About Angela

In my younger years I wrote. I feel like I'd only just begun to exercise that passion when life expected me to become, and I let it. A college student, career woman, wife, mother, small business owner, friend, neighbor. And on. For years I didn't pick up a pen. I was too busy becoming what I thought I should become, in the ways others expected. My heart was overflowing - it was breathing and I wasn't listening. 
About five years ago, I began the process of unbecoming, of shedding the layers of expectation. Of getting lost so I could be found, of asking the right questions so I could find comfort in the being lost. Of just being me. I began to listen to my heart, and I picked up my pen. I am on a journey of self discovery. One of listening to me. One of acceptance. One of love. Welcome, Angela

Seen

he was tall but not too tall,
his lips thin but easy to smile,
deep viridescent eyes set beneath a strong brow,
not brooding exactly,
but very serious,
looking at her with an unexpected sincerity

she’d met him briefly before and seen him around campus over the last few years,
and though she didn’t know him well at all,
this night, she felt a strange pulse of profound recognition

throughout the evening they kept glancing at one another,
their eyes each drawn to the other,
and normally,
she hated being stared at,
but this was somehow very different

it was the oddest, most intense feeling –
she had the sensation that she was being seen,
and she hadn’t even known she’d felt invisible

The Walk

she walked,
the cool morning air overtaking,
waking her lungs,
her feet slapping a predictable rhythm on the uneven concrete,
its percussive resonance a an engulfing metronome clearing all the clutter away,
and she began noticing things

she noticed the numerous lawns and landscapes in various conditions,
the lamenting of the brown patches declaring their unwanted stagnancy,
the vibrant shouting of greens and purples,
the yellows opening their faces to the sun in triumphant hello,
the bright whites in such sharp contrast to it all,
as if unable to conceal their joy

she noticed all the houses she passed,
the worn spots on the front doors from years of seeking entry into something familiar,
all the lives that lived within the many colored walls,
the stories she’d never know

she noticed the moments that passed,
the hands on her watch ticking them by as the world moved past in tiny fragments like a viewfinder,
realizing that so many moments aren’t just moments,
they’re gifts,
and life is a thing to celebrate

Temporary

she sat there
expecting everything to be perfectly clear
she’d done the work before, right?

but all she could think about
was how she never thought
this was going to happen

she had promised herself
she’d never be in this moment again
(nothing tastes as good as skinny feels)
yet, here she was

not at home in her body
overwhelmed by the caustic voices in her own head
not even really occupying her own skin –
she housed herself somewhere else
and she wasn’t even sure where that was

others reached out
reached in
but how can anyone really hug you or reach you
if you have a darkness that stands beside you
like an acquaintance that won’t leave

the ones she loved most reached
and even when she sliced and silenced the voices
there was less and less of her available
no matter how far she dug
and that crushed her

that’s when she finally realized –
she can never really feel at home
in a body she views as temporary

Guilty

I watch her move through the motions,
real emotion wearing a half-mask,
her eyes telling a story that’s never been spoken,
and probably never will,
seventy plus years of doing the next easiest thing,
not necessarily the next right one

it’s such a long road,
pebbles from our shared path littering my own,
and sometimes I feel guilty as hell for just being able to live my life;
there should be a word for this,
the way it feels to steal something that’s already yours

Moments

they’d loved one another for so long,
and sometimes life began to feel a little rote,
but when they came together,
they forgot the lists and routines,
they forgot who they were and what brought them together

but she didn’t forget he was the most trustworthy, honest, and compassionate human she’d ever known,
the reason she could be who she was in every moment

and he didn’t forget she was the empathic fire at his backside,
a simple woman with a complicated heart,
the beating of his own heart

what happened between them was always unexpected;
in these moments a new future opened wide –
a world where anything could happen and nothing was impossible

Metaphors

over nearly half a century,
time had worn her threadbare,
a tapestry of thinning, loosened threads,
mindlessly and obsessively pulled
as was necessary, sometimes her suffering was sad enough to silence the songbirds,
and other times, her joy was a melody others couldn’t help but to join

by now, she is a well-worn weather map of shared existence,
a lightening scorched scattering of scars,
a thunderous rattle of broken bones,
some not quite set right
but the seasons continue to change,
and she still manages to make leaves from nothing,
stretching her tired limbs toward the sky and offering herself bare to the thickening light

how is it, she wonders,
that I’ve become a minstrel of metaphor?
she hates metaphors

does shade have a shadow?
what else do we allow time to hide in plain sight?
why can’t something just be what it is?

if time has shown her anything,
it’s that she doesn’t need to ‘find her voice’,
she’s been forever truth-talking to herself,
and maybe, once upon a time,
she needed you to listen

now, she’s content in the simplicity of the knowing

*In honor of my third anniversary, here’s my most liked post of the last year. As always, I cherish the connection here. Thank you for joining me!

What I’m Made Of

all my life I’ve wondered what’s inside of me,
what I’m really made of

is it all hope-driven gears, creak-cranking,
squeaky with cynical grease?

or is it luminous rays of wonder and awe,
eyes, blinking and seeking love, pure and true?

is it all smoke, a fevered kiln of passing time,
age-dried straw, a mess of flaking atrophy?

or is it a not-so-flash flood, raging, rising,
the result of an aching, beating heart?

is it all waves of water and crackling fire,
opposing forces, one constantly quenching the other?

or do I simply burn for all that I am not,
for all I do not have?

-artwork by my daughter