The Fiery Quill

A nice big bowl of grits is one of my favorite foods. I am from Western North Carolina, so grits always remind me of home and breakfast cooked by my mother, Sunday mornings with my family. I like mine with cheese (has to be Velveeta), garlic salt, and pinch of paprika on top. Some people like theirs with butter and salt, jam, or honey. Personally, I prefer my grits to be under the savory category. I save the sweet for things like cinnamon buns and my mother's delectable Sweet Waffles. The cheese version is also good baked and served in squares alongside a couple sausage patties. Mom served that exact meal to some hungry prom-goers for a midnight breakfast when I was 16. I'm certain my friends also remember that meal with smile of satisfaction. The key when preparing grits, is to be attentive. The heat should be low, so as to avoid a burnt layer on the bottom of the pan. Stand close to the stove, wooden spoon in hand, ready to smooth out any offending lumps that may appear. ...

You know it's going to be one doozy of a Monday when: your pants split straight up the butt after you've already locked the front door, you realize you forgot an important document at home after you've already arrived at work, and best of all...you find a pool of dog diarrhea on the carpet after you took the dog out for his morning constitutional. Happily, the day did get better after the above trifecta of crap (literally). But I am glad that Mondays, or days like them, are only once a week. But believe me, I couldn't wait to crawl into bed that night, soak up some sleep, and open my eyes to a different day.

As a child, going back to school meant getting a new 3-ring binder, a Lisa Frank Trapper-Keeper, and a fancy new pair of Zips. I thought nervously about the first day of school: would I be in home room with my friends, would my teachers like me? As an adult, going back to the classroom brings a different set of worries with it. However, there is a kind of excitement that I never felt as a child. I still wonder if the teacher will like me, things still written on the board, students at their desks with an instructor leading them on a path of knowledge. This time around we are adults, leaving our adult concerns behind to learn skills we hope will change the course of our separate futures. We come from a multitude of backgrounds, jobs, and lives to come together for three hours every Tuesday night. Instead of of reluctantly participating, we jump in with almost a child-like enthusiasm that might have been absent when we were children. Class is no longer a perfunctory task, but a mindful m...

Intimate glances, long fingers and legs. Saying things, yet finishing sentences inside your head. One mirror in the house, given a cursory glance from time to time...Just a quick combing of a hand through your hair, a sniff at socks before they go on your feet. A plaid shirt and jeans are your armor, as you set out by bike or by car. Books are a sanctuary, your kitchen an escape as concoctions emerge from pots and pans. Careful to always brush your teeth before bed....yet careless when it comes to planning beyond tomorrow. Your laundry basket overflows, as does your creative mind and generosity to a fault. A contradiction: your caged heart keeping you safe...but eyes bright, peeling back layers for a glimpse inside. You are: German poetry translations, student of the stars, cowboy ancestor, bath-time reader, unruly childhood, meditating, epic bike rides, laughing Yogi, blue-eyed bandit.

Growing up, the kitchen was always the center of the universe in our house. It wasn't a huge space, or even a modern one. Nonetheless, our lives unfolded on many occasions, in every season of the year...and of our lives as a family, in this humble room. Just about every morning during the school year, I could be found eating my breakfast on the floor of our cozy kitchen. Especially in the winter, my back against the warmth of the old-fashioned radiator hidden behind a screen. I would happily eat my Cream of Wheat or waffles, usually still in my pajamas. My first thought on a cold and dark winter morning, was getting downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen. NPR was always on, the familiar voices reporting as my mother made coffee at breakfast or tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. My next favorite perch was on the counter, next to where we piled the days mail. Mom and I would chat, often joined by Dad when he returned home from work...tantalized by the smells of dinner bubbling merrily ...

Most people grow up knowing they got their eyes from Grandma, or their smile from Dad. Maybe you play with your hair just like your sister, or have the same beautiful hands as your mother. I can only daydream about the origins of such qualities. I would love to know who had the same unruly mass of hair and bouncy, head-bobbing walk. I long to see my face in the sepia-toned photographs in dusty family albums. I know the only faces that will show reflections of me, will be those of my future children. Perhaps then I will see echoes of me....in a laugh, even in a stubborn streak or deeply-lined hands. I am not unhappy to be without knowledge of my beginnings, just wistful. Not knowing has made me who I am today. One of the keys to my identity has always been that I am adopted. I embrace the mystery of who and where I came from. There have been periods of longing and discontent...but only when asked, "what are you?" Regardless of the callousness of the question, I did want to kno...

