Letting Go

Many things have changed since those days;
The days of wandering around half naked
In the irrigation water across the lawn;
The days of fresh cut grass
And the sound of dad mowing the lawn;
The days of raspberries and jam;
The days of climbing cottonwood trees;
The days of swings hanging from trees by yellow rope;
The days of perfectly lemonade skies
Of rose dusted mountains;
The days when lilac grew
On the fence to the west;
And where southern rock sweetly crept
Out of the doors and windows of the living room.
Those things seize to exist
Except for vivid memories
That cradle my existence in warm palms.

Understanding that change
Is a natural course of life,
Has been harder than doing just so.
It’s letting go of naps in hammocks,
Beautiful balcony views of my world,
Peacocks yelping in the distance,
Fuzzy pink carpet between my toes,
A black dog who was always skin and bones.

It is letting go of balloons docking themselves on the green lawn,
Grizzly beards from daddy,
Handprints in wet cement,
Softball games and raspberry daiquiris,
Camping on the lawn with neighborhood kids,
Blue slides and turtle sand boxes,
Dinner at a round dining room table,
The sounds of dogs barking,
Brick floors, and brown couches.
Sometimes letting go of something passed
Is harder than letting go of an era;
It’s letting go of the ingredients that have created you.

Going Home is Part of the Journey

I made my way through the arroyo near my house. A crevace of nature in the middle of suburbia. I watched my four dogs pounce and prance through the rain water travelling through the sandy canyon. They scampered after birds, sniffed with their noses touching the wet sand. They ran up and down hills and playfully wrestled along the way. It was then when I realized the small but significant similarity between myself and my loyal friends.

We happily enjoyed the autumn air.

When I called to notify them that we were turning around, they happily complied, and headed west with me.

They didn't care that today's journey was half over, they didn't resist the change. They weren't set on any specific direction by which to travel, but were happy to go any which way.

They discovered new things to sniff and see that they missed the first time they passed them.

Going home was still part of the journey. I realized I was quite content myself, with whatever it is that I've been doing. It doesn't matter what. I'm not resisting, but embracing change; reveling in each beautiful moment.

I'm fine on my own.

The Tattered Angel Fish

I got home today and nearly collapsed on the couch.

I wanted to cry as my dog looked up at me, informing me he needed to go out. It was a long day. And sometimes after long days, you need a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and a Marlboro.

I grabbed my dog, and my unhealthy habits, and headed outside. On edge, on the verge of tears.

I went over my hellacious day in my head as I sat at a bench. There was one thing that had me near the "I-need-to-scream-in-my-pillow-or-my-ears-will-start-steaming" type of mood.

A kid at work decided to call me "bitch" at least twenty-five times today. Don't ask me why, because I don't have an answer for you. I was annoyed and have been a little annoyed the past few weeks at work.

Talking to someone who doesn't want to listen to you, is the most exhausting thing you can ever attempt to do. Another exhausting thing that I have found in my line of work is providing something called "support". Especially when it is thrown back in your face on a regular basis.

These are just a couple of annoyances I have discovered at a job that I love. We all have them... even at the jobs we LOVE. And I do love my career, but it's a type of love I'm new to.

I came inside from walking my dog and decided to mindlessly stare at my fishtank. This is something that I do called "zoning out" and I use it as a coping mechanism for stress and boredome. Any way, the fishtank is called a bio-orb and it is round with fluorescent lights, a bubbler and plastic foliage at the bottom.

One of the fish caught my eye. It is a small, black, angel fish with a couple of decrepid bottom fins and feelers. He was kind of swimming sideways like his equilibrium was a little bit off. I have heard this is a sign that an aquarium fish is feeling under the weather. It was no surprise to me that he might be feeling pretty awful.

My mind drifted off to a couple of days ago as I was "zoning out" in aquarium world.

I had noticed that the black angel fish was staying near one of the plastic plants more than usual that day. I screamed for Thomas in horror that the baby angel had his bottom fin and feeler wedged in between the leaf and stem of the plant.

