change of address

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Why I'm not a Leader (And that's OK)

It's actually more than OK. I'm feeling pretty good about it. 

I'm not good at holding people accountable; I find it awkward. I'm not good at offering praise; it feels condescending. I can't really "rally" people together; it takes too much energy. And, the true test of a leader in business: I really hate networking at Happy Hour. 

But just because I'm not leading doesn't mean I'm a sheep. Since when did it get so black and white? Seems like the older you get, the more people expect you to start speaking up and "making the call." Especially in this 9-to-5 world. Taking initiative isn't enough; all of a sudden, you have to take the lead. But I just prefer working with others, thinking before I speak, and shining in low pressure situations. It's not for lack of ambition; leaders aren't the only ones with intellect and ability, wisdom and courage. In fact, there are plenty of leaders who really lack all that. I'm just happy to admit that on the leader-to-follower spectrum, I sit very happily in the Doing-My-Own-Thing-and-Being-Really-Good-At-It-Without-Trying-To-Screw-Anyone-Over grey area. It's not aloof, or cool (seriously, though, it would be awesome if this makes me cool), it just seems to be an honest way to live. Unfortunately--and I don't know if this is unique to business or New York or being a young woman, or being a younger sibling, or all of the above--it seems like I'm increasingly discouraged to live that way. Maybe I've yet to drink the Kool-aid. Maybe I'm taking my opportunities for granted. But really, glass-ceiling talk aside, every Alpha is only as good as her pack. So why not be one of a really damn impressive pack. 

In some ways, I think that's the Writer's Life; devoid of The Ladder, free of the need to rise and instead about exploring what's around. Ya follow?

How to write again, Pt 1

It’s been a while, I know. I can tell by your hesitation, lack of eye contact, the blinking cursor. You worry that you have nothing to say, that the best you could put to paper happened when you were twenty, starry-eyed and inspired, waxing poetic about your newness to New York, to love and beer, to skinny jeans and the world.

You learned how to write when you were lovesick, heartbroken, jilted. You wrote to help you cope, forget, remember. Remember during that first, drawn out break up? Yeah, that was some good stuff.

At school, you learned to edit. You learned the practical things that Real Writers know. Trim the fat, to show not tell, to write what you know. You learned that people used to make money writing. Not anymore, though.

Now you’re in the real world, with a real, 9 to 5 where you use your brain and make money, settled in with someone you love. You have nothing to be sad about. You’re happy, but you don’t write all that much, mostly because all of a sudden, it feels like you’ve got nothing to write about. Is there even such a thing as a happy writer?

First, muster up the courage to look at a blank sheet, a blinking cursor, a pen in hand. Then sit. And wait. Be patient. Writing again takes time, and (did you forget?) it’s never been easy.

Be honest with yourself. Let it be bad. At least you’ve got words on paper. Don’t get frustrated—see, there? You’ve already started your first sentence.

Remember those secrets that were too new to tell, and the things you didn’t want him to see? You can unearth that now. Dust off the half-thoughts—doubt can make us stronger; is happiness just nostalgia?; siblings torn apart by loss; is Michael Strahan really the new Regis? Let. It. Out.

Remember the reason you needed to write in the first place, that these were your secrets, for strangers. Remember that you are just a husk, the vessel for something else. Let it pass through you, and keep only the things you need...

OK. Now go write.

Good Stuff

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/what-moving-on-is-like/

I'll be your fin

from the archives (Oct 22, 2006)...

Smoked Salmon, as we all know, has a fungus problem. Lately, it's gotten pretty bad and he has lost his fin. It's very sad to see. Yesterday I was in my room and I went to check up on Rebel and Salmon and noticed Salmon floating on his side. I panicked, but realized that he was still alive. Because he's lost his fin, he can't swim like normal, he can only swim up and down. He floats on his side and then swims to the bottom of the bowl and floats back up. I didn't know what to do for him, so I wrote him a poem. It's called I'll Be Your Fin:

I'll be your fin when you're on your side,
When it feels like the world only goes left to right.
When your fishbowl is fuzzy and things are unclear,
I'll be the net that clears away your fear.
I'll swim and swim when you need me
I'll swim and swim when you need me.

