Graveyard Shift

 

1.

He stood out front of my store, not begging, but selling his art to every customer that I greeted—meaning, every one—asking prices far too low: he only wanted enough to buy a bed for the night. Never asked anything from me, never even came in my store except for water. Never showed me his art, so I was acquainted only through the customers that glowed over it, saying $5 wasn’t enough, that someone needs to find him and make him something more than this. Each drawing like a leaf’s crunch underfoot hoping instead to be a thunderclap.

2.

She had come in every night, shiny blue debit card in hand, but one that never behaved. Never slid quite right. She’d come in wanting only something to quench her endless thirst, I’d cringe as she came up to the counter. Knowing. Beep. “Your total is $1.01.” Swipe. “I’m sorry ma’am, declined,” and she started to cry. She’d ask if she could try again, and I’d let her. And behind the counter I’d quietly slide my card instead. Watch a hopeful smile appear on her face: “Did it work?” she’d ask. I nodded. She smiled.

3.

The old man told me his story. The reason why he was sitting outside my store—3am drinking coffee, asking for change. “Needed out of his family,” he’d said; bought a bike, joined the carnival, never looked back. “But life is not kind to those who run,” he’d said. But same bike, 10 years, 20 years later, and there he was. In front of my store. He told me about the time he’d let a 3-year-old on a spinning ride, parents’ (and bosses’) permission, and how he’d watched as that child grinned so big that the world made sense.

To the Mug of Tea I left on the Kitchen Counter this Morning as I Rushed Out the Door Attempting to be on Time for Work

Oh tea, I felt such sadness
upon realizing that I had left you,
in all your warmth, sitting there
in my backpack-beaten travel mug
on my sticky kitchen counter, just waiting
to be enjoyed by someone like the busy
person that I call myself. To you, oh mug
of delicious warmth, tell me that you
understand when I tell you that I
did not mean it. That I had every intention
of consuming every last drop of you—cheap
black tea and heavy cream—you wanted
to fuel my day and I just left you
waiting.

A One Sided Conversation with the Cosmos in my Mother’s Garden

The pink flowers in my mother’s garden gaze up at me—tissue paper petals delicately attached to the feather greens beneath them. Scattered in the flower bed—I wonder of their namesake, how do these look like stars? The cosmos spread out above me, so vast, so complex, so… not the tiny rosey flowers in front of me. I suppose I could do some research. Find out what this all means. But I fear that would spoil the fantastic mystery of it. These cosmos, not like The Cosmos, so rooted, and limited, and humble. So fragile. Are these flowers, like their siblings, also ever expanding? Explosive? Made of light? Capable of extreme darkness?

The thought is frightening.

A Self-Portrait from the Road While Driving

[928-RFUT] Wisconsin sits in the worn out seat, mid 20s with her
significant other in the passenger seat holding a map with a confused
look on his too-young face. It seems she doesn’t know just where it is
that she is going, or what road it is that she needs to take to get there.

[240-AATS] Florida has the back seat packed to bursting with canvases,
and painting supplies; she can not see out her back window or rear-view
mirrors but surely she is going somewhere worth uprooting for, somewhere
better than wherever it is she is coming from.

[745-DRA] California is pulled off onto the side of the road, a DPS officer
pulled off behind her, lights spinning brightly, her head pressed against the wheel
knowing that she can’t afford one more ticket, knowing that this just might be
the shout that causes the avalanche.

[202-CIH] Washington’s car sports a dirty green paint job as a an older woman
squints out the windshield, her shoulders tense, seemingly nervous, seemingly
unsure of where she is going— seemingly unsure if she still wants to get there.

[433-SKAF] Texas is driving slowly and holding up traffic out of fear of sliding
on rain drenched roads while her daughter sits in the back seat sound asleep
and so peaceful, her toy dog slowly falling out of her small blanketed lap, a few
small boxes with worn out clothing and dingy toys packed in the back, and a blank
slate laying on the stained passenger seat.