Thomas to the rescue! He worked to wiggle the fins out of the plastic plant cunundrum. In horror, tears welled up in my eyes as I watched him try to set him free. (So, yes I am very sensitive towards fragile, vulnerable things. And yes I suppose I have assumed that the fish is a boy fish). He finally set the fish free and he could barely swim. Then had to drag his adult girlfriendhad away from the fish bowl after about 30 minutes of intently watching the injured little creature.

My mind came back to the present when I had one of those "Ahaa!" moments. I do have a soft spot for the fragile, vulnerable things in this world. That is just part of who I am. My compassion towards my fish, and the disadvantaged kids I work with, are not so different.

The student I was frustrated with is a vulnerable and misled child who cannot be held accountable for the plants that he has been snagged on. His acting out is a side effect of such damaging occurences. So instead of swimming sideways, he shows he is hurt somewhere by displaying erratic behaviors... like calling his authority figure a "bitch".

So I don't get it, but I had a normal upbringing. I am lucky. And I am fully aware that with the luxuries of having a normal childhood, I owe those who didn't; my wisdom, my advice, my supervision.

So maybe the little black angel fish won't make it, maybe he will. Maybe he will recover completely, but there is a chance he might not; that parts of him will never be the same. I have to prepare myself for all of the outcomes. And all of the side effects of his injuries. I have know how much control I have over the situation; and the truth is I can only do my best. I will give him what he needs to survive, but sometimes that won't be enough. I cannot get attached, or I'll never make it out in one piece.

So call me a bitch and I will try to understand where you are coming from. I will try to remember that you are just swimming sideways.

Twenty-something

I feel like something.

I don't necessarily feel conflicted, just out of sync. I feel like parts of me are moving faster than others; like a bicycle with wheels moving at different speeds.

I'm happy. I feel fulfilled. I feel loved.

I feel exhausted.

From trying to establish my career to trying to live up my 20 somethings to the fullest, I am utterly exhausted. I work 12 hour shifts. I wake up at 5 am. I fill my weekends with things I can only get away with at my current age.

Part of me is still very young. I miss my parents. I miss my entire family. I miss my hometown. I still look at the world with the wonder of a child, and I hope that never changes. I hope I always strive to make myself and the world around me happier.


I love my job. I love my boyfriend. I love my apartment and being able to pay my share of the bills. Part of me is not resistant, but unprepared for the adult-ish life I have already taken on. My ambition and work ethic outweigh my ability to manage my adult responsibilities. I don't think I am immature or irresponsible, I just believe I lack certain coping skills that most people have already mastered.

So I guess I missed the training seminar on how to manage money & time/multitask.

And it's hard. But it's amazing.

I feel like I'm doing my small part in improving something great in the world. I have a long road ahead of me. I have so much to learn.

As long as I work and try as hard as I have been doing, maybe my back wheel will catch up eventually.

Maybe someday I'll feel like a real grown up. And even if I don't; as long as I am able to feel how I am feeling now, I'll know I'm doing something right.

Finding "Tasha"

I feel like I am finally getting back to who and where I want to be.

A time not too long ago, I forgot who "Tasha" was. I became someone I do not know. Someone I do not understand. Someone who I do not like, for the past few years. Who I am. That concept has been at the mercy of the people I've surrounded myself with. I've been at the mercy of the person I became, because I thought it was easier to be her. Because I thought, perhaps, they would like her better. Because sometimes being "Tasha" hurts a little too bad.

The fact that "me" is a fluid state, has made it all the more easy to stray from my home base: from my morals, my compassion, my conscience.So I became this person; this woman; that held the ability to adapt to the harsh truths of the world. A woman who faced adversity with an unforgiving spirit. A woman who could do all the things that I wasn't built to. And so wished that I was.

So this new person emerged, and became, in essence, who I could not. She became the protector of the fragile and sensitive person that is Tasha. She was this person that protected "me". A person I became in times of trial. A person I became when being "Tasha" was too painful. A person I became when I was uncomfortable; a person I became in close proximity to vulnerability.

And so she became "me". And "I" became nothing . I sat sheltered underneath her concrete wing, unable to grow, unable to see. She emerged. "I" was able to see this entire new world; a world faced with strength, with shamelessness, with anger, with aggression. And "Tasha" faded away into the background of an unfamiliar world.

