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?

 

Birthday Presents

On a beach in the south of India, she asked me for shampoo. I walked back into the little hut where we were staying and retrieved what I had left. I brought it back to her. She thanked me in what little English she knew. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of earrings – silly little handmade dangling hoops. She placed them into my hands.

I think I’m pretty easy to shop for. I love anything weird or ridiculous or unique. I love the eccentric. I love the homemade. I love books and journals and anything having to do with literature. People have told me more than once that they’ve walked into a store, looked at something, and thought “that is SO Frankie.”

I love this about myself and about my friends. I love that there are things that are “SO me.” I love that these gifts are a reflection of who I am and how others see me. I love to tear off the wrapping and reveal this mutual understanding. I love that I can be defined in such a way.

But I also think I’m pretty easy to shop for because I’ve never received a gift that I didn’t love. Ever. I’ve never gotten clothing or jewelry that I didn’t happily wear. I’ve never gotten books or journals that I didn’t jump into right away. I’ve never gotten cards or letters that I didn’t plan to keep forever. I’ve never gotten hugs that didn’t mean the entire world. I’ve never been given anything, in all of my 27 years, that I didn’t understand to be an expression of friendship and gratitude and love.

I had over 100 birthday wishes before 9am. I can’t even begin to put that into words. The number continues to climb. At work, I was greeted with cards and cookies and candy and balloons and songs and countless hugs. Each day of my life, I am greeted with love. Today, I was overwhelmed with it.

What more is there?

What more could I ever possibly hope for? What more could I ever hope to have or to be? I am someone who loves. I am someone loved. That is SO Frankie.

I still have those earrings she so tenderly, gratefully, lovingly pressed into my hands. I still think of her whenever I see them, sitting on my dresser, a reflection of who I was and who I continue to become. I see the gift she gave me.

And I see the gifts each of you give me, not just on holidays and birthdays, and not just material things. Every single day of this little life of mine I see your patience and your kindness and your love. I see that you are there. I see that you get me, that you understand me, that you see me. I know that I am the luckiest. All of you have been an important part of my 27 years. My heart is so full of love, of you.

And what more can I possibly say?

But over and over and over again – Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

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.

Artistry

He said that he could probably give me any line to begin with and I could turn it into something wonderful. It was a sweet compliment, full of a certain faith and trust in my writing that I have yet to fully feel for myself. I wouldn’t mind being handed those first lines. That’s always the most difficult part, finding that inkling of an idea. What do I want to write about today?

I try to post something here daily, not because I have much to say or many ways to say it, but because this is what it means to be a writer. It is work. It is the daily practice of chipping away at the surface of things. It is continuing, despite the fact that what I am creating is not exactly what I want it to be. If I waited around for perfect moments or perfect ideas, nothing would ever get done.

The important thing, for me anyway, is to get something done. Some days I get lucky and write something I can almost love. Other days aren’t so fruitful. Still, I am nothing if not prolific.

All of us are artists. Some of us claim the label, those who paint or sculpt or write or sing, those who devote their lives to such important work. But it is in all of us, whether we claim it or not, to create. There is art as we all know it, but there is also the art of parenting, the art of loving, the art of surviving. There is the art of waking up each morning and contributing beauty to the world. All of us are capable of this important work, whether we are conscious of it or not.

Not everything we create is going to be a masterpiece. This is one of the most significant things I have learned, and continue to learn, and will probably always be learning. Some days will suck. They will suck the happiness and beauty right out of you. You will feel as though nothing of value can be created from such bleak emptiness. But you will be wrong.

Because the most important thing any of us can do on those days, on any day, is to pick up the metaphorical (or literal) pen. It is to write one word and then another. It is to keep chugging along. It is to get something done. It is to nudge open the flower of creativity growing within you. It is to watch it bloom upon the page.

And yes, maybe what comes from it will be awful. That’s okay. Really, it is. Awful work has more value than no work at all. It is, if nothing else, a reminder of what we don’t want. It fuels us to do better. It makes us want to try again.

This is what I tell myself when the blinking cursor taunts me, when the day has already felt long enough and my eyes begin to droop with the heaviness of sleep. Just get something done. Write something. Create something. Add something to the world.

Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that what art is? Just a series of first lines that are transformed into something more. Just the way we rise each morning and continually contribute beauty to the world – in words, in song, in colors, in kindness, in love. Just the way I sit here, delighting in the early spring breeze pouring through my open window, telling you about it.

We are all artists. Claim the label. Understand that it is your job to create. Take that work seriously. Go get something done. Stop waiting for the perfect moment or the perfect idea. Be prolific. Contribute to the masterpiece that is our one and only world. Pick up the pen. Write one word. Then another. Fill the pages of your life.

Thousands of Years

When I woke up this morning, the sky was bubble gum pink. An email from one of my dearest friends was waiting for me in my inbox. Among the many beautiful lines reminding me why he’s been one of my dearest friends for over 13 years, was this,

“You have given thousands of years of love to your friends, family, and strangers in your short 27 years on earth. You deserve to get some love back.”

Has there ever been a lovelier sentiment? I adore this idea that our years of love can outnumber our years of life. And he’s right, isn’t he? We can hold thousands of years of love inside of us. We can give it away. We can get some of it back. We deserve to, and not because we are good or virtuous or honorable, but because we are human. We are living, breathing creatures of this world. It is enough to warrant thousands of years of love.

Consider the things that outlast us – the mountains and fields and oceans. Consider their thousands of years. Touch the bottom of the ocean and feel the soft sands of its love. Watch volcanoes erupt with their boiling passion. Run through the lustrous fields, glittering with their flowers of reverence. The rivers shine. The moon glows. The earth remains, dazzling.

Consider the way years of love are infinite, and ever growing. They have come before us. They have been created and cherished and left behind by those who are no longer here. They continue to be created and cherished by us, as we leave pieces of our love, of ourselves, on mountains and in fields and deep within the everlasting oceans. They will continue to sparkle long after we’re gone.

This is the great cyclical story. Love is found. New love is created. Old love is left somewhere to be found. Someone finds it. Someone always finds it. They fill their hearts with the brimming discovery. They carry it with them. They make art out of it. They share that art. Someone else sees it, or hears it, or reads it. They understand the story.

More than once in my life I have questioned whether I am deserving of love, but it’s a foolish question. It is not a matter of deserving, for any of us. Love isn’t earned. It isn’t a prize. It is the bubble gum pink color of the sky in early mornings. It is the air we take inside of our bodies only to let it back out. It is the mountains and the fields and the oceans. It is the oldest story, in which all of us play a role. It isn’t won. It is found and created and something all of us share.

It is the way my heart flutters for an instant seeing an email from you waiting for me. It is the way that tiny flutter lasts for thousands of years.