So far, So Fast

This post is dedicated to my Fastgirls, without whom I would not have felt the urgency to be authentic. You inspire, humble and amaze me with all that you bring to the world. Thank you.

Today marks the end of the 90 Day Be the Expert Challenge. As I type this I am overcome with emotion. This post represents the last 'required' post of the last set of tasks for the challenge. I missed the 9PM deadline, rendering me incomplete with the challenge. As usual, I procrastinated and I find myself writing this post to complete the challenge. I feel a mix of emotions but mostly a calm about not having completed the challenge but still having had my life transformed by this work--even in the face of enormous disappointment with myself. I was the only person out of 13 women left in the challenge to be incomplete at this last check in. What can I say about that? I was being authentic. (Insert ironic smiley here.)

The last 90 days have taught me a lot about what I value, how I prioritize my time and what I am willing to do to be true to myself. I fell into authenticity as an area of expertise and as a life practice, as a behavior because this is what the challenge has demanded. It demanded from the beginning that I be clear about my value and values, that I commit to taking action and spending time with my community of Fastgirls, and that I was consistent in each of these things.

Fastgirls helped me refine my passions and create my path forward at a time when things were a bit murky. Fastgirls surfaced the framework for my forthcoming leadership curriculum. In a year of great loss, gave me an expansive sense of self, which is invaluable in a way I never could have imagined. I came to Fastgirls looking for some idea about what would vaguely be next for me and what I leave this challenge with is near perfect clarity about what I am called to do.

When I was 11 years old, I participated in a life-changing leadership development program and the homework component was at times overwhelming. Some nights, at 11PM, when I'd had all I thought I could stand, my mother would offer me a glass of water, rub my back and tell me I could read another page, write another paragraph. From prep school to college, from college to grad school and at every job in between, my mother was there with a word of support and hand to hold.

Though my mother died almost 9 months ago to the day, I have no doubt in my mind that she has been with me these last 90 days, encouraging me to write every blog post, present in every letter of gratitude I've written to poets who've changed my life. She has seen me grow and change in this work, defining for myself a path that she always saw for me when she gave me journals, imploring me to write, or tell me to challenge myself, ensuring that I'd grow. For all that I have gained these last 90 days, I also dedicate this note to my mother, my very first Fastgirl.

Poem: Twice Born

I am lucky.
My mother loved me enough
to birth me twice.

The first time she was
young and strong and fertile.
Her hips spread wide,
her breathing deep,
She bore down and pushing
gave me life.
Sprung forth one early morning
to the winter air I came.

We had a life together,
my mother and I,
some silent agreement
that she would see me through life,
saving me from myself indefinitely.

One early morning,
my mother decided to birth me again
--she loved me that much.

This time, older and sicker,
body withered, drawing in,
shallow breath in stony lungs,
she, grasping, gave me life.
One early spring morning,
coldly lovingly she left
--and I came to my life again.

Our agreement broken
Or altogether different
Than I thought it was.

My mother birthed me twice.
She loved me that much.
I am lucky.

Poem: I am clear

I've made up the dishes
and dried off the bed
I'm wandering woman
I'm walking while dead
and the voices I hear
have escaped from my head.

I've paid all the houseplants
and watered the bills
I'm listening softly,
and crying at will
and the person I pawned
is becoming me still.

I'm sorry I hate you
I'm happy you left
I'm dodging my feelings
and weaving the weft
I'm wheeling and dealing
with a hand that is deft

I'm writing my eulogy
sealing the chest
I'm toasting the people
who treated me best
I'm taking the good things
and leaving the rest
I am clear, I am clear, I am clear.

Poem: Return to Sender

I am going to sit
in the middle of myself.
Points belabored
noisy neighbors
people point and stare - so what?

I am going to sit on the stoop of my life,
perch and watch the people pass
smirk and hear the people laugh.
Tip toe up the stairs
to stare into my own windows
while I fold my laundry there.

The problem with composure
is that it is oftentimes misleading
and denies the self the bleeding
and while placating
leaves pleading - the soul.
Hungry, starving, compulsive
feeling clasped in hands - composed.

I'd rather riff the rage and
scat the storm.
I'd rather beat the drum and strum
the heartstrings
plucking plucking
fucking nerve it takes
to improvise.

