tomorrow morning

I'm awakened gently, seduced from sleep by the warmth of the rays from the early morning sun on my face and the miscellaneous signs of life taking place all around me. I stir in bed, but my eyes remain closed. I don't want to open them just yet. I want to enjoy this moment to its fullest, to savor every aspect of its existence, to pretend as though this is exactly how i'm going to wake up every day for the rest of my life.

Children are laughing. Little feet are slapping on the porch as they run right by my room. Someone is sweeping the courtyard, the swish of the broom nearly hypnotizing. Dishes are clinking in the kitchen and i can hear one of the staff kindly ordering a handful of curious children out of the house. I smell coffee.

Finally, reluctantly, i open my eyes. The sunlight is pouring through in such a way that it's making pictures on the floor with the shadows. Someone has drawn the curtains to the sliding glass doors that take up an entire wall in this room, leaving only the sheer drapery underneath so that i can see everything going on outside. Efraim is cleaning the pool, little Carlos at his side. One of the boys is feeding the dog in the backyard under the lime trees. And two of the smallest girls are sitting right outside my doors coloring and chattering in Spanish, where every few minutes another child skitters by shouting. Eventually, they start walking back the other way, hidden under enormous piles of clothing. It's laundry day.

I should probably get up.

I don't normally roll out of bed this late when i'm here (and really, it's still quite early), because every minute is precious and each one not spent with the children feels like a loss. But i feel the extra half-hour of sleep today will be worth it later when i've got the energy to give them my undivided attention for as long as they need it. You can't be lazy here. You don't want to be.

I take the world's fastest shower and hop into some clothes and wander down the empty hallway, past the kitchen and the living/dining area, and step through the open door into the day. I am immediately bombarded with children - one hugging my leg, one with his arm around my waist, and one jumping up and down with his hands outstretched towards me yelling, "Lléveme!" I bend forward and scoop him up in my arms and demand that he kiss my cheek. He does, and then i tickle him. The laughter that tumbles out of his mouth is beyond infectious and makes my heart swell.

This is the perfect morning, I think to myself, but this is only half true. When i'm in Colombia, every morning is the perfect morning. No, there's no thunderstorm, i didn't sleep till noon, and i won't be eating waffles for breakfast. I also technically woke up alone. But none of that really matters. It's true that i never know what to expect on any given morning when i'm here. I may be waking up at quarter to four. I may have to hand-wash thirty plastic dining chairs or fold laundry for thirty little bodies. I may be drinking papaya juice for the seventh day in a row. But it's all perfect, every bit of it, every time. Because everything holds meaning. Every morning i wake up and there's a purpose waiting for me, a sense of joy that there's much to be done and so many special people to do it with. I'm complete when i wake and i'm complete when i fall asleep, and even if my dreams are filled with worries and doubts and insecurities, with the dawn always comes a new completion.

When i'm back in the U.S., i don't experience this cycle very often. I suppose part of that stems from the fact that i honestly consider Colombia my home now and really, how could i expect to feel complete when i'm so far from home? But i hold on to the possibility, the hope that one day things will change and no matter where i am or what circumstances i'm under, i can wake up and think to myself, This is the perfect morning. And i can't help but wonder what that will look like tomorrow...a week from now...five years...ten years. Will i be alone or drinking papaya juice or watching the sun rise or cleaning up vomit? Will i be getting ready for work or crying because of a bad dream? Will i be making pancakes so big they'll have to be eaten straight off the table, syrup and all?

I don't know. All i know is, a wise man with a guitar once pointed out that tomorrow is a long time...so i hope my tomorrow is perfect.

various stages of undress

I'm holding on, i'm letting go, i'm being strong, i'm weakening. I'm gaining ground, i'm falling down, i'm giving up again. And i'll bleed and i'll cry and i'll scream and punch, and you'll give me my space and allow it, for a while. Because all i want is to curl up in arms that will fight me and force me to submission, and that's where i'll sleep. But i guess you already know that.

the seed

Said the blade of grass to the restless wind,
"I've seen the end of many things in my day,
but the worst of it all is the fire that dies
leaving nothing but ashes till the smoke clears away.
And i watch those steps to the inn on the hill
overlooking the bay where many boats have sailed past;
lovers come and go, but they never return
because they've given up on finding something that lasts."