[292-IND] North Dakota is speeding down the highway and jerking the wheel—
she’s going all over the road, over white and yellow lines—becoming a hazard
to herself and to all the other drivers on the road as they blare their horns
in frustration and anxiety.

[409-OTW] New York has just run off the road, the U-haul behind her broken
open like a fresh egg, its contents scattered in the median while blue and red lights
warn the others of danger—everything she ever owned spilled out onto the dry unforgiving
New Mexican ground, and a mindset stuck in new beginnings.

Tell Me

I will not be defined
by my body. See these
stretch marks, see
these scars, the way my body
has shaped itself–
the folds of skin
around my waist–the tissue
upon my chest
does not make me more,
or less, human. Take your
cat calls–I do not
want them; take your gaze.

Knowing this body
is not knowing me–
so do not tell me
about my thighs, do not
tell me about the shape
of my waist, tell me
I am strong
hearted, tell me that I
am undeniably
complex.

Tell me that I am more
than the sum
of all my imperfections.

Home: An Entry From the Trail (9 September 2014)

What I love about Arizona is… it feels like home. The sound of the wind singing through the pines calms my soul, and the cackle of coyotes in the distance brings a smile to my heart. Those little tricksters singing their songs once the sun has set.The footprints on the trail comfort me–remind me of childhood, of adventures previously had, and of adventures yet to come.

This is home.

Home feels like cicadas and cacti; junipers and pine needles; sandstone and creek water. And though I never found this type of home in my home town, here I feel it–with the mountains spreading out before me in the distance and my now dirty hair being blown around in the wind: I feel it–a sense of complete belonging. Step by dusty step, and as clear as the blush on my cheeks after an hour of hiking, it’s there.With roots going back for years and new ones being made at every trail-head, I find myself whole and comfortable.

With the sun warm on my feet, my face, I’ve found home in the desert with the wrens and the manzanita. A deep home. A soul home.

All my life I’ve struggled with things deeper than myself–with depression, with anxiety–and I’m tired of holding that in. As the pines sway I will try to as well. Like an un-eaten acorn on the forest floor I will hope to grow into a mighty oak, so stable and strong that nothing can move me.

‘Cause it smells like home here.

Like safety. Like forgiveness. And like the buzz of a honeybee near my newly opened ears, I listen for a future here.

For some sign of hope.

For some sign that this is it.

A Reflection on Purpose in 8 Parts

1.

“Life lesson No. 15: Do what you love…” it says, in pink and white–a rule for life. A graduation card from a dear friend from which I had lost touch. The words inside forgotten, being framed for so long, but the meaning remains. Do what you love. No why, no how, no when, just do it. And though it’s not a Nike slogan, it is as good in my eyes. Be the little girl that twirls like a ballerina on the kitchen floor. Be the little girl that skips off the path and scrambles up the rocks beside it, not caring what others are thinking.

 

2.

I ask myself, what would Miss Holly Golightly do? Where would she go, had she any choice? With her head held high and her shoulders thrown back, she’d rule any room she strolled in to. She’d follow her heart (and the money) wherever it went. She’d live her life to fullest. She wouldn’t let anything stop her.

 

3.

“Serenity”. A state of being calm, at peace, and untroubled. A state of being the opposite of the way my mind naturally finds itself. A state of being… here. And the name of a ship full of outcasts taking their own route out.

 

4.

She says, “I love you this much”, holding up her hands to measure. Or, maybe, telling a story about that one time when something crazy happened. I’m not sure anymore. Her eyes wide with wonder, she narrated a story only she could tell–the moment captured forever.

 

5.

“Walk with the dreamers, the believers, the courageous, the cheerful, the planners, the doers, the successful people with their heads in the clouds and their feet on the ground.” ~Wilfred Peterson

 

6.

