Like Something Beautiful

In the fourth grade, I wanted to be Lauren Martz. She had freckles and braces and large swooping handwriting that lay perfectly between the lines of a page. I used to go home and practice writing the way she did. I twisted paper clips over my teeth and pretended they were braces. I sat out in the sun hoping to freckle. I wanted to be Lauren because she was beautiful. I wanted to be Lauren because she was everything I wasn’t.

We’re still friends, all these many years later, and although her braces have long since been gone and most of her freckles have faded, I am constantly amazed anew by her beauty, and by how greatly I admire her.

And I like that there are some things that never change, even while they’re changing. I like that when I look at Lauren, I can see the young girl I idolized, and the beautiful woman she has become, and glimpses of who she has yet to be. I like that I can love them all, equally and fully. I like that it is possible to love in such a certain and unwavering way.

And I like that a few years ago when I told Lauren about the braces and freckles and handwriting, she laughed and said she had always hated all three. I like that this too became a lesson in beauty for me – that sometimes the things we find most embarrassing in ourselves can be a source of inspiration for someone else. I like that we can be beautiful without even knowing it.

All of my friends are beautiful – in ways they can and cannot see, in ways I have and have not told them. From each of them I have adapted something. I have learned to write like them, and speak like them, and gesture like them, and dress like them, and create like them, and make jokes like them, and be kind and giving and thoughtful like them. I have collected all of my favorite pieces of them, and in this way, I can be beautiful, like them. Because I am them. Because they are all pieces of me.

And the sound of my laughter is the result of thousands of other laughs. And the voice inside my head is a collection of every word said to me. And the love within my heart belongs to everyone I have ever known. And anything that is beautiful about me exists because of you.

And I like that wherever I go, I take all of you with me. And I like that whoever I am, and continue to become, I owe to you and the gifts of goodness and beauty you’ve given me. And I like that every moment of my life is devoted to proving my gratitude. I like that you can never say ‘thank you’ enough.

I like that there will always be a part of me that wants to be Lauren Martz. And I like that the way I feel about Lauren Martz will always be a part of me. I like that you can spend an entire lifetime loving, and admiring, and cherishing all that is beautiful in those around you. And I like the way those simple acts can transform you into something beautiful, too.

Innocence

Of course I love that they are beautiful. I love the sweetness of their smiles, the innocence of their faces, their tiny hands, their soft hair, their happy, shining eyes. I love that almost everything they say is ridiculous and adorable and true. I love that they unknowingly have the power to create laughter and light and I love the way they fill my days with it. I love them simply because they are children who deserve love, as all children do, but it is more than that. So much more.

It is their honesty and their openness. It is the way the world offers itself up to them and they seize its gifts without hesitation, without fear. They gobble it up. They swallow it whole. They fill their tiny beings with it, collecting stories and images and ideas within a growing narrative that they will one day look back upon and call life. They devour knowledge insatiably. They drink each day down to its secret.

They have not yet learned what it means to be “proper.” They have not yet forgotten the simple joys of running barefoot, of rolling around in the softness of the earth, of dancing wildly simply because it feels good. They have not yet stopped paying attention. They notice every detail. They delight in every joy.

When they are happy, they laugh. When they are sad, they cry. They have not yet been taught how to control their emotions, or why there is any need to. They dare, in every moment, to tend to their desires. Every feeling is felt as honestly and deeply as the last, if even for a moment.

And when that moment is gone, it’s gone. When the feeling is over, it’s over. Nothing from the past interferes with the present. They have no need for the word “regret.”

They still believe in magic. They play pretend. They are not yet concerned with words like “no” or “shouldn’t” or “can’t.” They have not yet learned how to tune out the voices, calling to them to create, urging them to think of nothing but their own good lives. They have not yet been handed the heavy weight of things. They do not hurry into their future, yet everything is accomplished. They do not seek out happiness, yet it surrounds them.

They are young enough to understand. And it is not because their world is small, but because the world is bigger and grander than it will ever seem again. Later, for long delicious moments, they will sometimes remember this feeling. It will come to them, but muddled, like flecks of an uncertain dream. And they will long for the days when it was clearer.

She gave me a photograph once of her and her brother standing in a garden as children, their small, glad faces staring back at me in black and white. They did not know then that he would die far too young, or that her life would be as difficult as it grew to be. They did not know of the wars they’d see in their lifetime, or of the personal wars they’d fight within themselves. They did not know of death. Time had not yet begun to play its terrible role in their lives. They were simply what the caption she’d written on the back said, “two happy children playing in a garden.”