I walk through the last days and weeks of being 29. The closer 30 gets, the more I wonder what that transition means to me...as a woman, as a person who feels far removed from being a grown-up sometimes. I ponder what I have done with my life up to this point. I wonder why 30 is such a precipice of existence, especially for females...chased by expectations of marriage, career, age-appropriate clothes, successful careers, children... Who decided that 30 was the be-all end-all? I am more proud of the mountains I have climbed in the last ten years, the valleys I have crawled out of; then turning another obscure year older. I am happy to be alive, to have a strong and proud family, faithful friends I am honored to call "friend." I have my health, my sight, everything works the way it's supposed to. There are things I do very well, things I am learning to do better, and things I simply admire in other people. There are times I wonder how I got this far in life, and I am truly ...

I have a habit of wearing scarves on my head. Sometimes the scarf is black, sometimes striped with fringe. It is not because I am Muslim, a cancer victim, going bald in any way...nor am I making light of any person who falls under the former categories. I am simply a girl who likes to wrap my head in a scarf. One of my genetic gifts happens to be an excess of dark, curly hair with a mind of its own at times. When this hair of mine refuses to be tamed, I rely on a small box full of lovely scarves. I do not mean for this decoration to represent any personal choice or battle I am fighting. It is simply a symbol of me. On two distinct occasions, I have been ridiculed for wearing these harmless scarves. In the first instance, I was told I could not wear a scarf on my head while at work. An explanation was never offered as to why this action was necessary. There was no dress code in place that would have forbade the wearing of this particular accessory. I leave you, dear reader, to come up w...

I am not perfect: I am too sensitive, I have too many lines on my hands (a fortune-teller's dream, I have been told), I am kind of a prude, my hair never does what its told, one foot is bigger than the other, my skin is temperamental at best, I cry at Hallmark commercials, I wear my heart on my sleeve (damn the consequences), I have a jagged scar on my upper right thigh, I fear worms and being left behind, I was a nightmare at 13; (sorry Mom) and not much better at 23 (forgive me, Mom?), I can be insecure about my looks, I compare myself to other people too much, I procrastinate, I never get enough sleep, one side of my tummy is rounder than the other, I love Legally Blonde, I'd rather read a mystery novel than something "serious," I am too affected by too many rainy days, I feel too sorry for myself when I am sick, I fall in love too hard, I complain too much about not having my ideal job, I would rather lounge than exercise, I would rather complain than do something...

I saw an angry bee today...she wore her yellow t-shirt with righteous indignation, stretched taut over broad shoulders. Fists clenched, curls trembling, she stomped down the hallway; cartoonish in her polka-dot black stockings, pale knees peeking out below long, black shorts. Onlookers shrank in the wake of her departure.

Most people might get their wisdom and enlightenment from the Dalai Lama, or Gandhi, perhaps Martin Luther King or Buddha. Mine comes from a woman I ride the morning bus with. She unconsciously smooths her snowy white hair as she bequeaths her thoughts to me. My teacher speaks eloquently of career changes, breast cancer, negative influences, even a shiner that would make Sugar Ray proud. You see, I befriended this wise woman after she took a spill while running to catch our bus. Face + sidewalk corner = immediate bruising, followed by friendship. I work in the medical field, and I my inner "professional" kicked in as soon as she sat down beside me. I touch her rapidly swelling cheek when she asked me how it looked, and a mutual kinship began. She was shamefaced and timid that day, ego as bruised as her face. Even through her pain she was elegant and thoughtful. Every time I've seen her since that first encounter, I learned something new about myself and humankind. Her ane...

