Sundays.

And after nearly five years of resisting her mother's pleas, she finally stepped into a Catholic Church. It was 3,000 miles and on a complete opposite coast of the modest mission style she had been basically raised in. And yet, it felt so familiar. For every Catholic Church is mostly structured in the same way, save for differing levels of grandeur.
She sat toward the back of the church for she still fell much apprehension in regards to her decision to partake of a Sunday ritual. Staying close to the doors would make for an easier exit, she thought. She looked around. And as the families made their way to their pews, it all began to feel more and more familiar. Everyone greeted each other with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. And she remembered what it was like to be a part of a community such as this. Adults marveled at how fast children were growing, ever-faithful parishoners commended youth on their continuous participation as alter servers, babies were held, passed, and admired.
And she then began to see why her mother never ceased to plea for her return to the church. There is a certain rhythm to life that such Sunday rituals provide. And though it could be because of the strict tradition of the Catholic Church, it was more or less the community that the church created. And while she had made countless cases with many facts as to why such a community could be detrimental (i.e. unfounded judgment, hypocrisy, and a seeming unwillingness to accept those who are remotely different) there was still so much good. And it was apparent merely by watching people. Yes, the nurturing of a faith in God was the primary reason for participation in the Sunday ritual. Yes, many came simply out of habit. Yes it was highly probable that many didn't have a strong conviction in their Catholic faith. And yes, she still believed that Sunday rituals did not directly (if at all) correlate to being a good person. But the love felt in that two to three hundred capacity building with its crucifixes, statues, and candles adorning all its walls, was un-paralleled. She had felt like such an outsider when first entering. But even just ten minutes into the Sunday ritual. She felt that love, which she hadn't experienced for so many years. It was non-judgmental, it was unlike any other feeling she had experienced.
And so as she looked up to the altar where the priest held his hands out in prayer, and while the congregation bowed their heads, she shook hers, and smiled. For yet again, her (at times seemingly insane) mother had been right again. Simple attendance at this Sunday ritual does make a difference in one's life. And to her surprise, quite a positive one.

Beauty.

She had to believe in God. Her family of course must have had something to do with it, but moreover it was what she had seen that made her believe. While much of it was what caused her immeasurable pain, it was also the beauty in the world that became the source of her conviction. Witnessing a father taking his son out to surf for the first time. Observing a random act of kindness as simple as holding the elevator for a stranger. Having the opportunity to watch a beautiful sunset. And then of course there was the ocean.
Though there have been many people who have studied the ocean she didn’t think it possible to fully comprehend the power of it. The beauty seen and the admiration it deserved, perhaps. But the power of it, never. The way the tide can easily bring in beautiful shells onto the sand, that had previously been hidden in the ocean’s depths for hundreds of years. Or even just the graceful seemingly effortless movement of it. The ocean could swallow you hole whether or not you let it. And the vastness would ensure that you would be lost forever. And while this could be a terrifying thought to many, to her it was quite beautiful, and worthy of much respect.
And so, on her worst days she would pay a visit to, what she believed to be, the closest thing to a deity on earth. She wouldn’t worship it of course, for there is no reason for such foolish actions. She would merely admire the grandeur of it all. On her worst days it would remind her of how small she, and consequently her problems, really were. Insignificance would inevitably come to mind as well. But merely the existence of such a beautiful, grand, and mighty thing as the ocean would remind her of God. For God is powerful, grand, almighty, etcetera. And most definitely, she thought, beautiful. The beauty in the world and in life assured her that her worst days would pass. That something so simple had the potential of issuing her a smile. And that she just might be able to make it one more day.

To be Needed.

A friend of mine challenged me to write something in 15 minutes. This is what I came up with.

