it’s some kind of disease we don’t want them to catch.
And along that same line, I am so sick and tired of spirituality being equated to serenity and peace. Blissing out all the time sounds an awful lot to me like being sedated. Why is this always the goal of spiritual practice, hell, in many ways, the goal of everything we do? Everyone is so obsessed with being happy and staying positive and looking for the silver lining — and don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say that any of those things are inherently bad. They are important. But why do we constantly try to negate everything else — especially to each other?
“Come on, it’s not that bad. You just have to look on the bright side.” It’s a subtle comment, and something we probably hear often, in so many words. “You shouldn’t be worrying about that. Pull yourself together. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
The problem with any of these sentiments, however well-intended, is that we are subtly saying that our feelings are not valid, and we need to fix them and cover them up and feel better quickly. Now yes, there does come a point during self-sorrow at which we sometimes need someone else to help pull us up out of wallowing so that we can see things for what they are. But let’s be clear: most of the time that we make these statements, that isn’t the case at all. As a society, we habitually tend to jump far too quickly to soothing and smoothing the moment we smell sorrow or anger. We want to calm and quiet and offer solutions on how to fix the problem or feel better.
The so-called spiritual variation of this tendency feels like a more entitled version of the same, with just a splash of disguised gaslighting, even if it isn’t intended that way by the person who says it. “You don’t have to be a victim to your emotions. You need to focus more on what you are thankful for.” While these are all wonderful truths that are rooted in ideologies that can help us tremendously, I feel like they are used out of context far too often. We’ve been taught to believe that to feel pain or anger or sorrow is unspiritual, and that if we give into it for too long we are weak and unevolved.
This way of thinking is completely backwards. It is our pain and our sorrow, our fears and our hungers, that make us inherently human. There are so many gifts in our struggles. Without them, we can never truly experience freedom.
As an artist, my purpose in life isn’t just to feel joy and pain, but to feel them both deeply, and to express them in only the way that I can. If I can learn to embrace my “bad” emotions, and find a way to love them even as I hate them, I might just discover peace within the heart of chaos.
Many years ago on Mother’s Day, I wrote this poem. Today I decided to pull it out, dust it off, and share. I’m feeling thankful to have another Mother’s day with all three of these amazing women in my life.
Some girls, they never know their mom —
They never get the chance.
They lose her early on in life;
It’s just the circumstance.
Some girls they have a mom that hurts,
That teaches her to fight —
She grows up only knowing
How to argue every night.
Some girls, they have a lovely mom
Who’s there through thick and thin;
She’s there to hold her hand through
Every loss and every win.
But me, I have a special mom,
A mom that’s very rare.
I have not one, but three great moms
Each one beyond compare.
First, there’s Granny Mo, you know,
The sweetest mama bear:
She’s the one in all the world
Who’ll always be right there.
Without this special woman
And the choices that she made,
We wouldn’t all be here now
And this family would fade.
Grandma, you’re the world to me —
You are my lucky star,
You’re my cheese and pickled onions
And my favorite cookie jar.
Next of course, there’s Mary;
Of you I’ll always boast.
You make me feel so welcome
You’re the hostess with the most.
Whenever I’ve been struggling
And life becomes a strain
You never stop encouraging
Me to work through all my pain.
I always feel supported
And loved when you’re around
You’re one of the best friends in life
That I have ever found.
And then of course there’s you, Mom,
You’re like no one else I know;
You never seem to cease from
Always helping me to grow.
I always felt encouraged
To just be myself and do
The things that make me happy,
And to find my own world view.
You raised me to be strong
And to hold my head up high;
You handed me the keys to life and said,
“You go and fly.”
Thank you each for helping me
To come out of my shell,
And thank you, too, for loving me even
When I didn’t excel.
Thank you three for listening
When I was full of qualms
I owe my heart to each of you
My three amazing moms.
Together you have painted
With your brushes on my life
Splattered vibrant colors gently
With your palette knife.
Together, you’re the world to me
The lens that I see through —
It’s clear to me that moms like mine
Are far between, and few.
I thank you all, my three moms
From the bottom of my heart;
Because of you my canvas has
Become a work of art.
One afternoon many months ago, I was going on a long walk in suburbia when I passed the elementary school. As I walked by I heard the shouts and laughter of the kids playing in the field. I don’t know if it was recess or P.E.; the majority of the kids were involved in a soccer game. But not everyone.
There were three little boys who looked to be about six playing off to the side, away from everyone else.
Two of the boys were fighting with imaginary swords, slashing and thrusting and parrying with unusual dexterity. They were so believable in their parody that I swear I could see the invisible swords clashing and clanging against one another as one boy drove the other back. They moved together as one, not pretending, not holding empty air — but actually engrossed in a spectacular show of swordplay. For the briefest of moments, I stepped into their world and they reminded me that it still existed. It’s amazing how much magic disappears from the world as you age, unless you really make a strong and concerted effort to hang onto it and treasure it. But it’s hard. Agreeing on one all-powerful reality becomes more important. We forget that reality is only powerful because it is subjective.
The third little boy that had disengaged himself from the soccer game was sitting alone under a tree, building a lopsided mud castle. I thought to myself, that was me. Forever the loner, I always wandered far off from all the other kids, lost in a fantasy world where the school no longer even existed. That tree off in the corner of the field? That’s where I spent all of my time. For a blessed twenty minutes I could pretend that the teacher wouldn’t be calling me back into hell where I had to sit quietly and write things I didn’t care about on paper for the rest of the afternoon. I had fresh air and blue sky and a million different worlds I could visit where I could meet all kinds of strange people that didn’t judge me for being different or try to tell me what to do. I could be anyone, do anything, go anywhere.
I’m still a dreamer. But I miss the dreams that I used to have when I was younger; they were so much bigger, so much less limited, so much more real.
It was nice to get a brief window back into that world. It reminded me that there are still areas in which a person should never have to grow up — and imagination is one of them.
I’m so excited to share this video! Earlier this year, I wrote, illustrated, and published a children’s book, “Festerfarkle the Frogdragon” under my pen name. Now I’ve created a narrated animated video on YouTube for kids and families to enjoy.