Yellow. Black. White. The number 428. A reminder that I am capable. A reminder that in July 2014 I did a 10k with my mom. A reminder that my body is not a steal cage from which nothing can be done. A reminder and proof that “I can do it”, even when they tell me that I can’t. Even when I tell myself that I can’t. A reminder that I am strong, and even though my DNA sometimes is not. And that I come from strength, that I’m the daughter of a woman who fought an incredible war with cancer and came out on top. A reminder that anything is possible.

 

7.

“I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it.” ~Audrey Hepburn

 

8.

A small note from the group on day 21 of backpacking, “Lindsey you are incredibly strong”. Words that I often need to hear, so I framed them on the wall. A physical token from a journey I thought impossible, but completed anyways. Do not tell me my body is not enough; do not tell me it is not healthy and that I need to change. 21 days with a heavy pack and worn out boots, and I made it–my body did not give in.

Neither did I.

Why I Write…

To sit down and ponder over what it is that drives me to write is something I find maddening. It’s one of those things that you feel like you should be able to do with ease, and then you sit down to put down the words and you freeze. That being said, I’d like to believe that my inability to pinpoint the reason is because there is an abundance of them, and because I have been writing for as long as I can remember. It’s always just been something that was a part of me, and something that I wanted to do ever since I was little. I was a shy kid, and still am, and it has always been so much easier for me to sit down and write out what I need to say instead of vocalizing it.

I guess you could say that I write because even though in the world I seem powerless when it comes to change, I can sit down at my writing desk and I can create a whole world that is running at my every command. In my world I have the power of birth and of death, and the power to make anything happen. You can’t find something like that in real life. Similarly to why so many people love to have their noses stuck in books, I love to have my nose stuck deep in my laptop where the lands of my imagination lie. It’s easy to start and to just get lost in the way it feels to have a world of your own at your finger tips and under your finger tips as they strike the worn out keys.

Things weren’t always easy for me, I will say that. I developed social anxiety at a young age, and have always had problems making friends. All through school I spent most of my time a lone among crowds, and that saddened me for a long time until I realized that I could create friends of my own through the words that I wrote. With that in mind, years of school went by and I was doing okay. For a few years I forgot about my written friends, and I abandoned any thought of writing for real. High school came along, and I stuck to the social norm, and I tried to make friends but got mixed in with the wrong type of people. I spent a year of high school crying in the bathroom when I got home from school. After that I spent a year hiding in the library at lunch time and talking to no one. September the next year came along and someone announced on the intercom that the school was forming a club for National Novel Writing Month. I was skeptical, but remembered how comforting words had been before, I signed up, and I fell in love with writing all over again that November, along with the smell of sugary iced tea at 3am, and midnight snacks as the sun peaked over the mountain beside my house. I knew after I wrote those 50,000 words that it was what I wanted to do. It felt so great to just sit back and to have something completed sitting in front of me. I write for that feeling.

And I write to remember, even though my memory is good. I write because I’m afraid of forgetting the details, the fine print that makes some things worth it. What did he smell like, what was the moon like that night, what was the music like and how did it feel to dance on the cobble stone floors? All of the little important details that are vital if you want to bring the event back to life, even if it is just for memory’s sake. He smelled like old spice and cheap shampoo. The moon was smiling a crooked smile my way through the old windows. The floor made quiet sounds under the rubber soles of my sneakers as I spun to Spanish music and the static of the radio, as my heart fluttered so fast that for a while I felt I were flying.

In the fall of 2010 Tolstoy changed my life with the elaborate story of a girl by the name of Anna, and I fell in love with the way Levin loved Kitty. The next month, my life was changed again, but this time with the story of a teenager at a boarding school who fell in love with a suicidal smoker. And again, the next month with a series of books that swept me off onto a pirate ship with a young woman my age who was supposed to be learning to become a lady, but was adventuring on a pirate show instead. These stories inspired me and they took what I thought about good writing and they flipped those ideas upside down. Some of my best memories involve green grass around a sturdy tree, and old book smell. I write because I look up at the stars and see how massive and unexplored it all is, and I think to myself that even though I will never fly in a space ship I can still explore those places on my own.