Improvisation is
composition is
improvement is
composure.

I am going to square my shoulders and
circle myself.
Take me in and
size me up.
Why not>
Join the pity party
feeling partly like myself
feeling sorry for myself hardly
hardly, am myself.

Pretend. Perform. Perfect composure.

Expect, explain, accept.
Compost-like
bullshit, like
full of it
like pull your own shit.

I am going to roll my eyes and
suck my teeth and
give you all kinds of sass and stank.

And I might stand arms akimbo
feet pigeon-toed
rolling neck, "I told you so"s
and wagging perfect, pink-tipped finger.

I will allow myself the anger
and the confusion
the madness of angry woman
once-loving, once loved
to seep out my pores
oozing you, oozing at you.
Making you squeamish
so you can see this.
Me standing
staring
staking out my own self
trying to assess what ever is valuable inside.

All because you
made me stand outside myself
and question my plans
for my own design.
You led me through rooms of myself -
rearranged to your liking
and being a mutable sign
and an adventurer, wanderer
seeker, sister, lover -
I let you.

I let you
you hurt me
you left me
you learned me
you stopped.

BUT I LET YOU

I loosened my grip
on what I didn't want and you
began to step away.
half-heartedly I
followed you,
chasing in the end because really -
who likes to lose?

Know this:

You may have left and you may be gone
but before you walked out,
they were playing my song.
I packed up your things
and I bid you adieu
and just so we're clear
dear, it's not me
it's you.

But more importantly
I am walking proudly up the steps
to my front door
jangling my keys -
one set for me.

I am walking through
foyers, looking at furniture
needing to be put back in place
boxes unpacked
clutter undone.
Dusty windows
and burnt out bulbs
long forgotten
in the dim light of love.
Low, low light.

I am steeping tea
and playing Nina
ironically grinning at no one in particular.
Humming to myself, barefoot
in these rooms
to these walks
Ne me quitte pas
Ne me quitte pas.

I serenade myself
a song for me.
Song of myself
a welcome home ditty.

Ne me quitte pas.

And I promise me
that I won't sit outside myself
while someone rearranges me
ever again.

I will open the shutters
and pull up the shades.
I will use the china and
read the good Book.
I will feast to my own presence
smelling of jasmine
and glowing the color of honey.
I will embrace myself this day,
welcoming me home.

Poem: A Prayer

This poem has particular significance as I wrote it a month to the day before my mother passed away. I then read it at her funeral, where I promised to pursue writing - one of two things she always adamantly encouraged me to do. It was even featured in online magazine, The Vyne.

I can feel our lives slipping away from us,
Oh God,
from both of us and through our tiny hands - away.

I can feel the weight of mortality
rushing at me with full force contact
--the push of life's large ebbs and flows, at once.
At once I am knocked over and yet buoyed to the surface
--carried to shore and carried to sea.

I can feel the darkness
looming out just beyond the horizon, beyond the beyond.

I cannot see the start and stop
I cannot see beginning or end
I cannot grip what is slipping away from me,
Oh God.
I do not know which way I'm facing
I cannot read the starry sky,
Oh God.
I never could, but then again,
I never thought I'd have to

I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
Oh God.
--my chest an angry chamber
--inner sanctum beating hollow

The resonance of solitude is
unwelcome in this world.
I want to find the shore,
Oh God,
to see the tide receding,
to know that I am anchored safely
in the harbor of your love.

I feel the living rhythm of the sea song now,
Oh God.
The gentle lull, the violent crash
The ebb and flow of masterful love.
I breathe the salted mist of prayer,
remembering the vastness of the ocean.

It doesn't scare me now, the bigger you and smaller me - the smaller we.
Together we bob in and out of this,
feeling somehow at peace,
even as we feel ourselves continuing to slip away,
through our tiny hands

Poem: Coincidence of Nikki

You can be strong
You can choke back each tear
and tell the world you’re full of hate and anger
or that you’re fine and full of nothing at all.

