Hegira

I looked out the window a little while ago, and almost fell into a night sky full of stars. The moon, bright and round, toyed with a tattered blanket of clouds before tossing it away on the wind.

It has been a beautiful day. There were momentary aggravations, but much laughter, much warmth, and a great deal of wonderful company. I would name names, but I'd be sure to leave someone out. So thank you, everyone. I haven't felt this dreamy content in quite some time.

Drifting.

Falling floating acquiescent, waiting for something that exerts a pull. Hands in pockets, head down, shuffling, picking over stones just because, and not bothering to keep the ones that sparkle.

I remember what it was to create. My hands recall putting together things I hoped would last, pounding out words that seemed to bypass my head and flow straight from some hidden corner where someone hid who was me, and not me.

Justify your existence.
I create.

I used to believe I would cease to exist on the day I ceased to create. In a way, I have. With the future of my most personal and human accomplishment still undecided, I ceased to create at all. I've written nothing of my own worth penning, these months. I've not found a single fractal worth rendering. And I don't recognise myself in this dull, listless woman wearing my face and thinking with my voice.

I wonder if I still have the willpower to find my way back.

If I told you I'd decided to stay on at the Sheraton because of the people, would you laugh at me?

Only two or three of us decided to go. Steve B., the rooms division manager, is going. I didn't get to know him very well, but I would have liked to have more time to do so. He gave the impression of being very intelligent, with the kind of mind that never misses the details, and he's very dexterous as well. His office is filled with tiny carvings and even stuffed birds. I know he didn't really want to leave us, but Innkeeper balked at meeting his salary at the beginning, and when they capitulated, it was too late. He could have changed his mind, he said, but then that opened the door for salary struggles all the way down the line. If you have to threaten to leave to get a raise, leave. It isn't worth the stress.

Tammy, our comptroller, is also leaving us. This saddens me; Tammy is the one person on the job who seems to understand the way I think. The others like me, but don't understand me. Tammy gets me, and is also the only person I know irl who heard me humming October Project and not only knew the name of the group, but knew the lyrics. I'll miss her a lot...

Joe, Carl, Daima, Shannon, Michelle... all are staying. But, oddly, they're not the ones who made up my mind for me.

A Southwest flight attendant did that.

A week or so ago, with the YMCA group still in house, her flight was delayed at the airport. They came in at 3 AM, tired and hungry, and the bar was closed. I handed out milk and cereal, and sent them to their rooms. Ten minutes later, I got a call. Toni, it turns out, has allergies. She couldn't stay in the smoking room she'd been assigned, or she'd have been sick. All the other rooms were taken, so I wound up putting a rollaway cot into the concierge lounge and leaving her with her room key so she could go downstairs in the morning to shower.

The concierge lounge was never intended to be a room. It's huge, cold, echoey, and more than a bit eerie. I wouldn't have enjoyed it a bit. But she took it very cheerfully, and didn't even complain. I went home, she left the next morning, and I didn't think much of it.

Tonight, right about the time I'd decided I was sick of the Sheraton and couldn't wait to see the last of it, at least for the night, her crew came in. She brought a letter to my supervisor, and a thank you note and a box of chocolates for me.

In case that doesn't mean much to you, let me just say that I do far more difficult things for guests on quite a few nights. We all do. And we consider ourselves lucky to get a thank you then. It's our job to serve, and people think nothing of running us ragged and then complaining that there's not more we can do for them. Even the polite ones generally go away and never give us a second thought.

She reminded me of the one thing I love most about the Sheraton. The flight crews come in every week. They know our names, ask after us and our families, stand around and hold conversations, and really appreciate the things we do for them. They're a good lot, for the most part, and Southwest are the best of them. They're more than just friends; we see them so often that we're almost extended family to more than a few of them. On a night when I was beginning to feel that I could very easily start to hate the guests, Toni reminded me that they're not all like that. And she's not atypical of the group. I doubt I'd find that elsewhere. And I can't imagine giving it up lightly.

Oh we never know where life will take us;
I know it's just a ride on the wheel...
And we never know when death will shake us,
And we wonder how it will feel...

