Midnight Fight and Morning Run

Gusts of wind whipping ebony curls against my face;

my legs, moving faster than I ordered them to, whipping the pavement into submission;

tears forgotten, are they still falling? drip drop dripping, streaming, escaping against my will;

hiding, escaping, crouching, entombing myself in the darkness -

words forgotten - as I escape the now and try to reach that time:

that time which belongs only to us.

the darkness fades into light as the sun rises on a new day;

a new day bringing it's own heat to warm the ice in my chest

as I run farther and faster, making an attempt at forgetting and trying to forgive,

hoping for resolution, needing a resolution, begging for some resolution

to this never-ending struggle, this repetitious struggle...

will it ever end? How will it end? and if so.... do I want it to?

Out of the Bubble

Except for one sunny beach and the Tennessee Aquariums, I had never left the protective bubble of East Cobb, Marietta. Not until December of my eighth grade year of middle school. In December, I woke up one morning to find a brightly flashing four floating in mid-air. I arrived at school to find an eerily quiet gym, filled to the brim with silent teenagers. The silence was deafening. I saw the usually serene conductor almost fall off the edge. I learned how coffee works wonders.

I fell asleep on a rickety bus to the smell of exhaust, Starbucks, Earl Grey tea, McDonald's, trail mix, Goldfish, and salami sandwiches. I learned about the strength of my stomach.

In the midst of empty airport hallways, I heard gossip, arguments, video games, and blaring MP3's. I could not hear my own thoughts, though I didn't have enough time to think, and had already begun to miss the bubble of East Cobb. Once the plane took off, I heard even more gossip traveling above the noise of jet engines, and the smell of coffee grew tenfold.

Wintry and welcoming were my first thoughts of Chicago. I had never seen such tall buildings, never heard louder street vendors, never had I watched more beautiful street performers. I had never felt more cold, lost, or out of place. I had the best time of my life. I saw clouds that blocked my view of skyscraper roofs. I felt wind whip at my face and snow fall down on my shoulders. I learned that a building has only one correct side; it all depends on the direction of the wind.

I met a Santa Claus with a real beard, a stray dog carrying a steaming hot dog, and a novice bellhop who dragged our luggage up the stairs while flirting shamelessly. I shared a room and, above all, a bathroom with three other girls. I tasted shampoo for the first and definitely not the last time during four minute showers and reminisced about my estranged hairdryer. I learned that wet hair in ten degree weather can almost freeze and easily breaks off.

I ran down thirteen flights of stairs because the elevator didn't work on our floor, barely making the bus on time. I tasted my own sweat, followed by blood trickling from my lips, because I was too stubborn to put on Chapstick.

I saw the guitars of Elvis Presley and Bon Jovi on restaurant walls. I watched our waitress dance the YMCA on our tabletop, while balloons floated down from the ceiling, adding to the oddly suggestive sight. I tasted the greasiest pizza and the thickest milkshake on the face of this planet. I have never had a better meal.

On the way to rehearsals, I tripped on snow. I met a homeless man with a spectacular singing voice. I felt comforting warmth emanating from the second and third Starbucks on the block. During our walks, my fingers bled and I resignedly put gloves on. During rehearsal, my fingers bled and my arms ached, but I happily kept playing until the giant grandfather clock struck noon. I learned that an expensive violin doesn't necessarily make a better violinist.

We went ice-skating and I felt myself glide over ice like my bow glides over my strings. I skated with one of my fellow violinists and felt a pang of jealousy at seeing all of the happy couples skating hand-in-hand while the snow softly fell on the ice. I hoped to join them someday.

I saw a saleslady with one leg in the most ornate mall I've ever set eyes on. I held a diamond necklace the weighed more than I did. I saw hundreds of shoppers pushing overloaded carts vainly hoping to finish their holiday shopping.

I played cards until two in the morning with a throng of unknown girls in our room; our nighttime friendship protected by darkness and then dissolved by daylight. As I tried to sleep, I heard piercing horns blaring and harsh men baiting women and swearing at men on the street. I missed the tranquility of the bubble of East Cobb. The screechy wheel of the maintenance lady's cart passed by our door twice every night and we feigned sleep while the lady in the next room watched Jerry Springer. I learned new words I would never use, not for years.

Though I was glad to be home where there is no wind, no curfew, and no more than one Starbucks per block, I often think back to the excitement of the windy city and the lessons it taught me. I learned that four girls and one mirror don't work well together. I learned eighty-three orchestra students and one restaurant don't mix well. I learned that if we want to experience any life other that life inside the bubble, we alone must take the first step outside.

In the years that have passed since this trip, the East Cobb bubble has been abandoned frequently for many adventures. Thinking on it now, I'd love to return to Chicago someday, to see the rest of this breath-taking country and burst through whatever bubbles I find.

Red Oak

Reliant roots, sturdy, stretching swiftly far and wide

though not too deep. Reaching out

into

my

world: entwining

myself with my surrounding family, e x pan d i ng into my community,

embracing my friends. Absorbing the best of my surroundings,

nourishing my soul and sentience.

Supporting

whoever

needs

it, lending strength

without discrimination.

Scorning the harmful advances of the unworthy.

In this wobbly world, strong roots make for stable footing.

Ardent heart

at the very center.

Enduring, sinewy, and steady.

Supporting what my roots

cannot, ready to cherish and

love

with al it can.

A heart strong enough to stand

on its own

against tempestuous storms

and emotions

yet

delicate

enough to be broken.

Such a sweet

strong

supportive

heart surrounded

by peculiarly hard

and protective

bark.

Particularly beautiful?

In the most conventional ways,

no.

The other trees,

they are taller and shorter, skinnier with slender arms,

they have more delicate branches,

or smooth leaves.

Those other trees are

more common and this one...

This one finds itself overlooked.

Often overlooked.

But someone would like

this individual oak

to see its own beauty,

even if only once in a while.

Those initials carved along

the oak's trunk proving an everlasting

love. Sometimes the oak can,

given enough love.

External internal

eternal beauty.

It can

see.

If only this oak could also see how tall and proud it stands:

bending away from the destructive gales of this changing world;

never yielding or breaking down, always surviving, day after day.

If only this oak would see.