It was years ago. She should leave the past in the past and let it all go. He wasn’t worth it, they all said. And she knew it too. She knew that all he did was use her. That when he didn’t need her, they hardly ever spoke. But when another girl would make another mistake, she was the first one he called. And then just like that, he was gone. He had found her, the one who supposedly would make all his dreams come true. The one that she had thought she had always been. And because he so deeply believed that the supposedly perfect girl was the one he had been searching for all his life, he didn’t need her anymore. This one really did seem perfect.
She watched the wedding from the altar. The supposedly perfect girl had chosen her as a bridesmaid. For the supposedly perfect girl was kind enough to include her in the ceremony that would guarantee her never being able to be with the love of her life. It was a beautiful ceremony indeed. And it was with that, that he was lost.
And yet, she could not let him go. She kept hoping (because hope tends to be all that there is left when all else seems to be lost) that the supposedly perfect girl would make some sort of mistake that would bring him back to her. For while she knew that he would never be hers, that he would never love her the way she wanted him to, no, needed him to, all she had ever really wanted was to be needed by him. All she had wanted was a phone call in the long, increasingly lonely nights, that showed he at least cared. But such hoping is lost on men like him. This she knew. For the call never came. And so, though so much time had passed, and though all friends and all better judgment told her how much better it would be to just let him go, still she hoped. Because for her, being needed by him was better than being loved by anyone else.

Mommies.

I was going to make this blog all about writing. But I'm such a big fan of post secret I had to put this on here. I think everyone feels this way sometimes which is why post secret is so cool.
I promise I'll get back on the writing soon.

For more of these go to: postsecret.blogspot.com

Happy Belated Mother's day.

Don't Talk (awkwardly) to Strangers.

I met a woman today. I met a woman with a one karat diamond in each ear, black stiletto Jimmy Choos, True Religion Jeans, and a simple yet probably ridiculously over-priced long-sleeved black v-neck. Her ensemble was effortlessly chic. Her demeanor confident and poised. She stopped at my favorite spot and asked to share my bench. I politely told her I didn’t mind at all. After a few minutes of silence while I took the last few sips of my grande soy caramel macchiato she said, “It’s gorgeous isn’t it?” A connoisseur of small talk I responded to her observation of the ocean with, “Yeah.” Once I totally awkward-ized the situation she said with a slight smile to herself, “My husband proposed to me here.” She didn’t look at me once the entire time she spoke. She merely kept looking straight ahead at the ocean. I responded with, “It is a lovely place for a proposal,” hoping to have sounded a bit more articulate. “I left him today.” This I did not expect at all. “I’m flying to New York tonight.” Having no idea how to respond, nor even how to react, I chose not to and simply followed her lead by continually staring at the ocean. Then she said, “If you’re thinking it’s because of a lover or because he had a lover that’s not it. Well, he did have a lover, a good friend of ours actually, but I honestly couldn’t care less. I left for me. I guess I finally came to the realization today that while he could be the love of my life, I couldn’t stand myself with him. I can’t pretend to be the perfect couple, the perfect wife, the perfectly content barren family. Not that I have even ever wanted children. It’s just I am so tired of the questions. I am tired of running into people at the grocery store who know every detail of my marriage and who pretend that they don’t. I’m tired of people wondering whether I’ve tried IVF, whether I want to adopt, but ultimately wondering why I don’t have a stronger desire to be a mother.
I’ve never run away before. I’ve never had the means to. But now it’s like everything in my life is different and I’m exactly the same. Strange, I know. I married him right out of college. I’ve been his wife and business partner for eight years. And that’s it. I have the same friends, the same town house, and the same car I’ve had for eight years. I’ve never made an important decision in my life without thinking about other people. And today it sort of just dawned on me that I am completely unhappy. I don’t think I envisioned this when I married him. I don’t think I envisioned this ever. And I know ‘running away’ seems cowardly and maybe even stupid. But I think it takes balls to do what I’m doing. I don’t even know anyone in New York! I mean seriously…what am I doing?!” She stopped. She ever so slightly lifted her Chanel sunglasses and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she grabbed from her Christian Dior purse. “I’m leaving. That’s what I’m doing. I’m finally, finally going to be on my own. God, that sounds so scary and so good. I. Am. Leaving.” She took a deep breath and finally turned to me. “Thank you for sharing your bench dear,” she said as she lightly touched my forearm. I once again quite awkwardly said, “Yeah.” She grabbed her purse, smiled, and left.
Maybe I didn’t meet that woman today. Maybe she was practicing for an audition or made it all up. Maybe I just met a personification of one of my biggest fears. Maybe I’m supposed to realize that no one really knows what they want. Maybe everyone feels like picking up and leaving at one point or another. Maybe that makes it okay for me to want that. Or, maybe none of this means anything more than another woman left her husband today. Either way, I think everyone should learn to be less awkward with strangers.

