15 Words or Less Photo Poetry ~ Impenetrable

Photo is a dirty/fogged up parking meter!)

Impenetrable
Smudged and shadowed
mysteries within
yet clarity is found
in reflections
from the outside looking in

Ocean sands and glowing candles

I’ve been in a bit of a funk since I returned from France. Actually, I was in a funk before I went to France… so much so that I didn’t even write about the fact that I was going to France in the first place.

So first things first- I went to France about a month ago.

The trip came up somewhat on the spur of the moment. My friend Viviane grew up in France and still has family there. She needed to make a trip home, and asked if I’d like to go with her. Umm…. That was a hard question to answer. Ha!

So off we went for a whirlwind 19 days. The trip was upon us so quickly; I didn’t even have much of a chance to freak out about the flight. Well, at least not as much as I usually do. At least not enough that Viviane would realize just how neurotic a friend she’d chosen to take with her. I do try to keep the crazy to a minimum.

It was definitely the trip of a lifetime. And a tiring one- we traveled from Paris to her mom’s house, then headed to the coast for three days. Back to her mom’s house for a few days, then headed to Southern France on a four day adventure, then to Paris for the remaining four days of the trip. In 19 days I was able to put my toes in the English Channel, and then in the Atlantic Ocean. We waded in rivers in Southern France, and drove through mountain roads. We walked in the ruins of centuries-old castles, and got lost along the Route de la Noix. (The Road of the Nuts. I thought that was appropriate!) I stood under the Eiffel Tower, put my feet on the spot that marks Paris’s coordinates, and managed to navigate the Paris subway system. We even ventured into a cave in Southern France. I can honestly say that I have seen France from the inside out.



And the food…. Ah, I think I am French at heart. Bread…. Cheese… wine… pastries… sigh. I’ve been home for two weeks and am still going through major pastry withdrawal. To my amazement, I actually lost a few pounds while I was there. I attribute that to all the walking. And we certainly walked A LOT. Americans are most definitely sedentary creatures. And also probably to the lack of fast food restaurants, and the on-the-go processed foods that we typically eat because we are in too much of a hurry to sit down and actually enjoy a meal. One of the most common questions I was asked was if I minded the amount of time spent at the table. On the contrary- it was a welcome change from grabbing a quick bite in front of the TV. And one of my favorite parts of the day was stopping for a coffee and pastry. Have I mentioned yet how much I enjoyed the pastries?

But a lack of baked goods is not what is causing my funk. Although I’m thinking that an éclair and au café would probably do my blue mood a world of good.

No, my problem is the same old story. I miss my sister. I spent an incredible two and a half weeks in France, and all the while, I missed Emily something terribly. Not in the overwhelmingly painful sad kind of missing her... but the “I wish she could be here” kind of missing. Which is an improvement of sorts, I suppose. I wasn’t miserable and depressed during the trip. I wasn’t despondent, and as I might have briefly stated, I was able to fully enjoy and indulge in my new found pastry habit. I laughed, I enjoyed the company and companionship with my best friend, I took a million photos, I had a wonderful time. I’m able to function without the overwhelming sense of loss and black despair.

Yet everything reminded me of her. From the interaction between Viviane and her two sisters, to the amazing sights I wished I could have shared with Emily, and all the pretty things (and presents!) that she would have loved- she was a constant in my thoughts.

I wrote her name in the sand along the coast of St. Malo at the edge of the English Channel, and in the sands of Cap Ferret on the Atlantic shore. The ocean reminds me of Emily more than any place in the world. And even though her name has long since been swept out with the tides, it made me feel like a little piece of her was with me, even for just a few fleeting moments.