Hey, ohhhh...
Hey, ohhhh...

Said the restless wind to the rustling leaves,
"Did you know that love is only a dream?
I was told by the grass it'll never be found
like a seed that got lost when it floated downstream.
I guess there's no hope for the soul anymore
after all, anything with a beginning must end."
And the wind moved on, but the leaves were enraged
and they whispered so loud the trees they started to bend.

Hey, ohhhh...
Hey, ohhhh...

Said the rustling leaves to the bended ear,
"Listen closely to the warning I give.
I was told by the wind who was told by the grass
that the heart has been jaded so that love might not live.
And the world is to blame, but there's hope for you yet;
don't give up and let it break in and steal.
With noble strength, teach your heart to wait,
and one day soon you'll find a love that is real."

Hey, ohhhh...
Hey, ohhhh...

stream of unconsciousness

I'm going to lie here in the darkness warm and listen to this sound and listen until my heart pounds in time and listen until i can't hear anything else but the steady rhythm of something good and my head clears to numb and if i open my mouth and utter anything it won't make sense to anyone but myself and that's assuming i'd even notice. No words. No thoughts, no plans. I'm just going to hold my head in my hands and surrender to the idea of surrendering. There's nothing i want to be, nothing i want to do, nothing i want to say, nothing i need to know. But i want to feel. I want my heart to heal and understand what certain things mean and how it's allowed to swell and ache in more good ways than bad. I want to be had, and i want to be held, and i want to recklessly abandon all reservations and lay my life down for that which will keep me there. I want to always care. And i don't know much about a lot of things but i'm slowly learning more about the ones i think truly matter and i don't want to measure my life on a scale of accomplishments that won't be worth anything when i'm old and then gone. I want to sing and do laundry and make pancakes so big they'll have to be eaten straight off the table, syrup and all. I want to build something that makes me sweat and visit someone far away and give up something for the benefit of another. I want to keep building bridges and throwing things to the other side if i can't cross them myself. But for now i'm happy just lying here in the darkness warm and listening to the sound.

the point is that they lived.

July 24, 1994. I was 7 years old and sweat was dripping down my face; every once in a while an erratic bead would slip into my eyes and cause them to burn. It was easily one of the hottest days of the year. My scrawny butt was parked on a plastic seat that stuck to the backs of my thighs in the heat, and i was all but lost in a sea of fanny-packed, beer-guzzling 30-50 year olds, but i didn't care. I was having an experience.

Back then, it didn't take much for a thing to qualify as an experience for me. Going swimming in my grandfather's pool, for example, would have been an experience. Drinking coke with my pizza was an experience. Going to the library. All of these things counted because they were luxuries (well, okay, the library wasn't - but i was such a book dork that it still made the list). When i was growing up, things like going out for ice cream and going to the movies were extremely cherished affairs - which is what they should be, i think. While all the other kids in school were taking their second and third trips to Disney World, my family was headed for Storyland...and then back to the library. My parents simply couldn't afford much else.

Luckily, i was also a fairly naive little girl, ignorant (for the most part) of what the rest of society considered important or worthwhile. At 7 years old, i still hadn't figured out how to form my own opinions on much and therefore, whatever my parents thought was cool was cool enough for me. Including (and here i brace myself for the inevitable backlash)...country music. And not country music like you know it now, either. There were no bare-chested, synth-assisted, i'm-actually-from-new york-but-check-out-my-badass-chevy posers warbling about badonkadonks (seriously, just...no). I'm talking there's a backyard BBQ at the trailer park Friday night and if you're not wearing snakeskin boots, a bolo tie and a 6-pack under your arm, consider yourself uninvited country music.

