What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger

There are certain indelible moments in history after which there exists only a distinct and impenetrable "before" and "after." I still remember that bewildering day I went to school having watched the footage of a plane crashing into an office tower flashing across every television station. I remember watching my teachers' ashen faces, their eyes red and swollen, as we sat mostly in silence that day, trying to maintain a pathetic semblance of normalcy. At that age I did not have the maturity to navigate or comprehend what was happening around me but what was apparent to me even then was a definitive sense that an innocence had somehow been irrevocably lost and that going forward things would never be the same. I was right of course and now, some 19 years out from the incident, we still complete the rituals of taking our shoes off for airport security, downing our water bottles hastily before we reach the head of the line to pull out our electronics and toiletries in their miniature TSA approved receptacles.

   
We are witnessing yet another such moment in history with the ongoing COVID 19 pandemic. Likely never before have we experienced such a total upheaval of daily life, the literal shutting down of every aspect of being as we have known it, from our ability to earn a livelihood, worship our higher power as we are accustomed to, source out necessities, or enjoy our leisure. We have lost even those most fundamental aspects of our humanity from the healing power of physical touch to the gentle reassurance of a smile, handicapped as we are by the very masks needed to protect us. 

Early on in the pandemic it was easy to glean hope by focusing on what all we could gain, rather than what we had lost, from this time of forced repose. Families were spending more time with each other, people were cultivating new hobbies and skills, and the interest in physical activity, if nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse to escape the four walls of home, was sky high. Months in however it becomes harder and harder to focus on these silver linings, so far and few in between the ominous and ever-present threat of uncertainty and anxiety without a reprieve in sight. And in true proverbial fashion "when it rains, it pours" as the ugly scourges of racism, bigotry, violence, privilege and inequality all rear their ugly heads.

On this day, whatever number it is of this mess, I have only one message for you all. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger and you all are definitely much stronger than you likely give yourselves credit for. I know I certainly am. Be kind to one another and take care of each other because this is all we've got.

#Pleasedon'thitme

As it has been ages since my last post, I thought I would share something I wrote last year for a writing class. The basic premise of the assignment was to imagine and recreate the final dying thought of a famous celebrity. Although this piece was an utter failure to capture the true cadence and stream of consciousness narration that one would probably experience if one was about to kick the bucket in 30 seconds, the finished product was quite poetic so I share it in the hopes that one will be able to forgive its blatant improbability. Hell, I wish I could be that well-spoken and artistic on my deathbed ;) Another disclaimer: this work is a fictional account, a figment of the imagination of a very bored college senior, so I would greatly appreciate it if I am not targeted in any lawsuits on behalf of the surviving members of the Jackson family.

This Is It [Haha...see how clever I thought I was being right there ;)]

I feel the wind in my face, it blows in gusts, lightly at first and gaining in strength until it seems that the very hair on my scalp will rise up at once and fly away; it is kite weather, and Blanket waits expectantly by the door, spool of thread and jar of glue in his hands; he has puppy dog eyes, just like his sister, and his curious ears are his brother’s too, but that knowing smirk is all his own; it is a smirk from which one could mine the secrets of the universe, but he sports it so rarely I have often forgotten it existed. He stands there now, his feet pawing the ground forlornly while Paris and Prince are already light ages away, their boisterous shouts the most beautiful symphony to my unaccustomed ears; here they are again, enflamed in the searing floodlights of the fluorescent stage, their faces rapturous as the deafening roars of the anonymous crowd rise higher and higher to a feverish pitch, until it morphs into the sickening clang of metal on metal and I can feel the familiar bite of seasoned leather on my back and the mineral bitter of blood on my tongue. It is not a fate I ever wished for them, and yet every bird must stretch its wings and find its own flight, until it comes to roost on welcoming shores. The wind has already caught Paris and Prince, guiding their outstretched limbs, and my only prayer for them is that the gales and gusts are gentle with their trusting, vulnerable selves. The time will come one day when Blanket too will soar, but until it does, we will work on lifting his crepe-paper kite into the air, while we stand awed in its gossamer shadows and it is pierced with light.