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it's not personal.
NOTHING is confidential.
use discretion; in your speech, actions, and thoughts.
it's not personal.
everything is a learning opportunity.
you are NOT a victim.
mental exhaustion is physically draining.
it's not personal.
you can't control your feelings;
BUT - you can control your actions.
it's not personal.
pick your battles.
you are more than "what you do."
titles mean nothing.
it's not personal.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
scotland
Why do I miss you so much?
Why can’t I get over you?
Every cool breeze reminds me of you…
Fresh, sea air is no cliché.
With you, I felt truly alive.
With you I breathed effortlessly.
With you, I felt protected, embraced.
Everything was exciting. Everything was beautiful..I stepped lighter, ran faster, laughed harder.
I appreciated more. I understood more…because I understood less?
I stood out, I blended in. I learned. I grew. I tried things I’d never thought I’d do.
I found my roots, and felt how that matters.
I saw my face on your walls, and I felt beautiful.
Why can’t I get over you?
Every cool breeze reminds me of you…
Fresh, sea air is no cliché.
With you, I felt truly alive.
With you I breathed effortlessly.
With you, I felt protected, embraced.
Everything was exciting. Everything was beautiful..I stepped lighter, ran faster, laughed harder.
I appreciated more. I understood more…because I understood less?
I stood out, I blended in. I learned. I grew. I tried things I’d never thought I’d do.
I found my roots, and felt how that matters.
I saw my face on your walls, and I felt beautiful.
the fire
“EMILY – PUT PENNY ON HER LEASH. THE NEIGHBOR’S CAMPER EXPLODED AND IT’S ON FIRE.”
My mom yelled the words, but in such a matter-of-fact way, that looking back I’m still not sure how she managed it.
My body went into action before my mind could comprehend the situation. I found myself in my mom’s room, attaching the leash to Penny’s collar without even realizing how the leash found my hands in the first place.
Mom and Ray were moving in a flurry around me. Somehow I gleaned that 911 had been called. The dog and I blindly followed Mom and Ray outdoors. The sky was still dark – it was 5a.m. – but the house to our right was glowing and strangely still. I tried to head straight to the neighbor’s yard, in pursuit of the old folks’, but felt something tug me back. (Penny was being a dog…and urinating. Neither one of us seemed to realize what exactly was going on mere yards away.) I turned back towards the neighbors. Ray was out of sight, Mom was pounding on the neighbors door; “TIM! FIRE!” she let herself in as I rounded the fence and made it into their yard. Ray was silhouetted ahead of me, even with their house. I had been on a path towards him, but stopped abruptly when the fire came into view. “Horror-stricken” is more than a phrase. In an instant, my sleepy head cleared. “The neighbor’s camper exploded and it’s on fire.” Yes…. fire…inferno…hungry, orange flames lashing out at the pre-dawn sky, competing with the surrounding aged trees for height; undulating waves of sparks, moving like a swarm of hornets, sprinkling the neighborhood with threatening chunks of smoldering black plastic ash. Through the maddening sheets of fire, the smoldering structure of the RV could be seen, the cliché helpless victim to the fire. Was anyone inside? (we later learned that a dog had indeed been trapped and lost to the flames.)
My heart has never beaten so fast. My eyes were wide, in spite of the smoke swirling around me. Taking in this view for only a few seconds, I ran back into the house, dragging poor Penny along, to grab my cell phone. “When did you call 911?” I hollered at my mother. “Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY?!” I was panicking. Inside my bedroom once again, I yanked my phone from the charger and punched in the numbers. As I incoherently babbled my reason for calling to the operator, sirens and flashing lights appeared at the far end of Dean Avenue. “They’re here, sorry...” I mumbled and hung up, as I moved towards the neighbor’s front yard once again, this time joining my mom and Ray on the sidewalk as a cop leaped from his squad car and ran towards the house. As fire trucks and more police units arrived, a measure of calm set in, and for the first time the chill of the dawn air struck me. I bent down to pull up my knee-high men’s athletic socks and saw I was wearing my glittery black ballet flats. When did I put those on?