You go deeper and deeper hoping things will change,
Hoping the water will rise and you can go back the way you came.
But I watch from a distance, the things you do
And wish, more than anything, that I could help you the way you need me to.
I wish I could help you the way you need me to.

Hold on the way you do, the only way you can.
Let the water pass through your gills and fill you with oxygen.
I'll swim and swim when you need me
I'll be your fin when you need me.

memo

make it sink in

say it out loud

put it in ink.

a pen, a water tower that

tempers the burn, soaks the frenzy

(until it runs dry):

with the embers

line your eyes,

to see its senescence

and also its life.

learn

to no longer need

something you once needed;

let that surprise you  

and remember

that restlessness, that rustle and rush

in your heart?

it means you're alive

"Free"

the fringe benefits of failure

the grass is greener where you water it

Stubborn, Happy Bravery

The Hula Hoop is Good at Girling

i want to feel like this every day

i feel happy of myself

i would like one of these please

prelude

Will you let me learn it? The way it smells in the morning, the way it feels, 
dry, warm, under my fingers and against my arms.
The way it moves when I move,
The way it wrinkles, pressed tight,
The way it is when things are quiet.

Will you let it seep out from your pores,
let it dampen your clothes and palms
and run down your forehead, leaving a trail that I can follow?

Let this be what moves me, what deserves me, what shakes and shifts me,
Let this be what makes me forget that I am a proud girl who wants for nothing.

Let this be what make me just foolish enough,
Just foolish enough to be brave,
Because I want to be brave forever.

Let this be what makes me patient,
Let this be makes me forgive.

Will you let me learn it? The way it chirrs like crickets, keeping me awake,
melting into my ears, echoing in the space around me,
singing out of these walls.

ode to the lighthouse

The Rugby Poets Club Presents: "Chariot" by Joshua Bennett from Ralph Lauren on Vimeo.

I know what that's like

Mamihlapinatapai: "A look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start.”.

                         -from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego,
                         considered the world's most succinct word and
                         considered one of the most difficult words to translate