The difficulty with becoming someone else for a long period of time, is that you forget who you originally were. I have lost track of the person I was ultimately protecting; I have lost "Tasha".

And I come to that realization.

I know who Tasha is, I just don't remember how to be her.

I'm not mean. I dislike confrontation. My skin is not so thick that no one and nothing can reach in. I'm not her. I'm not her.

So, in this realization, my only hope is that "Tasha" is still in here somewhere. And if she is, I hope that she can forgive me, and who I have become.And so I emerge into this new and terrifying place, as a sheltered and vulnerable version of myself many years ago. And hope that it won't hurt too badly.

I know it won't be easy. For so few people are aware of the beauty and tragedy that this world knows. It's never easy to wear the weight of the world, but a life seeing beauty the way that "Tasha" once did, is one worth living as Tasha.

Disarray

I’ve recently crossed paths with an issue I don’t fully understand; the idea of self esteem; the idea of a positive regard for oneself. The concept does not resonate with me. It is completely unfamiliar, but doesn’t bother me. It is normal; because things in my life are not black and white. It’s not that I lack a certain regard for myself, or dislike who I am. It’s hard to explain. I’m not fully sure who I am. This, what might be seen as another character flaw, does not bother me either. How am I to feel something either way, for someone I do not know? ; Myself.

I’m a person in constant evolution. I’m surrounded by change. How am I to have this personal esteem for myself, when “myself” is an ever-changing concept? My self-awareness is constantly mirrored by the places I see, the people I know and the feelings I experience. My life is a messy art-form; a collage of where I’ve been, interactions, and the things I find beautiful. I am soft clay, being sculpted and re-sculpted by these things. Never satisfied with the current shape; change being necessary. Each form, once completed, evolves into one renewed; different. Maybe one day some form will be who I become; soft clay hardened. But I am still searching for who that is, who I want it to be.

I often think that what is beautiful about my life is the disorganization, the mystery. It has never bothered me. Order, gone. It was never really there. The key things run along jagged edges, parts of me overlapping, not in line. Pieces stuck together; adhered with the glue seeping from the sides. Images stuck to words. These things may not be easy to identify up close. Concepts pasted together with little correlation. Colors clashing. A collage that makes no sense when the elements are alone. But when you step back, the components, as a whole are wonderful; the overall concept makes sense. Disarray is beautiful, and part of me; whoever that is.

To Thrive on Conflict

I was taught from a young age, that struggle is a part of life. Not to say that I've experienced more adversity than the next person; but that if everything is going smoothly, then some essential part of the experience is missing.

I have an inherent need to be preoccupied. As much as I complain about the things that don't go my way, I live off the need to fix; over-analyze; compare; solve; and understand.I've reached a juncture in my life, one that has come to help me realize, that even when everything is perfect, I break down the parts of my life that could be better. Even though things are close to wonderful for me, I can't help but dig up issues that lead to less than satisfaction. I choose the high road. I make things more difficult than they need to be. I can't relax, I have to be busy.

Growing up with a father, subsequently a Type A personality, has caused a pattern of thinking in myself that is not natural to my own personality. Life is about never settling; never becoming complacent. In my journey to the adult I have become today, and I use the term "adult" lightly, I have become very familiar with self sabatoge. I've never considered it a negative attribute, because it is what has shaped me. But, satisfaction has always been an arms length away; never too far out of reach, but not quite in my grasp.The paths I take are always the ones that lead to more confusion and stress. The people I choose are always people in need of help. The thoughts I think, always end up chasing each other in my head.

I never thought of my constant struggle to better everything as a nuissance. Rather I had always expected it to be blessing in disguise. I have become a strong person who flourishes in heated situations; distress; pressure; and anxiety. I am my father's daughter as sure as the sun sets. I find myself in a leveled state. Briefly, my progress has pleatued, and I have come to realize that I'm chasing a pot of gold.

I'm not sure if I'll ever find the success and happines I'm searching for, or if I'd even recognize it if it crossed my path. Would I, then, blow it off as something trivial? Could it be possible that I've missed too many opportunities because I took the high road instead? Maybe I'll never know. But until I do, I continue to thrive on conflict.