And I write, simply, because my love for reading stories is dwarfed only by my love for creating them.

Fashion Doesn’t Have a Size

Just because America is in love with cake doesn’t mean that walking into the plus size section of any given department store should consistently result in disappointment for all parties involved. According to the CDC (the Center for Disease Control) in 2013 one-third of U.S. adults are considered to be obese, a percentage that has only grown in the past 4 years. Between the years 1980 and 2010 the number of obese adolescents, people between the age of 12-19, has more than tripled, going from 5% in 1980 to 18% in 2010. This being said, you would think that by now our society would be more comfortable with a little extra padding, or perhaps even that they would of adapted their views of beauty to include those of us that weigh in a little higher on the scale.

If people are statistically bigger this year than ever how can it be that nice “plus-sized” clothing is so hard to find? In a world where the average American woman is said to be closer to a size 16 than to a size 6, it’s amazing how many stores still pretend that bigger people don’t exist or are simply not important to them. In May of this year the lead CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch was even quoted as saying that “his stores don’t sell XL or XXL clothes because fat people are not part of the ‘in’ crowd, nor should they be”, a statement that caused uproar among the “fat” community. But thing is, stores are full of this stuff; a majority of stores in the typical all American mall are places that don’t stock anything bigger than a size 12 or 13—an obvious problem if you recall that the average American woman is closer to a 16, and that a 1/3 of Americans are overweight. Why is it that these places cater to such a small audience? Business wise, this move to exclude such a large portion of the population just doens’t make sense, especially when it wouldn’t take much to include those extra 2 0r 3 sizes in their inventory. So instead of making more sales, these stores force bigger people to go on to the next store down the line in hopes to find something there. The sad thing is, in today’s typical mall scene no matter how many stores a plus size young girl or woman goes in to there is a good chance that they won’t find anything close to their size.

And thing is, size is completely relative. In one store a person may need a size 16, while in another the same person might fit in a size 14, or the other way they might need a size 18. The sizing of clothing largely depends on which store you’re getting it from. While Old Navy considers an a size large to consist of a 40 inch bust and a 32 inch waistline, Forever 21 considers a large to consist of a 38 inch bust and a 30 inch waistline. In thought, 2 inches don’t seem like much. That is until you grab your usual size off the rack and take it to the fitting rooms to try it on only to see that you can’t get the sleeves to fit over your upper arms—2 inches can make a noticeable difference in the way that a piece of clothing fits. A bigger person, such as myself, could go into a store and excitedly see that they carry their size, only to be disappointed in the dressing room.
Sure, in many malls there are now 1 or even 2 stores, such as Lane Bryant or Torrids, that specialize in plus sized clothing, but besides that there’s not usually much to find in the ways of plus sized clothing in that atmosphere. Those places being there is nice and all, until you look at the price tag, as it seems that plus sized clothing is not only harder to find, but much more expensive. Sure, a few stores such as JC Penny’s or Macy’s may have a plus sized section, but often those sections are pushed off to the back or corner of the store where many people may not even notice them. And I’ve found that even if those sections are there, usually they’re catered more to older people than they are to teens or to young women in their early to mid 20s.

Why is it that things are made so difficult for a majority of the population? Not only are larger sizes of clothing not sold in a lot of places, but when they are sometimes they’re as much as twice as expensive. While a dress for a size 12 may cost $40, a very similar dress for a size 18 could cost anywhere between $70-$80. It’s understood that plus sized clothing requires a bit more fabric, but does that extra fabric really add up to $40? The difference between a size 12 and a size 18 is only a few inches of fabric, and though this is a subject that is personal to me, it goes so far beyond that.