Indian Ranch, Webster, MA. That's where i was on July 24, 1994. I had my know-it-all older brother on one side, my irritable, ADD-plagued younger brother on the other, and my parents on either end of them. And there i sat in the middle with my munchkin legs stuck straight out in front of me, my dad's oversized cap covering half of my face, grinning like an idiot as i strained my neck to look over the crowd so i could watch my idol, Sammy Kershaw, crooning on stage. His bandmates all had mullets, but he didn't. He seemed a little more with the times. He did have a very impressive oval belt buckle roughly the size of our waffle iron, though. He stood there all casual-like, strumming on his guitar, wearing what i thought was a pretty sweet pair of sunglasses (well, i thought so later. During the show, we were sitting so close to the speakers that i seriously couldn't even hear a thought pass through my head).

This was an experience. It had probably taken us almost two hours to get to Webster - two hours! - and here we were, at my very first concert ever, watching Sammy Kershaw live - the Sammy Kershaw, the one that made my heart go pitter-patter every time he did that crooked smile thing where the corner of his eye crinkles and the flecks in those baby blues sparkle like a carbonated beverage. It was enough to make an elementary school girl from the boonies think she were in love.

Sammy sang what i felt were all his best songs - "Don't Go Near The Water," "Queen Of My Double-Wide Trailer," "She Don't Know She's Beautiful," and "Third Rate Romance." (I had no idea what the heck a third rate romance was (nor what the following line, "low rent rendezvous" meant), but Sammy certainly made it sound pretty awesome.) Then, when he'd gotten the crowd all high and juiced up, he moved on to "National Working Woman's Holiday." Holy crap was i unprepared for the insanity that followed. Women screaming, looking ready to rip their bras off (probably some of them did - i was peanut-sized, remember, i couldn't see much and my eyes were fixated on the love of my life anyway), husbands and boyfriends rolling their eyes and grumbling as they downed another plastic cup of beer.

Then my moment came. My mother slipped me a small white envelope, took me by the hand, and led me to the end of the row where several official-looking men were ushering people (mostly women, all with flowers or envelopes much like mine) to the front of the stage. We were to walk past Sammy, complete our business, and leave. No dilly-dallying. I clutched the envelope in my clammy little hands, my heart pounding, and stared wide-eyed at Sammy as i walked past. I'm pretty sure he looked down at me, and in that moment i was convinced that our fate was sealed. I slid the letter i'd written to him earlier onto the stage and reluctantly followed my mother back to our seats. The letter (because i know the mystery is killing you) probably went something like this:

Dear Sammy,
How are you? I hope your fine. I love your music. I think you write
great songs. I love your singing. She Don't Know She's Beutiful is my
favrit song by you. I like it a lot. Will you mary me?
Love,
Audrey Leanne Cordeiro

(The last name was in case he got confused about which Audrey i was, obviously. My middle name was a back-up, just in case.)

As soon as the show ended, my heart began racing again - and not because of Sammy. I was exhilarated, but exhilaration quickly turned to fear and then panic when i realized i was deaf.

Me: "Dad, i think i'm deaf."
Dad: (his mouth moves, but i hear nothing)
Me: "What? I can't hear you!"
Dad: (shakes his head with a smile and chuckles)
Me: "DAD!!!!! I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING!!!!!" (here my eyes begin to well up with tears because i'm so afraid that i've traded one amazing experience for a lifetime of silence.)

My mother, suddenly realizing the genuine depth of my fear, finally had the compassion to yell back in my ear that the music did it to me, that this was normal, and that my ability to hear would return later on. I doubted her greatly, and i was miserable for the rest of the day, but thankfully my eardrums eventually did recuperate and i was reassured once again that, yes, mothers did know everything.

The point of this story is not to bare my occasionally geeky childhood to those who aren't already aware of it, nor is it to brutally make fun of myself for ever having had a crush on Sammy Kershaw (although it's really too late for both of those things, isn't it?). The point is, i am and always have been an active liver (the noun, not the organ). I'm determined to experience life, and to experience it fully, no matter where i am or what i'm doing. Thankfully i had parents who worked hard to instill this outlook in me from a very young age, teaching me to be content under any and all circumstances and not to wait for happiness to come from other sources but in fact to create it myself. At that show, i experienced all sorts of feelings...wonderment, excitement, curiosity and fear. But all in all - even to this day, i'll admit - i'm happy with it. As memories go, it's a pretty good one. Because i lived in the moment, and i felt things.