Shivering, I huddled next to my mom, eyes glued to the tragic blaze in front of me. This fire was a monster – like a bogeyman under your bed – and the emergency crew was a balm to my pounding heart, much like your parent entering your bogey-infested room and assuring you it would be okay.
As the fire was hopelessly sprayed with streams of water, the mesmerizing effect of the flames took hold of me. “My camera is right inside, I should be capturing this,” I thought. But deep in my gut, I felt a sickening certainty that death was a part of this scene. I could never exploit that.
The acrid, smoky smell of the camper’s destruction burned in my nostrils. Sprays of cold water were carried from the firemen’s hose and hit my bare legs and face as the fire was slowly tamed. Simultaneously, Mom, Ray, and I turned back toward our own home. We’d all been coughing with increasing violence. Not surprisingly, considering the harsh, black smoke. Back in the now-assured safety of our own house, Mom and Ray went to the window with the best vantage point of the blaze to continue watching. I tread back to my room, noticing it was now almost 6 a.m., and grabbed a pillow and my blanket. Finding Penny curled up on my mom’s bed, I lay down beside her, wrapped my arms around her, and shivered uncontrollably…all the while praying thanksgiving for safety as well as condolence for my neighbors as I strove for a few hours of sleep before the day “began.”
My mom yelled the words, but in such a matter-of-fact way, that looking back I’m still not sure how she managed it.
My body went into action before my mind could comprehend the situation. I found myself in my mom’s room, attaching the leash to Penny’s collar without even realizing how the leash found my hands in the first place.
Mom and Ray were moving in a flurry around me. Somehow I gleaned that 911 had been called. The dog and I blindly followed Mom and Ray outdoors. The sky was still dark – it was 5a.m. – but the house to our right was glowing and strangely still. I tried to head straight to the neighbor’s yard, in pursuit of the old folks’, but felt something tug me back. (Penny was being a dog…and urinating. Neither one of us seemed to realize what exactly was going on mere yards away.) I turned back towards the neighbors. Ray was out of sight, Mom was pounding on the neighbors door; “TIM! FIRE!” she let herself in as I rounded the fence and made it into their yard. Ray was silhouetted ahead of me, even with their house. I had been on a path towards him, but stopped abruptly when the fire came into view. “Horror-stricken” is more than a phrase. In an instant, my sleepy head cleared. “The neighbor’s camper exploded and it’s on fire.” Yes…. fire…inferno…hungry, orange flames lashing out at the pre-dawn sky, competing with the surrounding aged trees for height; undulating waves of sparks, moving like a swarm of hornets, sprinkling the neighborhood with threatening chunks of smoldering black plastic ash. Through the maddening sheets of fire, the smoldering structure of the RV could be seen, the cliché helpless victim to the fire. Was anyone inside? (we later learned that a dog had indeed been trapped and lost to the flames.)
My heart has never beaten so fast. My eyes were wide, in spite of the smoke swirling around me. Taking in this view for only a few seconds, I ran back into the house, dragging poor Penny along, to grab my cell phone. “When did you call 911?” I hollered at my mother. “Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY?!” I was panicking. Inside my bedroom once again, I yanked my phone from the charger and punched in the numbers. As I incoherently babbled my reason for calling to the operator, sirens and flashing lights appeared at the far end of Dean Avenue. “They’re here, sorry...” I mumbled and hung up, as I moved towards the neighbor’s front yard once again, this time joining my mom and Ray on the sidewalk as a cop leaped from his squad car and ran towards the house. As fire trucks and more police units arrived, a measure of calm set in, and for the first time the chill of the dawn air struck me. I bent down to pull up my knee-high men’s athletic socks and saw I was wearing my glittery black ballet flats. When did I put those on?
Shivering, I huddled next to my mom, eyes glued to the tragic blaze in front of me. This fire was a monster – like a bogeyman under your bed – and the emergency crew was a balm to my pounding heart, much like your parent entering your bogey-infested room and assuring you it would be okay.