Does being a bigger person mean that I’m not allowed to wear nice things or be interested in fashion? Take a look at the runway, or at fashion week. You’ll see women that are “healthy” by society’s standards. These women are often wearing a size 0 of whatever is the latest trend. These women become what young girls and teenagers begin to look up to and want to become. A person can’t help but think that this is the reason why we’re living in a time where eating disorders are more common than ever. According to anad.org (the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders) statistics show that not only is Anorexia the third most common chronic illness among adolescents, but that 25% of college-aged women engage in binging and purging as a weight-management technique. This same site also says that statistically the model body type that was mentioned previously is possessed naturally by only 5% of the American female population. How can these statistics be true and such a large part of our society still maintain the views that it has? Our society overtly promotes an unnatural thin body type, and then turns the other way when it has a negative impact on people.

And why is this such a problem? It’s because the media has begun to teach the younger generations that unless they look like something that just came off the runway, that there’s something wrong with them. Young girls, very young girls, often have very distorted images about what it is that beauty is for this reason. When I was in 4th grade, things were much different than they are for the 4th graders in this year. For me it was immediately strange the moment any kid in your class came to school wearing makeup, because it was a thing that was known to be weird–simply because of the age that we were. 11 and 12 year olds shouldn’t be already feeling that they aren’t beautiful without makeup and fancy clothes. I didn’t have a cell phone when I was that age either, but in this day and age it seems that it is more common for that age group to have cell phones and ipads and fancy things than it is for them to not to. Our society has created new generations of people that are obsessive not only about making sure they have the newest “in” gadget, but they’re this way about the way they look as well. And that’s the only explanation to the ridiculous boom of mental weight related illness from 2008-2013.

As many other mental illnesses, Anorexia is often pushed aside by people as being something that isn’t serious or something that the person suffering from it is just making up as an excuse. Also like other mental illnesses, people that have them are often told to “just get over it”, and that “nothing is wrong with you”. I can’t help but see that society has created this picture of the perfect young woman, and when people can’t live up to that things like Anorexia happen, but when someone needs help for the condition people don’t often openly act supportive. If someone were to say that they couldn’t go to school because they had a cold people would tell them to rest and feel better soon, but if the same person told people that they couldn’t go to school because they were having a triggering day they wouldn’t be given the same response. At least that’s my experience with mental illness. Because it is something that is rooted in the mind, people often see it as fake. And though the mind-set of the society caused this issue, it still refuses to see it as an actual issue.

The last time I fit into a size 6 jeans was never. Growing up I was always considered to be “bigger boned”, and there were many factors growing up that caused me to gain weight, some of which were beyond my control. And this being said, growing up I had issues with self image, as if growing up in this day and time wasn’t hard enough as it is. Everywhere I went there were negative views of bigger people being tossed around; everywhere there were people saying that bigger people needed to go on a diet, or just stop eating so much cake, as if that was the only possible cause for the way that they were. And there I was, 12 years old, overweight, and it wasn’t necessarily because of food, but society somehow made me feel like it was—like it was my fault that my genes weren’t the best. Sometimes a person gains weight because of a health condition; sometimes people gain weight because of their genetic makeup. Of course, society doesn’t consider genetics in its definition of beauty.

I as well as many other people know that being overweight isn’t always because you like food. But I do like food. And I understand that even though my weight gain as a child may not of been in my control, that my health as a young adult is based off of my decisions food wise, and that perhaps I haven’t made the healthiest choices. Though, even with the stigma surrounding it, I don’t see why that has to be such a bad thing. In other time periods bigger women were even idolized, because it was a sign of not only wealthiness, but health–leaving many women now to wish they had been born in a different time period, one where paintings were created in honor of big beautiful people.