There are photos of me and my brother that I’ve held next to that original picture my grandmother sent me. They are essentially the same. They are the same photographs being taken of siblings in gardens all over the world in every moment of every day. And I’ve watched, over the years, the progression of the pictures we’ve taken together. I’ve looked closely at the changes; the slight strain of our mouths as we smile and pose, the unfocused distant gaze of our eyes, the way even in a still photograph, you can see our minds are racing about a million other things, a million miles away.

Each day I am surrounded by these beautiful, happy, miraculous children who teach me, over and over again, secrets I once knew. Sometimes, staring across twenty years, I can almost remember them. But I know that they won’t ever be so clear. The beckoning voices won’t ever call so loudly. The lessons can’t be unlearned.

Our pictures will never be what they were as children. Nor will our laughter, our imagination, our light. Life shows in our faces, and we discover, too late, that our innocence meant everything.

Over The Rainbow

It was spring. The trees blossomed. The flowers bloomed. The bright sun beckoned to us. “Come out. Feel my warmth. Enjoy this day.” And so we did. My mother took us to the arboretum and we spent the entire afternoon among the trees and flowers, delighting in their sweetness. I was young.

Still, I remember the impulse. I remember feeling so surrounded and consumed with the beauty of the world. I remember that first recognition of happiness, in its purest form. I remember wanting to mark the occasion.

And so I ran. I ran hard and I ran fast. I ran in a way that was exclusive to my childhood – not for exercise, not as stress relief, not away from something – but in a pure, primal way that required no thought or motivation. I remember that feeling well, that freedom, that urge to move my little legs just because I could, just because it felt good, just because I was young and it was spring.

I reached the top of a hill and stood there looking down at my mother and the rest of the world. I looked up at the sky. I thought I could almost touch it.

And because I hadn’t yet learned to write, I sang. I sang strong and I sang loud. I sang in a way that was exclusive to my childhood – before I had learned to become self-conscious of such things. I sang because it felt good, because I was young, and it was spring.

And so my little lungs filled with air, and my little mouth formed the words, and I serenaded my mother, and the rest of the world, with Somewhere Over The Rainbow. It was the perfect song for that perfect moment, and I remember knowing that even as a child. I remember the way I sang and felt everything else fade away. I remember believing that there was such a place, a land that I heard of once in a lullaby, where dreams that I dared to dream really do come true. I remember thinking, maybe this was it.

Somewhere over the rainbow, all days would be this perfect. Somewhere over the rainbow, I could stay like this forever. Somewhere over the rainbow, trees would always blossom and flowers would always bloom. I would always be young and in love with the world. It would always be spring.

And the thing is, after all of this time spent learning the painful lessons of what it means to be alive, after all of these years chasing down courage and a heart and a brain, after discovering over and over again that they were with me all along, I still find myself thinking, maybe this is it.

Maybe the happy little birds chirping outside my window right now have already flown over the rainbow. Maybe that I woke up with the clouds far behind me, the breathtakingly blue sky of this day welcoming me into it, means that I have already arrived. Maybe this is where troubles melt like lemon drops. Maybe I could stay like this, forever.

Maybe I will always delight in such sweetness. I will always blossom and bloom. I will always be that little girl, running and singing and almost touching the sky. Because it feels good, and I am young, and it is spring. Because if birds can do it, why then, oh why, can’t I?

 

Half Moon

He used to arrive each morning and report his findings. Some days he saw it, some days he didn’t. Some mornings it seemed to light up the entire world. Some mornings it only peeked through the translucent haze hanging above us. Sometimes it was as large as all of existence. Sometimes it was only a sliver of its former self. I know each feeling well. I know of the great waxing and waning of a life.

This morning the moon half smiled at me with her half face. I watched her for a while, tracing an imaginary outline around the black empty space where the rest of her had once resided. Now that half was gone. In its place was only darkness.

I thought about the darkness for a long time. I thought about the way he never saw that emptiness, not once, in all of their many early-morning encounters. I thought about the way I have learned to see the splinters of light as incomplete. I thought about the way I am always trying to fill the empty spaces.

And then I thought about him, and the way his child eyes could see the light for what it was – not an absence, not a reminder of something unfulfilled, but just the pure, golden light of a shining moon. And I realized something, or perhaps remembered something, about what it means to be whole.

It is different than being complete, or being full, or being any one thing all at once. It is the darkness and the light. It is the constant ebbing and flowing of each. It is the great waxing and waning of a life.

Because when the moon arrives early, her glow is dulled juxtaposed against the light of the sun. Her shine is brightest against the emptiness. She is at her best in the darkness. Sometimes I am, too.

Sometimes those empty spaces are not empty at all. They are full of possibility. They are reserved for the strength and understanding and brightness that we have yet to discover. They are waiting for us. They are part of us. They are pieces that make up the whole.