When I went to Poland a couple years ago, I lit a candle for Emily in one of the cathedrals. Though I’m not Catholic, it was my little way of letting her know that I was thinking of her. Of letting her know that somewhere, her light is shining. So during this trip, I lit one for her in a cathedral in Bordeaux, and of course- the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. I had a hard time finding a place to light one in Notre Dame. For one thing- it’s HUGE. Pictures certainly do not do it justice. And there were little alcoves honoring all kinds of Saints everywhere. Obviously not being Catholic, most of the areas that were set up for the candles didn’t hold much significance for me. I didn’t really want to light a candle for my sister in just any place I could find, I wanted to find the “right” spot. Something not as… “Catholic-y”, as irreverent as that sounds. And to further test my lack of decision-making skills, it was a rather gloomy cathedral. Most of the alcoves were dark and depressing. I was just about to give up, when I happened upon an area dedicated to St. Genevieve, who was a patron saint of children. Right away, it made me think of Emily- she was really good with kids. It also had the prettiest and brightest stained glass window- in blues and greens. I got an “Emily-vibe” as I stood there. I think she would have liked that one. And so… Emily had a light burning there too.

But oh, how I still miss her! I think about the amazing opportunities that I’ve had, and the places that I’ve been able to go… and I still feel an underlying sense of guilt because she’s not here. Why her? Why not me? And I know there’s no point in asking those kinds of questions, because there’s not a thing I can do about it. My feeling guilty is not going to bring her back. But feelings do not listen to reason, and my feelings happen to belong to one of the most obstinate people on the face of the earth. All I know is that even in the writing her name in the sands and in the glow of the candles I’ve lit- my heart still aches with her absence. It’s abated somewhat over time. But it’s still there. And I suppose it always will be.

So where do I go from here? I don’t know. I simply do not have the answers, and I don’t know where to find them. I just get so tired of the cycle of embracing grief and letting go, only to have it turn tail and head right back for me. I tire of having the highs of a wonderful experience tempered by the shadow of Emily and the loss of her. It’s wearying. I see signs of light at the end of the tunnel, only to find that I’ve run into another dark curve and the light has disappeared.

I need a brighter flashlight.

And a pastry.
Perhaps two.

But ultimately I want the one thing that I cannot have…I want my sister back.

Glimpses Beyond Bars ~ 15 Words or Less Photo Poetry

Glimpses Beyond Bars

Captive soul
yearns to break free
to soar beyond
a world
that doesn’t understand
me

The Questions that Define Us

It's the Question that defines every generation. "Where were you when.....?"
I imagine that some day my children or grandchildren will be coming to me for the answer to my Question "Where were you on September 11th?" Perhaps they'll ask out of curiosity, or most likely for a history assignment. Kind of like the questions I asked my parents: "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" or " Where were you when the Challenger exploded?" Sadly, every generation seems to have at least one.

I imagine that Question has been asked several times this week.
I wouldn't know for sure- I haven't watched the news once today.

Now granted, that's really not anything new for me. I haven't watched the news in.... well, I can't remember when. But if I did watch the news on a regular basis, I still wouldn't have been watching it today. I don't need a news anchorperson to remind me of what happened ten years ago. The images are forever burned into my mind- and I don't need to turn on a TV to recall them. Days of spending hours glued to a screen watching sorrow after sorrow caught on film, all the while knowing you are powerless to help, leaves a mark on your heart that never really goes away.

Every one remembers in their own way. I know some people are comforted by inspiring stories, by watching the tributes on TV, by heartfelt lyrics, and photos with a song playing in the background. And there is nothing wrong with any of those things. It's just not my way of remembering. It's not how I cope. Perhaps it's just another manifestation of my personal tendency to bury deep and ignore those things in my life that I don't want to deal with or think about. "If I close my eyes, I can't see it... therefore it doesn't exist." That of course is straight from chapter one of the gospel of Melissa's Guide to Dealing with Life and All the Crap that Comes With It. Which typically is the case in about 98% of everything in my life. But I don't think that is necessarily the case today. It's not that I don't want to remember. You can't not remember what happened. It's just that for me, sitting and weeping in front of a barrage of image after image of pain and sorrow and confusion and suffering is..... hollow. That's the best description I can come up with to describe it.