As the fire was hopelessly sprayed with streams of water, the mesmerizing effect of the flames took hold of me. “My camera is right inside, I should be capturing this,” I thought. But deep in my gut, I felt a sickening certainty that death was a part of this scene. I could never exploit that.
The acrid, smoky smell of the camper’s destruction burned in my nostrils. Sprays of cold water were carried from the firemen’s hose and hit my bare legs and face as the fire was slowly tamed. Simultaneously, Mom, Ray, and I turned back toward our own home. We’d all been coughing with increasing violence. Not surprisingly, considering the harsh, black smoke. Back in the now-assured safety of our own house, Mom and Ray went to the window with the best vantage point of the blaze to continue watching. I tread back to my room, noticing it was now almost 6 a.m., and grabbed a pillow and my blanket. Finding Penny curled up on my mom’s bed, I lay down beside her, wrapped my arms around her, and shivered uncontrollably…all the while praying thanksgiving for safety as well as condolence for my neighbors as I strove for a few hours of sleep before the day “began.”
east side memories
(the following took place on may twelfth two thousand nine)
It was a beautiful spring evening on Des Moines’ East Side. The rain was tumbling down from the humid gray cloud cover, the thunder and trains competing for boom power. I parked my survivor-of-a-Buick in the street and made a mad dash for the house. (Who needs umbrellas when you can sprint in high heels?) Safely inside, changed out of my dampened spring dress, and re-wardrobed in the typical jeans and hooded IOWA sweatshirt, it was clearly time for me to have an after-work cigarette on my covered front porch. As I unsuccessfully tried to juggle said sunshine stick, large study Bible, and wind-lashed onion-skin pages, I heard a car honk. Deciding to finish the 34th chapter of Exodus in the wind-free interior of my home, I closed The Book and looked up to see to the diminutive blue hatchback honking and pulling into the vacant lots across the street.** Packed inside the unlikely off-roader were three young men, clearly of an east siderly upbringing. As they whooped out of the windows, which were half-rolled down, I pitied the birds, chipmunks, and rabbits that flew, scurried, and jumped out of their plundering. I pitied the dandelions and Kentucky blue grass blades even more…defenseless victims to traditional east side shenanigans. Sigh. ‘But wait,’ said Nature, ‘don’t fret your little hippie-heart,’ and, as if on cue, the Blue Hatchback was snared in a bog of deep mud, surreptitiously hidden beneath a large, rain-dimpled puddle of water. The wheels spun uselessly as muddy water flew about, like light from a sparkler on the fourth of ju-ly. Immediately the passenger, whom we’ll call ES1*, leaped out and ran diagonally across the street to his abode…whether for help or to escape we shall never know. I, of course, whipped out my green Rumor and snapped a few pictures, which earned me a sheepish smile and wave from ES2*, the driver. I discarded my cigarette butt into the ashtray and entered the house to finish reading the promised Exodus, chapter the 34th.
Approximately one hour later, according to my nicotine receptors, I was once again on my front porch. Lo and behold, the Blue Hatchback had answered a summons of its own and was back to tearing around in yonder wet plain. As I dismissed the non-mystery of the tool-igans in favor of The Mystery of Edwin Drood, I heard a charming “HEY!” vocally thrown my way. Ah yes, the young men were hearkening to me. I gave a half-hearted wave in their direction, accompanied by my irrepressible Mary-Kate Olsen fake smile. “COME ‘ERE!” bellowed ES2 as he motioned with his arm and hand. “COME ‘ERE!” he repeated as I stared back; unresponsive save for my raised left eyebrow. “Come do this with us!” he further entreated, gesturing to the car. “NO THANKS!” I returned, (politely I do hope.) Subsequent persuasions were hollered my way. “Come on! It’s fun! Come with us! What’s your name? Sheva bocka goo ma lee!” The last sentence being an example of what they presumably did NOT say, but what my mind could comprehend over the traffic, train yards, and suchlike contributors to the East Side soundtrack. My replies ran as thus: “No thank you. No thank you! I don’t want to get muddy.” Which were accompanied by my requisite head-wagging and arm-crossing “no’s.” My reply stayed consistent even after the East Side Romeos deserted their beloved lot to idle that Blue Hatchback at my home’s curb. Needless to say, I did not relent to their entreaties, and they swiftly hot-dogged their way off to other vehicular pursuits. Thus closes today’s East Side Memory.