Sometimes the half moon reflects the bittersweet nature of everything. Where there is light, there is darkness. Where there is darkness, there is light. Nothing in this world is purely sweet or purely bitter. Not even us. It is all comprised of complexities, as simple as the sky, as intricate as the cosmos. We are all the black night and the shining moon. We are all incomplete in that beautiful, meaningful way.

Sometimes the moon isn’t in the sky, but we know she’s always there, waiting. We know she’ll come again, over and over, illuminating the dark world. We know our empty spaces won’t always remain empty. We know we’ll have another chance to look up and realize, or perhaps remember, that this is the great lesson, the waxing and waning of a life.

And she will look down on us, and knowingly, wisely, shine her bittersweet half smile.

A Small Offering

A couple of weeks ago, the parents of the children I was babysitting returned home from their party with some news. “We wanted to tell you,” they said, “the hosts of the party asked about the kids and we told them they were with their babysitter, Frankie. ‘Oh, we know Frankie!’ The hosts replied. ‘Friends of ours read her blog!’” Could anything in life be happier?

I am thrilled that people are reading this, and sometimes enjoying it, and sometimes commenting, both publically and privately. It means everything. It means that I have a way of expressing myself, sharing myself, in the best way I know how. It means that I have a place to say all of the things that may otherwise go unsaid. It means that you have a place to hear those things, read those things, know those things. But it also means something else. It teaches me something. It reminds me, daily, that I have something to offer the world.

And really, could anything in life be happier than that reminder? The offering is small, of course. It’s only words. But perhaps, if we’re lucky, you have come here and read a word or a line or maybe an entire entry that has sparked something within you. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, I have inspired you in some way. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, you have seen a little of yourself here, reflecting back on you, reminding you that you are not alone. That’s the purpose of reading and writing. It’s only words, but words are powerful. They connect us. They inspire us. They express all of our many stories and thoughts and feelings. They are an offering of gratitude and love.

I have never left the house without a pen. I consider it an essential tool. I once spent three days alone in the woods with nothing more than a sleeping bag, a water bottle, a journal, and a pen. They were three of the happiest days of my life. When we play “deserted island,” pen and paper are always at the top of my list. It isn’t the practical choice, but also, it is.

Living and writing are one in the same for me. Yes, I could survive without it, but it would be a bleak existence. I never feel more alive than when I write. I am never more myself than when I write. I have never been the same since the day I picked up my first book of poetry and understood what it meant to love words. Yes, I could survive without it, but I wouldn’t want to.

I write because it is in me to write, which sounds like hippie nonsense, but is the only way to explain it. I write because it is my first thought in the morning, because this blog has renewed in me a sense of purpose, because it makes me come alive. I write because it is something valuable. It’s what I have to offer. It’s how I search and discover and connect.

I write because we live in a world throbbing with beauty, because I want to put that beauty into words, and because I want to give some of it back. I do not always create art, but sometimes the inspiration and desire to create is art itself. Sometimes this is enough. Sometimes I am enough. Sometimes, in this small way, if we’re lucky, I can add a little beauty to the world.

Sometimes – most of the time – there is nothing in this world that could be happier than me, sitting here, pouring myself onto the page. And if you have ever sat with nothing more than a journal and a pen while the world blazes and hums around you, you know what I mean. You too, understand that sweet secret. You too, are a reader and writer of the world. You too, have something to offer.

Whatever it is that makes you come alive, do it. Offer it. Be happy. We are all lucky enough to have the chance to add a little beauty to this world.

I Need You

I need you to find me beautiful because I hate umbrellas… because I have an irrational fear of getting poked in the eye when someone carrying one isn’t paying attention… because I think people who carry them rarely pay attention… because I would rather get soaked in the rain.

I need you to find me beautiful because I have a closet full of shoes, but almost exclusively wear the same pair of Chucks I’ve had for 10 years, and would almost always rather be barefoot… because I believe feeling the earth against the soles of my feet is one of life’s greatest pleasures… because I tattooed “write your life, live your writing” on the top of my right foot, in French, just because I could.

I need you to find me beautiful because I consider children to be the greatest source of happiness anyone could hope for… because I never tire of their discoveries and observations… their tiny laughs and kisses and smiles… because everything they do and say and feel touches me so profoundly that I feel like bursting into tears a hundred times a day.

I need you to find me beautiful because I love language. You do not need to find beauty in what I write or read or say… but in the comfort the acts of writing and reading and speaking provide for me. I do not need you to love language… but I need you to love that I love it… that I need it… that I consider it an essential tool of survival… and joy.

I need you to find me beautiful because I like to be alone… not to feel alone… but to be alone. I like to have quiet time for self-reflection and I need for you to understand why that’s important. I need you to understand that my silence is not a means of hiding… that sometimes it is just how I gather things in my memory… that when I am sitting quietly beside you, I am collecting you… I am tucking you away somewhere deep inside… I am savoring our time.

