A Fitting Thesis

Countless unopened books rest on my shelf, longing with wide eyes to be cradled in my hand. I know they are there, in the same way I sense when someone is looking from behind. They stare from ajar, and my heart aches for them when I leave for the day, and when I turn off my light for bed.

Some I know I may never read. It pains me that I am not in communication with William Zinsser's On Writing Well, or Maya Angelou's collection of short stories. I may never reread The Art of the Personal Essay, and I certainly may never crack open my text on Literacy Disorders or Genetic Syndromes. I still debate whether I should give away The Depletion of Fossil Fuels, but I fear no one will appreciate the insight in the same way that I once did, if I did in fact decide to toss it after all. The Winds of Change may never feel its' spine crack open again, and it makes me sad for the pages.

When I read through the Music of Many Cultures, I was looking for answers about why I was so drawn to African music. I developed a keen interest in the banjo and discovered the brilliance of folk. The Development of Language taught me all about the abstractions of a child's words...back when I wanted to develop better ways to communicate with the low-income preschoolers I taught. My Anatomy and Physiology text changed my life--I became acutely aware of science and the complexity of the brain. I developed an obsession with fissures, gyri, and sulci divisions... it motivated me to develop an intimate relationship with neurology.

A Pictorial History of the American Indian was given to me by detained and jilted lover. I discovered it on his shelf long ago and fell in love. I was searching for answers about my own American Indian heritage, and more about my grandfather's obsession with the Indians in the south, where I was born and raised. The pictures are sublime, and the descriptions, just what I needed.

He told me to keep it but never throw it away, and I haven't.

I could never throw away Gilberto and the Wind, or Rainbow Fish because somehow, I believe I will read these stories again with children I love.

Once I am finally done studying for the GRE, I pray my workbooks will leave my shelf and fly into the hands of another student trying to succeed. When that day comes, I know I will hold the books closer than ever before, before I give them away for good.

And then there are the books I wish I could fill my shelves with, but either haven't gotten myself to buy them, or I haven't found the perfect one. I imagine it would be just wonderful to have a handbook on the do's and don'ts in a psychology career, or an updated introductory textbook in psychology, so that I can increase my chances of getting a ballin' score on the GRE Psychology exam.

There are also the books I have regretfully shared and was never returned. The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success is somewhere in California, with a friend I am no longer in communication with. I'd like to think that someday when she is in need, she will see the book hidden between the lines, and discover the words were just perfect for the next step in her life.

And when I talk to my mom about manifesting a grand bookcase into my life--one that is twice the size of the bookshelf I own now, my heart begins to swell. I think of all of the books I will someday place in those shelves, organising them in the same way in which they presented themselves to me.

They are the puzzle pieces that know me so well. I am in 150 plus relationships with each of them, and they are all so special to me.

For that reason, I may never let them go.

Like the Wind, It Was

When I live a full day in spirit, there is an infinite well of love to which I can extract light from even the murkiest of waters. It is my source of life, and the energy that fills my belly when I am emaciated from the fear and worry.

Today was not one of those days.

The discontinuity of my rhythm and flow was sour to taste. I'm not sure what was wrong exactly, or if it was the beer the night before. I knew exactly what it was that bothered me about my endeavors, but could not pin point this feeling of pure loneliness.

It is not the kind of loneliness you pity. It was a beautiful loneliness that only the silence of the grey skies could provide, today. It emerged from the slow sway of the leaves and the deadening of the trees. There were no birds, nor bees. Grocery shopping was a nightmare...not even the wholesome sale of globe grapes got me going. I had no desire to individually pack my lunch for the week ahead. I couldn't see past the hour. I prayed for bedtime and a warm bath. A cold one would have sufficed. I didn't crave the feeling of fresh, clean hair, or the smell of sweet satin from my shampoo.

I became lost in old shows I used to watch back in high school. I listened to the messages from old movies like Angus, when the helplessly smart and overweight high school boy falls in love with the prom queen and revels in his success at winning her over, finally. I watched Sex and the City for the laughs, and for those brief moments when I could spot a street in New York that I had walked all my years while living in Brooklyn. I thought about styling my hair in that perfect curl, just like the girls on the show. I contemplated reading books that have accrued an enormous pile of dust along their spine.

I searched and searched.

And where I am, right now, in this moment--and after spending the entire day in a place of uncertainty and tremor, I now breathe out the air that fills my lungs. I close my eyes to inhale, and then to exhale. Inhale, exhale.

I will breathe on as the moon shines tonight, and I will exhale the old air so that tomorrow is warm and welcoming, just as it was today.

Clever it was, this day.