You can lie to them
and tell them you’re fine and that you don’t remember
that he is crazy and that it doesn’t matter
but it means nothing to history, to those things which were

To the coincidence of Nikki
and the ceremonious Saturday French press coffee
to the bottles of wine and rubbing of shoulders
to the laughs and love and touching of skin

To the reality of what is still there
of what you are still full of
despite your best efforts to be strong
you are weak in the knees, in the mind, in the heart

And you hurt.
and you cry and you wonder what you you did
when you tell them you blame him – you blame you.
and you are sad, very sad for the things that were

And you want them back, some days
and you call his name some times
and you cry and you curse that you let it happen
despite your best effort to be strong

You can be strong and you can be hurt and you can cry and curse
and you can tell them and yourself that it is your fault
and his fault and love’s fault for pulling on you
so strong, so real, so here and there at once.

Bridges

Last night, I had the great fortune of hosting two of my closest girlfriends at my apartment. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been a night of good dinner, good wine, and even better conversation -- and it was, it just happened amongst boxes, piles of paper and long-forgotten dry-cleaning. Most important was the fact that it was actually an intervention. I had called these women over to help me climb out of 'my bag' as my grandmother might say.

This 'bag' was and is a psychic space that I find myself in after the death of my mother and the dissolution of (what I thought was) a very serious relationship. After months of walking around boxes and stacking and re-stacking mail on the 'other' side of the bed, I had had enough. I had moved in almost 6 months ago and the living room (where I used to host all manner of delicious and engaging events) looked like I had just arrived yesterday. My bookshelves, although fully unpacked, were teeming with tchotchkes and unread volumes begging to be let go. My desk's vertical filing system had been woefully neglected and I was breeding dust-bunnies around the baseboards. Needless to say, a cluttered space reflects a cluttered mind. I needed help, and quickly.

The funny thing about grief is that it's just numbing enough to make you think you're functioning. You're getting up, you're going to work, the bills get paid, the laundry gets done, but you are numb really. The little things that seem normal or even enjoyable in some regard begin to slip, like coking for yourself, "I'll just order pizza again," or things that are never reasonable become reasonable in your mind "I'll sort through the last 8 issues of The Chronicle of Higher Education this weekend, in my free time." There is no basis in reality that you cannot or should not have pizza for dinner 3 times a week (at least not topped with sausage and pepperoni - no wonder your blood pressure is high!) You can't believe that it will take you longer than 30 minutes to get through approximately 800 pages of musings and articles on the world of academe. You are young, you are smart, you have been to school -- for a loooooong time -- you have run races, and done fasts. You are indestructible and 'on it' -- until you realize you are not. Well you might be, but you are also human, and you are broken and you are standing at the shore of very choppy waters trying to cross over into the place that is more familiar to you, the land of 'Get-it-togetherville."

Enter the bridge, or in this case, the bridges. They arrived relatively promptly (by our sister standards at least), bearing the requisite libations and offering hugs full of, "Don't worry, we're here and we'll get this done." I ushered them up the stairs into the mess. There had been no parties, no dinners, no casual get-togethers in 6 months. No socializing, no nothing. But here they were, my girls. Years of friendship, gallons of tears and reels of funny moments danced between us as they laid themselves down over my cluttered space and mind and mapped out the next 6 months of how I was going to 'deal'. First, we talked about their recent and impending nuptials over full glasses of Montepulciano and plates of Pad Thai. But then we finished our meal and got back to the task at hand. One opened another bottle of wine, the other went to my whiteboard and immediately started to identify what would be short and long term tasks. We covered wellness first ("How are you?" and "How is your family?" "Are you getting enough sleep? Of course you aren't.") When they were sufficiently convinced that I was just sad, not suicidal and that a little organization and a few words of encouragement were what I needed most, we could get back to things like, "Do you need two Mardi Gras masks? Really?"

I won't bore you with more details of the night, but two things are worth highlighting. 1) My mess was not nearly as big or insurmountable as I thought it was and 2) It took my girlfriends, responding to my clarion call to lovingly, and objectively to tell me "No, this is not ANYTHING like that hoarder show. Girl have you SEEN that show??" and remind me that grief is a process and a journey that no matter how smart or determined I am, I cannot accelerate. It simply cannot be done. This is what the sturdy, beautifully made, majestic bridges told me as they laid themselves down over my life. So with that, as we organized the Chronicles for recycling, hung up all the cardigans, and finished the wine, I started to cross over the choppy water, thankful that I didn't have to swim.