Late to Work
The morning is cool against my back. I have just a lil' bit of sunburn from playing Frisbee in MLK park on Sunday. The cool thing about a park is the moment you start to do something fun: Frisbee, bubbles, chalk drawings, etc... a group of kids immediately wants to play with you. These children were of a skin tone a shade darker than mine so they weren't melting as I was. It didn't matter. My lungs were pumping from all the running and I taught at least two kids how to throw a sunny yellow disk to their friends. It was a good feeling. Poetry is still taking up most of my time. It seems I barely have enough room to eat and sleep through work, set up, rehearsal, and revising/memorizing. It is a good time for me to be busy. I've had to be a lot stronger than I would like these past few weeks. I'm a gentle person and I always believe the best in everyone. I've had two dear friends call me out on this behavior. Not that they think I should become cruel, they appreciate my light, but they think I should be clear on my intentions even if that means getting a little harsh. I have no regrets though sadness is present. I have not come out "the victor" or any of that one sidedness. I am sad that someone I thought I could love couldn't love me the way I needed him to when I needed it. Bad timing. And I've been though that before. My heart is honest and open. I feel no bitterness because, like Virginia Wolfe says, we all have our own apple tree. There is a story inside all of us horribly flawed, brilliant, wonderful creatures. We will never live a paved life. I am going over red dirt roads. Going home to the water and the smell of banished fish. I grew up with hammocks in my eyes. I grew up with kindness pulling on one side and abuse pulling at the other. I grew up-right. I have much work to do before I reconcile the hurt I feel. But it's that pain that makes me realize that, for the first time in a while, my heart was open. And that, in it's own whispering way, is my gift.