I need you to find me beautiful because sometimes I need to be complimented… because I never learned to take a compliment well… because I could use the practice… the validation…because sometimes I depend on you to validate me.

I need you to find me beautiful because I am searching for self-acceptance… because even if I am far away from such a goal, I still continue to search… because the search itself is beautiful… because it’s something that I’ll never give up hoping for.

I need you to find me beautiful because I laugh loudly and at inappropriate times… because I can fill entire rooms with that sound… because I am always just a little bit ridiculous… because I have often embarrassed myself that way.

I need for you to find beauty in my embarrassment… because it happens often.

I need you to find me beautiful because I could spend hours, days, weeks sitting outside and be perfectly happy… because at any given moment the vastness of the sky can leave me feeling both insignificantly tiny and amazingly grand… because the grass and trees smell more heavenly to me than any other scent… besides books…

I need you to find me beautiful because I was born and raised in Philadelphia and have yet to see a single Rocky movie…

I need you to find me beautiful because when it comes to movies and television and books and food, I can sometimes be pretentious…

I need you to find me beautiful because I will always, always vote democrat…

I need you to find me beautiful because I can simultaneously act like both a 6 year old and an 86 year old…

I need you to find me beautiful because all of my favorite love stories do not have happy endings…

I need you to find me beautiful because I still believe in happy endings…

I need you to find me beautiful because I believe in goodness… because I try to be good… because sometimes, I succeed…

I need you to find me beautiful because I am open… honest… loving… loved…

I need you to find me beautiful because I cannot get enough of this world… because the more I see, the more I want to see… because the tiny details fill me with as much joy as the big pictures… because I notice more than what meets the eye…

I need you to find me beautiful because I try my best not to judge.. .because I think our differences are equally as important as our similarities… because I know that every race and gender and sexual orientation should have the same human rights… because I think that should be obvious…

I need you to find me beautiful because I strive to help others… because I give money, or a hand, or an ear to whoever needs it… because I want to help in any way that I can…

And mostly, I need you to find me beautiful because I don’t… because I am uncertain… because it’s never a word I associate with myself…

I need you to find me beautiful because I am still learning how.

Girl Power

I went to an all-girl school for thirteen years. We made fun of the uniforms. We made fun of the school motto “for excellence, for girls.” We made fun of the teacher who would constantly refer to us as “independent women.” We learned about feminism. We read mostly female authors. We were constantly reminded of the importance of “girl power.”

When I would read about female empowerment, I would roll my eyes. All of those videos and songs and literature about the value of women seemed unnecessary. It was so obvious to me that girls were equal to boys, that whatever the media showed us about the ideal woman was a narrow-minded construct, that we were expected to be smart and strong and yes, independent. In a way, I am proud to have grown up in such a bubble.

It wasn’t until later that I realized I was, in fact, a feminist. In one of my first college courses, my professor made a comment that there is a financial inequality between the sexes, which “is really a necessary one.” I remember feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I felt my cheeks turn red, not out of anger necessarily, but of the feeling that something wrong was happening. I wish I had been strong enough at eighteen to voice my opinions. I wish I had said something. It is a moment that haunts me.

That was the year I started listening to nothing but Ani DiFranco, a phase all young liberal girls must go through. I started dressing increasingly like a hippie and getting strange piercings and attending political marches. I felt as though this helped to define me in some way. The world would be able to look at me and know what I stood for, understand who I was, recognize that I was a firm believer in girl power. It was so obvious.

In my later “professional” life in early childhood education, I have worked with mostly women. I realized the other day how much of my life has been about these female relationships I’ve formed. And while I’ve learned in college classes, and read articles, and watched interviews all about how women are seen as inferior, I have yet to see examples of it in my own experiences. Because, obviously, they aren’t. But also because I am fortunate enough to have spent my life thus far surrounded by strong, independent women. They are athletes and intellects and lawyers and doctors and businesswomen and teachers and beauty queens and artists and mothers and daughters. They are beautiful and smart and confident. They are my living proof of the strength of the female spirit.

I’m not claiming that inequality between the genders doesn’t exist. Of course it does, and to deny it would be as wrong and ugly as claiming racism is dead. It isn’t. We live in a world that categorizes and marginalizes and we need to recognize that if we ever hope to change it.

Still, I believe in such change. I believe in girl power. And I hope that all of the amazing women in my life, from infants through grandparents, believe in it too. I hope that they can see the strides they are making by learning and dreaming and loving themselves as they are. I hope that they can see that they’re making a difference.

We made fun of the Destiny’s Child song “Independent Women,” but the older I get, the more I find myself longing to say it, and so I will. “All the women, who are independent, throw your hands up at me.” Know that you are valued, admired, and adored.