Untitled

This was supposed to be part of a larger work that was never finished. It's pretty random to say the least...

It was that point in the evening where the clouds began to cover the city. Staring at what stars you struggled to see, it’s easy to notice that something else was going on in the sky. The clouds begin their graceful dance to come together and envelop the city. As if they wanted to rock everyone to sleep in their embrace; to shield everyone from the fears of the night. And there she stood. In her silver sexy-yet-functional heels, her favorite and most versatile little black dress, the floating diamond necklace from their first anniversary, and her hair perfectly straightened, hanging just past her shoulder blades. She turned when she heard someone coming, and immediately put out her Marlboro light. Oops, it was just Stephen. “You should really quit that shit you know?” He was leaning in the doorway to the balcony with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his jacket at his side. “Damn, he looks good tonight.” She quietly thought to herself. He wore the Gucci black pinstripe suit that night, with a sky blue dress shirt rather than the typical white and the matching pinstripe tie from two Valentine’s Days ago. “Right…hypocrite.” She said playfully as she put her pack of cigarettes and lighter back into her purse in the secret pocket, so as to not allow anyone to call her a “smoker.” She fucking hated that term. “Ready?” he asked, standing up straight and placing his jacket in his other hand in one fluid movement. She looked back up at the sky once more, then turned, smiled, and answered cheerfully sarcastic, “Of course babe! Let’s go.” He put his jacket on, she took a hold of his arm, and they left the balcony, walked downstairs and into their Porsche Carrera (Stephen’s pride and joy). It was Adrienne’s wake they were leaving for. And she couldn’t help but wonder when the hell it was made okay for her friends to start dying on her. Adrienne was thirty seven, a mother of two and was married to a wonderful corporate lawyer who adored her. “In what sick world does such a fortunate woman have to die rather than the moronic drunk driver who hit her?” Tessa thought out loud on the way to Adrienne’s home, she looked to Stephen for an answer. “Tessa, shit happens. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. That’s just the way it is.” “Thank you dear, you’re so fucking eloquent.” She snapped back at him. Stephen said nothing, and just held her hand, knowing it was both what she wanted and needed, but something she would also never admit.

The Morning After

Jacob, my TA in my dramatic writing class, had us write down a scene with only action and no dialogue. It was an in-class assignment, and this was the first thing that popped into my head. Keep in mind that I write fiction. Thank you.

She opened her eyes and became startled when she realized the bedroom she woke up in was not her own. She looked under the covers to discover that she had apparently slept in her underwear. She reluctantly turns to her right to see who’s bedroom she was in. She sees his face and, him being a handsome man, half smiles with a look of content. She lifts the covers just enough for her to be able to slip out, very carefully maneuvering out of the bed. She doesn’t realize her right leg is a bit entangled in the sheets and ends up falling onto the floor in the least graceful, least quiet way possible. She quickly peeks over the side of the bed trying to hide behind it. The man simply rolls over but does not wake. She lets out a sigh of relief and begins to search for her clothes and various belongings. She finds her dress, shoes, and cell phone quickly. She puts on her dress and her shoes, and clutches her cell phone in her right hand. She looks around the room, seemingly bewildered. Then she sees them. Her keys are right next to the man’s face on his night stand. She mouths the word “Fuck!” raises then drops her hands in frustration then puts her left had to her forehead thinking. Having formulated a plan in her head, she takes her shoes back off, holds them in her right hand with her cell phone and very quietly and slowly tip toes in the direction of her keys. She accidentally stubs her toe on the corner of the bed. She lets out an “Ow!” quite loudly then quickly covers her mouth with her left hand and completely stops moving. Again the man stirs but is not awakened. She takes her hand off her face and sighs again. She inches closer and closer to her keys and with her left thumb and index finger picks them up making sure not to move and have them make noise. She lifts them and brings them closer to her body. Then with her shoes, phone and keys clutched tightly to her body she tip toes backwards toward the door. The man stirs again. She stops moving and tightly closes her eyes wishing him not to wake. He begins to snore, she opens her right eye, then her left. The man is still obviously asleep. She makes it to the door and she opens it quickly but quietly. She turns to exit, and then sees that the man is awake, sitting up, and looking at her.