It had been 10 years since I could write. I had a massive writer's block episode and I couldn't break out of it. Writing prompts, doodling upside down, drinking absinthe...nothing worked. No, I won't tell you where but yes, you can still get it, illegal though it is. The Green Fairy helped quite a lot of writers back in the day, why couldn't it help me? Sigh. I went from writing daily in university, helping others brainstorm ideas, and winning awards for my writing to doing nothing. Nada. The imagination machine simply ceased to work.
It was probably one of my darkest periods because it is the one thing I really wanted to do. To write. I loved grabbing my pen, or turning on the laptop and just letting it flow..whatever came out. It just wasn't happening. It was like the drive, the excitement of creating something had just dried up. During this time, one good friend(who sat next to me in all those writing classes, incidentally) kept encouraging me to write. Not to worry about anything, just try. With his encouragement, I did. Didn't get very far, but the effort was there on the page. Maybe this would go away and I could get a move on with things. Yeah, right!
Time went on and soon enough, 10 years had passed by. I still hadn't really broken out of it but this friend kept at me. He encouraged me to write, mentioned that one of our professors wrote his own book, and was just there always providing me with the fodder for creation. He is an amazing friend, to say the least.
I don't know what did it. What turned the imagination machine back on? Maybe it was his stubborn encouragement, maybe the stars aligned in the just the right way, or maybe I finally had gotten over the need to create in order to please others and just please myself. I am not sure, but I finally decided that instead of writing a book , a story, poetry, I would write a blog. Weird leap, I know. Purists would say it is not even real writing. To me, after not doing it for a while, it is probably the best way to jump in with both feet and just do it. To write for the sake of enjoying writing and not to please those around me. Not for a grade, not because I was told this is a subject you NEED to write about....just for me.
I am writing almost every other day. Sometimes more than that, sometimes less than that. But, I AM WRITING. It is a release from a prison of my own making and can I just tell you how wonderful it feels? It is like a huge weight has fallen off my shoulders, because I am now comfortable enough to allow the ideas to flow.
I am hopeful that I keep it up. That nothing stops this new creative process, but what I most hope to gain out of this whole experience, is that I am doing something I love. I am writing this for posterity and also writing it for my friend. Because he believed in my skill more than I did. It's nice when someone believes in you like that, it keeps your light from dying out.
As I am writing this, in freestyle as it were, or a madcap diary entry of some sort, I can't help but thinking of Anne Shirley and her conversation with Gilbert Blythe. In that conversation, he told her to write what she knew about because there would always be plenty of people that would read her stories. Anne Shirley scoffed at him but when she had matured enough to heed his advice, she wrote and wrote about the things she knew about. She used her life as the starting point and went on from there to create a novel. A good one too!
I am hoping that I have now matured, like Anne, have the courage to write what I know about, and enjoy it. So that one day, my friend, Gilbert Blythe, can read it.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
Games little wolves play...
Picture it! (No, not Sicily 1972) It is about 19 degrees outside and all is quiet. The snow is still falling and won't let up for another two hours. The Sailor and I were not looking forward to shoveling the driveway and the sidewalk. I think we savored our pot roast dinner longer than we usually do, just to avoid the last chore before bedtime for the girls.
I don't know who thought it first, or how we even got on the topic! After dinner, I was suddenly inspired to look for all the girls snow gear. It turns out that we didn't have any for the Pixy, since she had outgrown the clothes she had. (I will not mention that there was no snow last year AFTER I had bought all the necessary gear...thank ya very much Mother Nature!) Banshee though, was golden! All of Pixy's old stuff fit her. I gathered everything up, improvised a little, and shepherded everyone into the living room and started dressing everyone up to go outside. Well, not the wolves but you know what I mean.
I could tell that the Sailor was happy that he wouldn't be alone outside and he quickly got dressed. The cold seeped in through the doorframe, and the girls shivered on the landing. "Let's do it!", I said. "Who will fall first?", the Sailor asked the still night and we shared a chuckle. The boys, my two pups, were excited to go out too. Who would be the first to cave in and ask to go in for the night?