*East Sider 1, East Sider 2.
** It is not uncommon to see vehicles “off-roading” in said vacant lot. They range in appearance from bicycles to four-wheelers to pick-ups and, of course, to blue hatchbacks.
It was a beautiful spring evening on Des Moines’ East Side. The rain was tumbling down from the humid gray cloud cover, the thunder and trains competing for boom power. I parked my survivor-of-a-Buick in the street and made a mad dash for the house. (Who needs umbrellas when you can sprint in high heels?) Safely inside, changed out of my dampened spring dress, and re-wardrobed in the typical jeans and hooded IOWA sweatshirt, it was clearly time for me to have an after-work cigarette on my covered front porch. As I unsuccessfully tried to juggle said sunshine stick, large study Bible, and wind-lashed onion-skin pages, I heard a car honk. Deciding to finish the 34th chapter of Exodus in the wind-free interior of my home, I closed The Book and looked up to see to the diminutive blue hatchback honking and pulling into the vacant lots across the street.** Packed inside the unlikely off-roader were three young men, clearly of an east siderly upbringing. As they whooped out of the windows, which were half-rolled down, I pitied the birds, chipmunks, and rabbits that flew, scurried, and jumped out of their plundering. I pitied the dandelions and Kentucky blue grass blades even more…defenseless victims to traditional east side shenanigans. Sigh. ‘But wait,’ said Nature, ‘don’t fret your little hippie-heart,’ and, as if on cue, the Blue Hatchback was snared in a bog of deep mud, surreptitiously hidden beneath a large, rain-dimpled puddle of water. The wheels spun uselessly as muddy water flew about, like light from a sparkler on the fourth of ju-ly. Immediately the passenger, whom we’ll call ES1*, leaped out and ran diagonally across the street to his abode…whether for help or to escape we shall never know. I, of course, whipped out my green Rumor and snapped a few pictures, which earned me a sheepish smile and wave from ES2*, the driver. I discarded my cigarette butt into the ashtray and entered the house to finish reading the promised Exodus, chapter the 34th.
Approximately one hour later, according to my nicotine receptors, I was once again on my front porch. Lo and behold, the Blue Hatchback had answered a summons of its own and was back to tearing around in yonder wet plain. As I dismissed the non-mystery of the tool-igans in favor of The Mystery of Edwin Drood, I heard a charming “HEY!” vocally thrown my way. Ah yes, the young men were hearkening to me. I gave a half-hearted wave in their direction, accompanied by my irrepressible Mary-Kate Olsen fake smile. “COME ‘ERE!” bellowed ES2 as he motioned with his arm and hand. “COME ‘ERE!” he repeated as I stared back; unresponsive save for my raised left eyebrow. “Come do this with us!” he further entreated, gesturing to the car. “NO THANKS!” I returned, (politely I do hope.) Subsequent persuasions were hollered my way. “Come on! It’s fun! Come with us! What’s your name? Sheva bocka goo ma lee!” The last sentence being an example of what they presumably did NOT say, but what my mind could comprehend over the traffic, train yards, and suchlike contributors to the East Side soundtrack. My replies ran as thus: “No thank you. No thank you! I don’t want to get muddy.” Which were accompanied by my requisite head-wagging and arm-crossing “no’s.” My reply stayed consistent even after the East Side Romeos deserted their beloved lot to idle that Blue Hatchback at my home’s curb. Needless to say, I did not relent to their entreaties, and they swiftly hot-dogged their way off to other vehicular pursuits. Thus closes today’s East Side Memory.
*East Sider 1, East Sider 2.
** It is not uncommon to see vehicles “off-roading” in said vacant lot. They range in appearance from bicycles to four-wheelers to pick-ups and, of course, to blue hatchbacks.
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