The Fiery Quill

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 ...