That being said, if you’re bigger in this society, people don’t seem to think positively about you, and if you develop a mental illness because of these negative thoughts that they direct your way it is ignored. We’re living in an age of media and of technology and of equality in so many other fronts, so why not equality in acceptance of the human body no matter its weight? Why aren’t we seeing average or plus sized models on the runway? Being overweight does not define a person. Thankfully there are numerous ads out right now trying to show people reality, such as the Dove “Love Your Body” campaign. ANAD also has several fliers on their website that they encourage people to print and post everywhere they think they’ll be seen. These fliers include messages such as “Worth can’t be measured by the size of your waist, because character and capacity for love doesn’t come in sizes”, and others drawing attention to how unrealistic advertising images can be and explaining what ANAD is.

There are entire blogs dedicated to this topic of self love on the popular social media platform Tumblr, such as beautyhasnobmi.tumblr.com and practice-self-love.tumblr.com. These sites frequently post pictures of “bigger” girls wearing fashionable clothing and looking fabulous in it. It’s all about body positivity, and though the movement on that site is only small, it is still a movement. And I can only hope that before too long the rest of our society will be able to embrace this same state of mind. And maybe before too long we’ll start seeing move fuller figured women walking the runway along with the thinner ones. Yes, there are sometimes some medical complications and risks that come with having a little “more to love” as some people say. But as a person with a BMI that classifies me as obese, I can say that I am still healthy. And even if I do decided to change my eating habits and lose some weight, that doesn’t mean that I hate my body the way it is. The want to change isn’t always motivated out of hate, and that is something that is often wrongly assumed. You can have a want to live a healthier life without despising who it is that you currently are. And trust me, I know. Because yes, I’m overweight, but I’m happy with who I am physically.

I just wish that the same could be said for so many other young girls and women my size that have been taught to think differently by the media.

A Memory and A Moment in Time

IMG_20140619_114743_372

 

Last August I met my long distance boyfriend in person for the first time ever while looking out at this view. We were both too nervous to look at each other (or touch each other, for that matter!) so we just stood there and looked out at the trees. “That sure is a lot of trees,” he said. And I agreed, “it sure is”.

As simple as the moment was, it was immensely special, and it was something we teased each other the rest of the time he was here. I had been with him for over a year at the time, and it had felt like I had waited forever to finally be able to meet him, but there he was. Him and I were nearly inseparable, even with all the miles between us. We knew each other better than a lot of people do, and I believe that whole heartedly.  True love is something that can be extremely rare, but I felt it when I spoke to him and in all of the words and gestures that he gave me. All the pieces just fit. 

That being said, I can not say that I know him anymore.

As it turns out, stuff happens and people grow apart.

~~~

11 months ago I stood at this point looking out at the Mogollon Rim, and though I was uncomfortable in my own skin, I felt a happiness of sorts and felt the warmth of love inside my heart. There is a well known term that says that, “Love is blind”; when you love someone you tend to look past their hamartias. And that’s the way I was with him.  I didn’t realize how truly unhappy I really was.

And I forgot to watch out for myself.

Chris had a big heart and an even bigger smile. I memorized the way that he walked, and every last pitch of his voice: his laugh, his whine, his frustrated growl. I know he would never of hurt me on purpose, I’m sure of that. But when it came down to it, I did get hurt. A relationship is about two people working together, and this one was dependent almost fully on me. Towards the end it was far from healthy–even with apologies, harsh words still leave deep scars.

~~~

Ever since it ended, I have tried to look at the positives. And though it was hard to see through the panic attacks and depression and all of the scar tissue, I’ve come to the point now, 5 months later, where I  can see the good in the what happened.

I believe that every person that comes into your life is there for a reason. Looking back, I realize how much I grew as a person while I was with Chris. He helped me through a lot of hard times, and he showed me what true love felt like–even if it didn’t last. Sometimes relationships are like molds: there temporarily until the shape has been set. That’s what Chris was for me.

And because of that I’ve grown as a person.

~~~

Last month I stood looking out at the Mogollon Rim once again, and I was no longer uncomfortable in my own skin. I took this picture. I felt comfortable. I smiled. I felt happy, and it was a happiness that was not dependent on another person.

I stood there by myself, complete.

By myself, happy.