A Salsa Story

Last night was taco night and Shadow and Ryan's place, a tradition Shadow and I have celebrated since our days back in Broome Street dorms. It's one of those nights you talk about months in advance, and never plan on a whim. If you're invited to a taco night, you come to that taco night. If you miss a taco night, you know you're missing out on a Core tradition.
Anyways, last night was the first taco night in a while, and we were excited. I picked up Shadow from work and on our way home we stopped by the grocery store to pick up some necessities: taco seasoning, sour cream, salsa, and mini tortillas (for the soft taco option). We walked into the store expecting to grab and go-- you know, a quick, casual trip so that we could get to assembling tacos as soon as possible. We had no idea what we were in for.
Sour cream was no problem-- we saw it and threw it in our cart right away. Same with the tortillas. But we soon became painfully aware that this would be no quick stop at the grocery store.
Our first hunt: taco seasoning. It was no where to be found! No where! Next to the beans? No. Next to the HARD SHELL TACOS? Nope. PERHAPS IN THE SEASONING AISLE? No cigar. Shadow and I began to panic, thinking, Oh god, there can be no tacos without taco seasoning, and there can be no taco night without tacos! And just as we began to hyperventilate in unison (as shadows do), I grabbed her by the shoulders and said, SHADOW, LOOK WITH YOUR HEART. LOOK WITH YOUR HEART FOR THE TACO SEASONING.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and started walking. She paced down an aisle we'd passed moment before, this way and that, and then, in a moment of clarity, looked up, up, above the ground meats and sausages, into a small, dark cubby above the refrigerated section, and ever-so-coolly plucked a packet of taco seasoning from the cubby.
I squealed. She looked with her heart, and she found the taco seasoning! She made it look so easy.
Now it was my turn. I was tasked with finding the salsa by looking with my heart. Simple enough: salsa, in my opinion, is probably one of the most commonly bought items at the grocery store, next to milk and bananas. Late night slumber party runs to the market always result in chips and dip, usually opened up on the car ride home. Supermarket Sweep contestants always threw salsa into their carts.
So, my job was easy: open my heart and find the salsa. While Shadow scanned the aisles for anything we had missed, looking with my heart, I started searching. And searching....and searching.
Words cannot express my dismay.
Here I was, trying to take my own advice, trying to look with my heart for the last ingredient to our perfect taco night, and I just couldn't. Couldn't find it. Totally lost.  It had been so easy for Shadow. So clear. But my heart vision clearly needed to be checked. I panicked. Was there something wrong with me? Was I just an idiot? Was I unlucky? Was I walking past it over and over, staring right at it, missing it? Shadow could see that I was swimming in the possibilities, so she decided to ask the store manager where they keep the salsa.
Shadow came back with the news: THEY DON'T CARRY SALSA. It wasn't my heart's farsightedness, afterall. I was just LOOKING FOR SOMETHING THAT DOESN'T EXIST. I felt even worse than before. Horrified and heavy-hearted, I slumped out of the store, with Shadow at my side trying her best to console me, begging me to not take this as an extended metaphor.
But how could I not? It was all so clear to me! I've been looking for Salsa my whole young adult life, and have been pacing up and down life's proverbial aisles, watching as all my friends open their hearts and find their taco seasonings. Here I am, worried about my heart's hazy vision, thinking I'm just passing it by, and even though what I'm looking for seems simple enough, maybe I'm just looking for something that The Grocery Store just doesn't carry.
I was still distressed when we got back to Shadow's place. Ryan greeted us as soon as we walked in, with fresh beers from the nearby store already in hand. As soon as I set my things down, I took one from him-- my only remedy. As soon as I did, he said, Oh, Foram! I have something for you.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a jar of curry-style salsa that he just happened to pick up from the store along with the beers. He had seen it while checking out and thought of me (as an important little Indian in his life). I was elated. He had no idea why.
I thanked him profusely, for bringing me my salsa, and for teaching me a lesson almost instantly. Maybe the whole point is that looking for my Salsa-- with my eyes or my heart-- will not do me any good if my Salsa just isn't around yet. I might be in the wrong place, or maybe it's just the wrong time, but when it comes down to it, with my nearsighted eyes and my farsighted heart wide open, my Salsa will find me.

she maps everything...

Her son's favorite burrito joints...

 

"This little map celebrates my mastery of the “My Maps” feature on Google Maps, introduced to me by my son Greg, who also happens to be my webmaster and computer guru. Obviously, he's a huge burrito fan. The text at the bottom("I like burritos") is a nod to Greg's wife Yenari, for whom he is learning essential Korean"

Or the New York City Marathon...

Or the journey of a person...

                                                              -Redstone Studios

I wonder if I can stay put, if I can rest in one spot,

just long enough for you to get here

and find me.

I’m floating, trying, but

I’m losing my bearings while I play it cool,

while I pretend that I’m not thinking

of what dress I’ll wear when we have our first picnic

of what I’ll order when we stay in and watch a movie.

Tether me to this place,

where my heart skips at the sight and sound and feel of your name

on paper or in the air.

I’m letting myself sail on this breeze,

listening to the susurrus of my insides.

I am scared,

damn, I’m scared.

And a million other things.

***

You gave me your card.

A token, a fingerprint, a static timestamp

of the night you started to stick.

You left it on my nightstand.

It’s still on my nightstand.

Sometimes it’s covered

by a book or a glass of water or a hair clip,

and sometimes I’ll pull it out from under, just to remember

what it feels like to know

where to find you.

So I’ll do my very best to wait, patiently, painfully,

and as gracefully

as I can.

just do me a favor

And find me.