There's a part of me that really cannot stand "anniversaries". This "anniversary" is no different in that aspect. I know that people need to mark the passage of time. I know that when significant milestones come around, there's a deep-seated need to draw again on that sense of community and patriotism that swelled in the aftermath of tragedy. But with that comes the question that begs to be asked. Why is this day any different from the day before and the day before that and the day before that...? Where are the tribute videos on Facebook, the American flag pins proudly displayed on blazer lapels, and the sense of solidarity that brought this country together in one of the worst and darkest days in our history as a nation on the other 364 days of the year?

What happened to those days when you weren't a Democrat, Republican, or an Independent- you were an American. What happened to those days where the color of your skin faded and it didn't matter if you were a 1st generation American or if you could trace your roots back to the Mayflower, what mattered was that you stood on the soil that proclaimed "Land of the Free"? What happened to the days when you could look into the eyes of the person next to you and the unspoken message that passed was that we were in this together?

What happened was what happens in all tragedies- life returned to normal. People slip back into their routines and habits and reclaim the prejudices that were all too briefly set aside. Democrats once again became the Devil(s) Incarnate, Republicans returned to thumping their Bibles, and Independents slipped back into the middle ground of Those Who are too Dumb to Make up Their Minds- each group loudly bashing the other. People whose skin was bathed in the glow of red, white, and blue returned to the colors that still somehow are used to determine a person's worth. That ticket from the Mayflower once again became all- important, and newcomers are looked down upon as being on a somewhat lower level as far a citizenship.

Do I sound cynical? Unpatriotic? Preaching from a very high horse? Perhaps. Maybe it's not the most patriotic of remembrances that will be written today. But it's the way I feel. For the average citizen, at least, for this average citizen, September 11th is a day that's now honored once every year, and mostly forgotten about the rest of the time. But for the soldiers that went to war as a result of that day, September 11th bleeds into September 12th. And continues on into February 2nd. May 19th. July 27th. For the thousands of families that lost someone they loved, September 11th is the shadow lingering on October 2nd. On December 24th. On April 3rd. On June 30th. On August 9th. September 11th isn't a once-a-year anniversary for them... it's a daily reality. For me, it's not. The war rages on in countries and towns with names I cannot pronounce, bullets are hurtling through the air, and buildings are burning, people are suffering, families on all sides are mourning their losses all as a result of that day 10 years ago, and yet here I sit in the comfort of my air conditioned house typing on my pretty red laptop, listening to my iPod, occasionally glancing at my Facebook news feed from my phone, dreading going to work in the morning, chatting with my mom and making plans to fly home for Christmas, and all the while drinking microwaved Starbucks coffee. In other words, a typical day.

Somehow the two realities don't equal out in the Scale of Grief. And I am having a hard time reconciling that with the significance of what today should mean to me.

Yes, my life changed that day, along with the lives of this nation, and most of the world in some aspects. The lingering aftershocks still follow me ten years later- an intense aversion to watching the news. A dislike of heights and tall buildings. A greater and more amplified fear of elevators. A flash of slight panic when seeing someone of Mid-Eastern ethnicity at the airport, followed by a deep sense of self-loathing for feeling that way, and worst of all- a sickening realization that even in the knowing it is so, so wrong to feel that way, this prejudice will probably stay with me the rest of my life. Even though September 11th left its scars on me... my life returned to normal. And maybe that's why the marking of its anniversary doesn't bring me comfort. I feel dishonest in honoring a day that most days I don't even think about anymore.

So how do I wrap this up? Surely there ought to be something redeeming to say at the end of all that. Honestly, I think part of me was hoping that I'd find my own answer somewhere in the writing- that I'd suddenly change my outlook and be like the rest of the population who can spend the day remembering without the sense of self-righteousness that I'm pretty sure is threaded all throughout this post...
but you can't help who you are, and I certainly am not like most people.

I guess the best I can do is to try and honor the memory of September 11th. Or rather, quietly mourn and reflect.

Mostly I fervently pray that there will be no more "Where were you When...?" questions to be asked.