Ode to the Ignorant

You say you know

A lifetime ago

(And smugly, too)

I thought I knew

A million dry runs in

Technicolor daydreams

Yet unprepared

Caught unaware

I hurtled from the track

In far-flung frenzy

Broken, groping

Faintly hoping

But, oh!

The dark

I emerged

Alive (not fully)

Whole (not really)

Shattered, scattered

Dead and buried in

The new normal

You issue demands

Always needier, ever greedier

And stare through the obvious

With reckless oblivion

Don’t tell me that you know—

You don’t.

Can’t?

Won’t.

Incompatible with Life: A story of hope

Training for Life

Two years ago a postcard advertising a personal trainer certification program arrived in my mailbox. It wasn’t a particularly noteworthy event, except that instead of throwing it immediately into the recycling bin, I held onto it. And began to do a little research into exactly what the certification process would entail. I couldn’t imagine how I would use said credential, yet the idea of adding personal trainer to my resume nagged at me like an itchy bug bite. I mentioned it to my sister…who promptly agreed to enroll in the program with me. After several months of discomfiting study that filled us both with fears of inadequacy, we completed the coursework. All that remained was the certification exam. My sister went first, early in the morning, and I followed suit on the same day, albeit after lunch. We both passed with flying colors. A few months later we attended our first “Fit Fest,” a weekend of workshops meant to build our skills and knowledge. We were at a distinct d...

The Curse of Expectation

I had a disappointment last week. I’d submitted my book to an indie writing contest and the winners were to be notified by Thursday. I didn’t get the notification. It’s not that I expected to win. Wait, scratch that. My disappointment indicates that indeed, on some level, I did expect some kind of recognition. Maybe I wasn’t expecting to take the grand prize, but I was hoping for at least an honorable mention. Acknowledging that was the first step in being able to let it go. Once I recognized my expectations as a cry for validation, I saw them clearly as a self-imposed burden of proof meant to silence the inner critic who keeps raising doubts about my writing talents. My disappointment wasn’t about the quality of my work—it was about my need to prove myself. What I am learning—slowly, painfully, and inevitably the hard way—is that disappointment is an inside job, rooted in my expectation of how the events in my life are supposed to turn out. I keep slapping my preconceived...

Valentine's Day

It's Valentine's Day. My husband is working today, not that we would have had plans to do anything special. It is, for us, just another weekend, simple and ordinary. Both of us are more pragmatic than romantic in nature. The one time I sent Scott a bouquet, he sold it to a co-worker who'd just had a blow-out with his girlfriend and needed a make-up gift. He did take me out to dinner with the proceeds of the sale, but the writing was on the wall. We would not be a couple who showered each other with sentimental tokens of love. My career path into the kindergarten classroom has ensured a steady stream of gifts and goodies, so I haven't missed out. Every year I am inundated with boxes of chocolates and valentines filled with sweet expressions of the undying affection of my five- and six-year-old friends. I rather enjoy this innocent side of the holiday. Racy lingerie and dirty talk are not my forte. Hand-scrawled hearts and messages of unconditional love and accept...

Incompatible with Life

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