-- Goodbye, My Friend
by Karla Bonoff

In the midst of yesterday's loss, I noticed again something that I noticed first more than a year ago -- a divergence in the reactions people had to the news. Some were unaffected entirely, others shaken to the core. Among both groups, there is another marked division. One camp avers that mourning is the natural, the most proper action in this time. The other holds that these deaths mean no more than any other deaths, and should be treated similarly. I watched someone argue that unless we grieve equally for all, it is somehow a shameful thing, to grieve for any. After all, death comes every day, and not just to the gifted or the celebrity.

Why do we mourn the ones we mourn? What sets some apart in our minds, singles them out for special notice and attention? I don't have a definitive answer to that, nor do I have an inclusive one.

What I can say of myself, though, is that I need a focus for my grief. I need a human touch, a face, a personality quirk that makes someone real to me and brings the situation into my home and my heart and my space where I sit. I can weep for a planet, if I know that planet's curvatures, its rhythms, if I have tasted of it and have, perhaps, some secret spot upon it that I think of as my own. I can weep for humanity as a race, because I am human and I know, as we all know, of what things humanity is capable, and how far short of that we've fallen. I could have wept for yesterday's seven simply because they were humans also. I did not. I guess that makes me less than the ideal myself, and I can accept that judgment.

But it's not that these seven were celebrities. I had never seen their faces before yesterday, had seen their names in text twice. Until yesterday morning, they were part of the nameless, faceless entity of Other People. Bright, brave Other People exist, I know, and I'm glad of them, and proud of what they accomplish, but they're not very immediate to me. They're amorphous, nothing there to hold onto. So were the seven astronauts, until I came across David Brown and his "do we really have to come back?" He changed it, in my mind. He became the peg upon which I could hang my sadness and my fear and my pity and my hope, became the reason I was sad -- and brought the others with him.

I think that's the way the majority of us grieve. And I believe we're wired that way for a good reason. If we wept every time a child died, each time someone was murdered or starved or suicided, we would never see an end to grieving. There would never be closure, unless we went the other direction and grieved none of the losses at all. I have known a few people who grieved for no-one. None of them were pleasant or compassionate or sane. It's impossible to grieve everyone equally and stay sane. Some of them have to matter more than others, have to stand out in our minds and be the reasons we can grieve. Who should those people be, but the ones who have qualities we admire, who do the things we dream of, who accomplish the remarkable?

With as much tragedy as the media serves up to us every day, and as constantly surrounded as we are by the horrifying, the saddening, the gruesome, the unfair... is it surprising if we become too jaded to weep at all? If we can grieve at all, for anyone, no matter whom or why, well, I believe that's a step in the right direction. And I believe that anyone who attempts to dissuade another from grieving any loss, for any reason, is at best misguided. One of the things about us is that sometimes things come out of a clear blue sky that shake us deeply, that make us look around and take notice. Whenever something like that does, it's not something that's going to be made better or somehow alleviated if we're too ashamed of showing special favour and attention to let ourselves feel what we feel.

And that's what I believe.

You know, it really is this simple.

I can do badly all by my damned self. I don't need a partner for that.

I can be happy all by myself, too. I can be content, I can laugh, love, and truly live, all without a partner.

If I can't find a measure of joy and love with you that I cannot achieve by myself... why do I need you? Give me a reason why I should commit to making the effort to sustain any sort of relationship with you -- and every relationship takes effort to sustain -- when I don't gain anything from it I couldn't have without interlacing my life with someone else's, complicating every facet of my days.

Every single person in my life right now has more than justified their presence in whatever relationship we enjoy. Some of you amuse me, some make me think, some remind me of who I am and where I'm headed. Some simply love me and are loved in return. All of you have helped me raise the bar this last year or so. You, collectively, and I, independently -- we are enough. More than enough. I only know one person of whom I could say for certain "he's more than enough, all by himself," and, oddly enough, I'm happy just to have him be around as one of you.

It's a tough thing these days, finding more joy and love than I already have in my life.

One of the things you don't know about me has been a bone of contention between me and my parents for ten years.

I was really quite bright as a child. Really bright. Kids in Trinidad start school early, and we outright compete from the very start for good class rankings. Except for one single term where I was third in my class, I was first, every school, every term, through all the years we were there. At age nine, I was the top student in my division of the country, St George East. I think I was second overall. At age ten, I became the first student in the history of the division to pass the Common Entrance exam for St Joseph's Convent. I think there've been two other girls to follow my lead since then.