I'm fascinated with that part of man, the feeling part. It's the most complex part there is, because it's so vague and yet it can be applied very specifically to just about anything. Seeing, smelling, tasting, touching and hearing all lead to feeling. There's just no way around it. And i'm constantly in awe of how many different ways to feel there are, how many different emotions there are. It astounds me how any number of people can have vastly different feelings in response to the same thing.

I'm more of a Touch person than i am, say, a See or Hear person. I can look at a piece of art, for example, but it won't have as much of an effect on me as a class in finger painting would. I can listen to a lecture on the anatomy of frogs and rats, but i won't learn half as much as i would if i simply dissected the two (which i've done, and everything made much more sense afterwards). Don't get me wrong, both seeing and hearing are very, very important in the way of experiencing something in its entirety (consider the ocean - without being able to see it, hearing it barely paints the whole picture, but without hearing it, just looking at it hardly does it justice). But as human beings, it is in our nature to be physical. This is why we're ultimately, instinctively driven towards sex, why bodily exertion of any kind makes us feel (see?) so good...so confident and accomplished and satisfied. It's the backbone of man; it's what, in the end, makes us all essentially the same: naked, fashioned from nothing, conceived first from the dust of the earth and then from a single rib. (If only we could all look at one another this way all the time, perhaps the world would be a better place...but that's another tangent.)

I've experienced fireworks so close that their sparks have fallen like snow on my skin. For as long as i can remember, watching fireworks on the 4th of July has been an experience i've enjoyed more than almost anything else. Watching them shoot up into the air like rockets and explode into a luminous display that lights up the entire sky never fails to take my breath away. But even more captivating for me is the feeling when that firework bursts as though the world's largest and loudest gun just went off and an entire army of bass drums pounds in unison like a massive bullet in the chest. I've fallen completely in love with that feeling, and i've yet to find much else in life that does such a wildly obsessive number inside of me.

I've been to one of the world's most beautiful beaches, standing in waters so clear and so teal i could've sworn i was dreaming, being attacked by waves so strong they could've taken out small houses with little persistence. I dug my feet deep into the sand laden with billions of tiny little shells and sea creatures and locked my knees in place, determined to withstand as much of the force of those waves for as long as i possibly could, but each time they were nearly upon me i'd start screaming bloody murder, and each time they took me out like i was nothing but a remnant of weathered glass.

I could go on, but i think you get the picture. Life...is big. It's bigger than me, it's bigger than you, it's bigger than fireworks or waves or sex or whatever other pleasing experiences that you've got history with. It's bigger than sadness or happiness, pain or healing, tears or laughter. And yet it's a combination of all of these things, things that prove we're alive and complicated and simple and naked.

I don't have all the answers, but i know this. We've been given a body, a breath, a mind, a world that is meant to be experienced, a life that is meant to be lived out to the fullest and in the best way possible. If we didn't need any one of our senses, we wouldn't have been born with them. If we weren't meant to feel (and God knows i've had my moments where i've wished the heart were fully incapable of feeling), we simply wouldn't be able to. But we can - and so, i profess, we should. I insist it, really, for myself at least.

"And though Cinderella and her prince did live happily ever after...the point, gentlemen, is that they lived." - Ever After

what if you held the world in your arms? (part 2)

She nestles into the plump leather seat on the train, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She rests her head on them and stares blankly out the window with eyes that are searching...

The small bag feels warm against her side and comforts her, a familiar presence in the otherwise deserted car. They made it. They got on the train, and there is no turning back.

The train's whistle blows and the girl's stomach turns in tandem with its wheels. Slowly, determinedly, the machine begins to pick up speed.

What if.

Watching the fallow glade with its whispers and groans disappear out of view, she sighs - lightly, for she cannot bear to take too deep a breath just yet. She has never been more relieved or more frightened in all her life than she is in this moment. As much as she knows what she's leaving behind, she has no idea where these tracks are taking her. This is her Wood Between The Worlds, and she's all caught up in the underbrush.

Here. Now. In this moment.

What if.

She rests her forehead on her knees, closes her eyes, and sleeps.