this is not a valentine’s day post

Today marks the one-year anniversary of the day I boarded a plane and flew away from a life of “us”.  12 years of “us” actually.  Leave it to me to make such a bold statement.  Hey, here’s an idea, how about we break up on the international day of love?  That way, instead of feeling kinda lukewarm about Valentine’s Day, I can be reminded annually of one of the worst pains of my life and really, really, really hate it.  Some people send love notes, mothers buy cinnamon hearts for their children, couples go out for romantic dinners, women wear lingerie, men buy  flowers and chocolate.  Me?  I leave on a jet plane.  I only packed a couple bags and carried the emotional stuff on my shoulders (which I rummaged through over and over again throughout the year, as if searching for clues and pieces of myself).  I remember feeling empty as the pilot wished us all a Happy Valentine’s Day over the intercom.  And all I really wanted to say was Fuck Valentine’s Day.

The funny (not ha ha) thing about anniversaries is that you are going about your business – la la la – and all the while, this date is planning a sneak attack on you, and you’re all, anniversary, what anniversary?  And then BAM!  The day jumps out right in front of you and shakes you up and tries to steal the smile from your face and pick the joy from your pocket.

So I was smart, you see.  I got ammunition a month ago, love bombs in case of an attack on my emotions.  I outsmarted Saint Valentine by inviting friends over for dinner tonight.  I practically begged them to put all romantic plans on hold for this one day and join me instead in celebrating a different kind of love.  The love you find for yourself as you push through road blocks and plow through all the messy stuff that comes up when you drive down your emotional highway.  A celebration of the undoing, unraveling, falling apart, reconstruction of your Self to find that in the end, you are enough.  You are okay.  You are stronger than you ever thought possible and you are loved, no matter what.  We are all loved, no matter what.  Someone, somewhere, loves YOU.

A year ago, I wrote:

I knew it would find me here,
this seed of sadness and
plant itself deep inside me and grow,
and grow from this fertile ground.

Today I would have to say that sadness and anger and bitterness are like weeds.  They will grow anywhere unless you keep them in check.  I’ve pulled many weeds from my heart over the past year and in their place planted happiness and confidence and strength and love.  I even found that wonder was still there, tucked somewhere between pain and anguish.  It never left.  Nor has my love for Kevin.  He will always hold a special place in my heart’s garden.   It’s just that I’ve made more room for me to grow.  And it’s starting to look pretty darn colorful.

Love,

J.

day 10 – three thoughts floating around up there

Birthdays and new year celebrations are there to remind us of how much we’ve accomplished any given year.  They are jumping boards for future goals.  But there is also something to be said for the anniversary of losing someone you love, whether that be a physical death or the end of a relationship.  I believe these anniversaries are important checkpoints in our lives; there to show us that we can survive hardships and come out on the other side stronger.  There to remind us that we can lose what we think is our everything and still gain something from the rubble.  They are little life buoys to hold onto in turbulent waters… signs to cling to life dearly because one big wave can take it all away.

With time, you wash up on shore, you lie on the beach, you give your heart to the sun and hope it can warm it up again.  Over the years, rain still comes pouring down on you when you least expect it, when you are out in the world without an umbrella.  The pain is acute at first, then dulls and becomes chronic for a little while but eventually you heal.  You don’t even realize you have until that anniversary comes rolling around and you are reminded of that day.  That day you thought you would never recover from, but you did.

I hadn’t suffered much loss in my life prior to losing my best pal, Dylan.  I had no idea that a little shelter dog would carve a niche in my heart and pump joy through my veins every single day for 5 years.  That he would stay with me 2 years after his death and still put a smile on my face.

I miss you little man.  I know it sounds silly but I still hear the pitter patter of your paws.

“Those who are dead are not dead, they’re just living in my head…” – coldplay

***

My soon-to-be 2-year old nephew is having surgery today.  I know I have nothing to be worried about but the thought of a such a wee boy going “under the knife” is unnerving.  Poor little dude.  I’d really appreciate it if you tucked a thought in your heart today for my sister and the cutest boy ever.

***

On another note, I have a serious problem folks.  I am a creative junkie.  There, I said it.  Honestly, I do believe that something has short-circuited in my brain… or something surely will if I don’t stop taking on too much.  Two weeks ago, I barely had time to clip my toenails and so what did I do? I signed up for nablopomo.  And now that Christmas is right around the corner, I figured why not take this baby into overdrive, so I signed up for elsie’s online class. 5 projects a week for 6 weeks! I am, officially, certifiably, insane folks.

day 3 – driving inland

I wrote this poem in 2002, while living in Nelson, BC.  I was taking Creative Writing 101 at the Kootenay School of the Arts and I nearly shit myself every Tuesday evening when I had to read my assignment out loud, in front of the entire class. I survived and came out of it with a badge of courage, more than anything.

I lived this poem in the spring of 1998, while interning as an Avian Field Biologist for the Wildlife Preservation Trust. It was 3 months of roughing it in Cockpit Country, a rugged jungle in the interior of Jamaica, in search of Yellow-Billed and Black-Billed Parrots.  It was the first time I experienced being a minority and it is also where I became an expert at spotting, identifying and removing ticks in places one should never have to find ticks, ever.  I came out of it humbled and grateful for things we all take for granted, such as running water and electricity and not finding ticks in warm places.

I posted this poem when I first started blogging in January of 2007.  A time when only my mother and sisters were reading my ramblings and I wondered if anyone else would ever come visit my little space on the Internet.  Alas, any entry prior to June 11 of this year has vanished, so technically, it’s as if the poem had never been posted in the first place (except for the fact that I just admitted to its existence).  Still, I feel justified in sharing it again, on this new space, where it has never been read before.  Although it is not a staggering work of genius, I’ll be happy knowing that it has found a cozy creative nest to rest in rather than fading away on a musty smelling piece of paper.

Driving Home

I drive inland behind a small taxi
cramped with passengers
hanging out the windows,
past lobster huts and ice markets
where men lift frozen blocks
with picks like beaks of hawks.

I turn left at the last electrical pole
where shoeless children,
feet powdered with road silt,
walk miles from classrooms;
they wave and chase me down
narrow serpentine roads.

Past the local bar,
a rainbow painted tin roofed shack,
where Leroy, Herlitz and Zack,
red eyes stained with yellow veins,
roll fat reefers with brown bag paper.

Blue smoke sways over dreadlocks,
over the woman with buttery cheeks
who tells jokes with a spirited belly laugh
while serving Red Stripes beer
and drinking spiced rum.

I cross the stone bridge over the river
where women scrub laundry
upstream from the neighbor’s rotting cow
until their fingers are raw,
until nothing is left but white.

Parrots fly overhead
whistling apple green wings
past ashen houses and burnt cane fields
where black stakes stand
and men carry sugar sticks on bare backs.

Two donkeys saunter
down the middle of the road.
I honk,
they pick up speed but stay
in the middle of the road.

Near home
boys climb coconut trees,
cattle egrets perch on brown cows,
Miss Rose, the English man’s maid
chases roosters and chickens
in a mustard colored year.

Sun burns into earth,
the blue tint of night swallows the jungle,
beetles fly with eyes lit like headlights,
the sky resembles a highway
filled with miniature cars.

Brown lizards flaunt egg yolk throats,
the ruby eyes of pottoo birds float
above fence posts.
Toads surface by the hundred,
fat and flat,
they cover the entire road.

They all lead me home.