Today I came across a poem I wrote when I first discovered jazz. I was a junior in college, a dreamer, and a sensitive girl. Jazz was something that attracted all parts of my complicated self. At this point, no other art form had ever had that much of an impression on me. Almost ten years have passed since I put pen to paper for this poem. And even as I cast my dusted off poem into cyberspace, John Coltrane lights my way... Night Falls on the dusky swing of the music, as the lone horn heats my blood like the finest bourbon. The golden tune strokes my fears and loneliness into submission. The intoxicating voice offers me a dance, and I accept as we sway with the moonbeams...far away from people and responsibilities outside my door. Sultry heat weaves into the music, casting a spell over the dimly lit room. I lean my head back, closing languid eyes, seeing nothing...hearing only the bass drum of my heart in time with the lush tunes I am breathing in and out. The night and the soft music ...

There I was, minding my own business and spending time with a friend. We were at a local coffee shop, enjoy mochas and conversation. I was showing her something on my laptop when....sniff, snarf, gulp, followed by uncontrollable crying. Like the embarrassing kind where the face is red, wiping nose and tears with a sleeve (how delicate). Also included in this display were several bouts of shallow breathing and that creepy high-pitched squeal. C'mon, stop lying....you know you've done it too. Just usually in the privacy of your own bedroom, followed by hiccups, a cold splash of water, and a stiff drink. The young lass causing all this commotion might have been quite pretty had it not been for the sleeve-as-snot rag and howling in a public place. And in the other corner, we have the bitter, bespectacled twenty-something...who was reducing her boyfriend to a meek, quivering pile of Jell-O. One could hear every whining word out of her pursed lips, yet only a dim grunt every now and ...

My dream machine was blue and white, complete with matching streamers and a banana seat. It was my first bike, and certainly the one I remember with the most fondness. For what seemed like a long time, my sleek friend had training wheels attached to the back, clattering around the cul-de-sac and back to our driveway. I had more than one spill from that sacred banana seat, but my Dad always managed to convince me to get back on. I persisted, dreaming of the day I would coast past my house like all the other big kids...sans training wheels. Dad was my guide during the learning process. His was the hand steadying my bike, the voice of encouragement when I doubted myself, and the smiling face when I reached my childhood goal. It must have been a spring day, warm and carefree. This was the day that I was going to cast my training wheels aside and be a BIG KID. After a few quick turns of a screwdriver, my pride and joy had graduated to two-wheel status. Dad and I did a practice run around th...

Bruised elbows, banged-up shins, achy back...home sweet home. All these things and more, encompass the love/hate struggle that is moving. Nobody really wants to shoulder a queen mattress up several flights of stairs, but the end result is satisfying. A place of my own set up exactly how I want it. Moving day is never without it's mishaps: chasing the rogue freight elevator between floors, getting cracked in the head with a dresser, having to put my bed together with a warped spoon because I don't have a screw driver. But with the down side of moving is always an up side. I adore my mini-me apartment, with it's freakishly high ceilings, but pint-sized stove and counter top. I'm also learning and accepting the quirks that come with living in an old building. The bathroom door is cantankerous, requiring a shimmy to the right then left, before it deigns to close. There is the squeaky kitchen drawer, as well as the cabinet door that always hangs open. But the space is always...

Pardon me, sir....would you mind turning down your porn just a notch. Ok, I digress. The story began (once again)at my favorite local gawking ground, which goes unnamed in this entry;) Mom, Dad, cover your eyes! One evening, I was quietly working on my laptop, enjoy a decaf latte...out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. So naturally I turned my head to follow my gaze. This unsuspecting girl was then assaulted with images unsavory enough to make my hair curl...oh wait, it already is...but, if possible, it curled even more. Because I like my blog to have as little offensive material as possible, I won't tell you what was streaming on the screen of this grey-haired, fifty-something, ponytail-wearing, ball cap-sporting...man. Needless to say, my concentration for blogging was shot. I made like a baby and headed on out as soon as possible. What people view on the internet in the privacy of their own space is entirely up to them. And while occasions like this one make great fod...

I just had to share something out of the ordinary that just happened. I was sitting quietly in Top Pot Doughnuts , enjoying a latte and a raspberry glazed ring when I saw something out out of the corner of my eye...a small,dark object came flying (literally)from the direction of the ceiling and smacked into the window, next to an unsuspecting family of four. Poor bird, never did see where the little bugger went to. I think he was more traumatized than the sweet, young thing whose hair he just about ended up in. My favorite barista here put it best: "It's wild and crazy here at Top Pot!" Yet another reason why this is my favorite neighborhood hang out (not to mention the coffee:)