And then when I was twelve we emigrated. And things changed. I felt that the successes I had, and there were some, weren't fairly earned, in some ways. I had a different background, had started earlier, it wasn't that I was any smarter than the older kids, I'd just seen the material before. So any good grades I got didn't really count.

Then, my sophomore year, the year after Kelly, I don't remember much of at all. I remember crying a lot, but no tests, no papers, no classwork -- I went through school on autopilot for a year, and my GPA slipped badly. I never quite made it up; I graduated with honours, but wasn't valedictorian or even close, and I was okay with that because it proved that I really had been right all along. I wasn't really any smarter once I was on more equal footing. I received the Presidential Award for Academic Fitness my senior year and shrugged it off; I got it despite my slightly-low GPA, and again it didn't count. Besides, everybody knows lots of kids who start out brilliant burn out along the way. I went on to college, and into the prerequisite courses for the Nursing Program. Indian River Community College has one of the best RN programs in the country, and the exam is stiff. Many, many people take three tries to get in, and many more never make it at all. I'm good at standardized tests, but I worried. I took the test, and my parents informed me that I'd passed. Then there was a bit of a battle; I was sixteen, and the Board didn't want to accept me because of my age. Still, my mother wanted me in badly, and she's nothing if not determined. Nursing was her dream, I wanted to be a veterinarian and wasn't sure I had any aptitude for nursing at all. I went along because once she'd blocked my own dream, I might as well go along with her and make one of us happy. But I felt like a fraud.

That was confirmed the first day of the program, when my teacher pulled me aside to say that she didn't think I belonged there, that I was taking up a space someone else should have had. It didn't get any better from there. Ms Spooner made it her business to make me miserable. For the first time in my life, I hated school. Worse, she was my mentor as well as my teacher. I would have had to explain to her why I wanted out of her classes and have gotten her permission to switch teachers. Going above her head never occurred to me at all. I was only in the program on sufferance, and what would they think of me if I made trouble? Every other classroom, I'd been in my own territory, on solid ground. I'd gotten bad teachers fired before, but that was on the strength of the fact that I was a good student. Her classroom was hostile territory, and I was a failure. Worse, I was a waste of a valuable slot. I got in on the strength of threats and my mother's determination.

And then this morning, my father and I rehashed the old, old argument. Why did you quit? You could have been great! And when I protested, he told me something nobody told me before.

That hard exam, with the material I hadn't seen before the prerequisite programs? The one so many people fail? I had the top score in the state of Florida. I scored fifth in the country.

If you can't understand why I'm crying my eyes out right now, try to imagine having someone tell you you didn't deserve something, try to imagine letting yourself be pushed out -- because I did -- and then finding out you probably had a better right to it than anyone else who shared it with you. That you earned it, and more than earned it, fairly. That you let someone who disliked you shape a very significant part of your life. I don't have a degree. I don't have a career, I have a job, and there have been so many damned unpleasant things in my life I could have avoided had I finished that program, I can't begin to reckon them up. It's not even her fault. It's my own for not being stronger, for not believing in myself. My children would be so much better off today had I finished that program, it's almost too much to wrap my mind around. It's my fault. But I still hope she gets to go through at least half of what I have. She was both mentor and teacher, and she, if no-one else, would have had to know my scores were good. Better than just good. Two days ago, I hated no-one. Right now, I can't see an end to hating her.

I love the last few days of the year. I can almost feel time rushing past, after Christmas. And I start taking notes, looking back, taking stock of what kind of year it's been -- and what kind of year is likely to be ahead.

Last year was a year of loss. All the gains couldn't make up for them -- every lesson had its price, and all the debts came due at once. And we paid them -- in tears, in blood, in terror, in hope. This year... this year we spent in recovery. This year, we recouped. The ground is still shifting. But we are on our feet. Next year, perhaps, we will rebuild.

More personally -- I don't know that I progressed much, this year. I ventured into no new territory, I didn't face anything I haven't faced before. I hope, though, that I did a better job of facing them. I believe that I'm stronger in myself for having lived through this year -- less fervent, perhaps, but more accepting.

I don't feel older. I'm about to enter my twenty-eighth year -- and I'm remembering that Kelly was twenty-eight when I met him -- just a year to go -- and I don't feel older at all. In fact, I have fewer worries (and more hope) now than the girl I was then. And more power over the situations I do worry about. I'm not the omnipotent ideal of adulthood she dreamed of, but all in all, not very much happens to me that I haven't allowed, anymore. I've waited a long time to be able to make that statement. :)

That said -- I don't think I've really figured out yet what I want my life to be and include. Not specifically. So, maybe that's my assignment for the next week. I fulfilled last year's agenda pretty well. Time to set my goals for the year ahead.

Faith is a thread of purest silk. Acceptance is a hemp rope. I will not wholly depend on either alone. Faith without acceptance of what is can be broken. Acceptance without faith in what can be can leave one -- leaves me -- raw and bleeding in places.

At the end of fear there is grace. Whatever the form it takes, it is still grace. It is grace to be able to turn around and put my back to the wall and face the demons, even alone. It is also grace to find the crevice in the wall which can hide me. I will not bitch about the way my wishes were fulfilled, or complain about which of my prayers were answered.

I am not happy, but I am not broken. I am beginning to reopen the doors, and hopefully the process will not take much longer. Thank you for being patient with me so far -- there's only so much interaction I can stand right now.

You know that trust game? The one where you close your eyes and let yourself fall backwards and someone standing behind you catches you?

... How many of you are like me, and could never bring yourself to actually let yourself fall? I used to think I was the only one who couldn't do it, but I just found out I'm not. How many others are there?

if it looks like I'm being reckless and blind to the dangers, you're only half right.
if it looks like I'm completely anything -- giddy, in love, sad, angry, whatever -- you're missing something.
if you think I'm too anything to turn around, to stop, to back out? -- you're wrong.

there's the little voice I can't shake, right up to the very last second -- and I will never ever be able to honestly plead being "past the point of no return." Because I can always put my foot back and stop myself. I can always stand up and walk out and walk away, even when you think I'm too committed to even think about setting foot out the door. On the one hand, you'll never be able to be truly sure of me. On the other, every minute I spend with you? I'm there because on some level I want to be.

I can't offer soft blind adoration. I will probably never be able to do more than keep silence on my doubts, my appraisals, my misgivings, while I make the very conscious decision to set them aside in favour of the moment I'm in and the person I'm sharing it with. You will never truly be my hero, my everything, and I will never be completely helpless without you. You will never be completely necessary in my life, and when you catch me, my gratitude will be mingled with surprise and tempered with the knowledge that had you not, I would have found some other way. I will never expect to be caught.

On the other hand, if you remember that I do not completely need you, then you know that I didn't pick you -- and, make no mistake, I did pick you -- to save me. I chose you because I wanted you beside me. To be a companion, not some fairy-tale knight or fairy godmother. If you know that I am never not conscious of alternatives, then you know that every second I'm with you, I choose you. Again and again and again, I'm making the decision to be with you, to stay by you. I will not forget the times you disappoint me. My hurts don't get washed out of existence the first time you take me to bed, or the first time you hand me a gift, or offer a smile, and if you think I'm distracted from them, that's only because I have and always will have thoughts you're not privy to.

The first anger doesn't wash away the memory of the good, either. In the middle of my fury, I will remember that you have been good to me, that I have cared for you, that the reasons I had for choosing you haven't gone away.

I am not soft and gentle and delicate. Compared to most of the women and girls I know, I'm a cast-iron bitch. I save the poetry for abstracts and people in my past, and I have real trouble discussing the present at all, let alone bathing it in soft words and fancies. I will write poems for you only when you are gone from my life.. or I believe you are. When you are with me, you get to be with me, and I will spend the time with you intensely, and you will never be a default decision. That's the blessing and the curse of a woman with a stainless steel spine. And I wouldn't trade places with any of those wide-eyed porcelain dolls for a single second.

I went for a short walk around the block, hoping to make myself sleepy. Instead, I feel invigorated. And, oddly enough, small inside my skin. I stumbled on the way in, stubbing my toe against a rock. I reached down to pick it up, and found it was a chunk of amethyst. Very rough, irregular colour, but amethyst, just the same. How long had it been there beside the driveway? Who knows. But it seems like it was waiting for me, although it doesn't feel as though it belongs to me. I will probably pass it on to someone without much notice.

There's so much to discover, so much beauty hidden in plain view, waiting for someone to look at it, to see it. How can I sleep?