It was actually pretty cool to see the girls hesitate, as if the serene street shouldn't be disturbed. They stood and listened to the "sounds of Nature", a skill I feel is very important because if you can't recognize what Nature is telling you, then you might find yourself in a serious problem. Both of the girls swore they heard the snowflakes landing on the ground, and I agreed as I started skipping over the pristine white snow covered on the yard. I heard little squeals of happiness behind me, as they both struggled to catch up. My big white GSD, lovingly called "The Big Bad Wolf", complained a bit as the girls got a little too far from him. "Oh, it's all right! You can go grab them in a second", I said. My other pup, was just scouting the yard for trails of things to hunt. It was pretty cool!
"Mama, this is the most fun ever!", Pixy shouted. So much for keeping playtime quiet! The girls quickly got bolder and went exploring around the yard, because "it is so different at night!". I went to help the Sailor out by clearing off the truck of snow, as I hummed "who's afraid of the big bad wolf?". As I moved to the truck, I took a quick look around at the undisturbed snow. It looked like someone had dropped golden glitter on the ground. It was really beautiful and..noisy? The Sailor started attacking the girls by shoveling snow on their feet and the dogs were happily barking. He laughed and said: "Watch out! Memories being made!".
I thought about this, as I cleared off the snow off the cars and kept an eye on the adventurous spawn and the boys trying their best to keep them close to the house. We all access childhood memories, but can we access the small details? The sounds, the tastes, the feel of it all, seem to get lost somehow. I found myself trying to access any memory from my youth and see how many details I remembered. Immediately, I remembered one! As if by magic, I was transported to a warm afternoon in sunny Puerto Rico, which was ok with me! It was 19 degrees, remember?
Maybe it was the cold but I remembered the cold tiles on the porch of my grandmother's house in Guayanilla. The memories all started flooding back, building a scene whose small details I thought lost forever. Growing up does that sometimes, you know! Anyway, I remembered the feel of the cement pathway on my feet as I made my way through the backyard to my grandfather's work space. As I kept thinking about this space, I remembered the feel of dog fur between my fingers. It was the family dog, a big German shepherd, who I thought was my personal horse and best friend(probably where my obsession with these wolfy dogs began). I also remembered the feel of fresh sawdust on my fingers and the sharpness of fresh cut woodchips on the bottoms of my feet. You see, my grandpa was an amazing hobby carpenter and his work space was my playground. I shifted noiselessly in my snow boots, as if they were somehow slowing this process down.
The small details did not stop coming, though. I remembered the sound of my grandmother washing dishes and running the water. I remembered the feel of the heat of the kitchen, as the stove was on. But most importantly, I remembered the feel of sitting on the old wooden swing beneath me as I sat with my grandfather, whistling at the Coqui in the bushes, listening for an answer back. I was awoken from that memory, as the girls hit my face with a snowball. I giggled and chased after them, but stopped in my tracks when the Sailor said, " Do you smell freshly cut wood?". Huh. That's interesting!
It felt nice to remember that and I wondered if I was doing the same for my girls. Would this night, through the details, become so ingrained in their memory that they could access it this fully later on in their life? I could only hope so. They seemed to be enjoying it. I mean, it was almost as if we were all alone in a little world of our making. Our noise didn't draw anyone out to peek out their windows, nor were there many cars out. The night was ours and I wasn't going to waste it reminiscing.
We quickly finished the shoveling, cleaning off the truck, and went off to play with the girls. They were pretending to be pixies in the garden and the dogs were their guardians. The Sailor turned into the werewolf that howled at the moon, and apparently, I was the deer that was going to get eaten. The dogs, both white in color, got in on the hunting and brought me down very quickly. It was a fun romp. A LOUD one too! Just like that, the fun was over and we entered the house as one.
"That was really fun, Mama. Thank you," said the Pixy. " I loved it. We play in the nighttime," said the Banshee. As I looked at them, I couldn't help but think about accessing those details for the future. I tried to remember every single moment, as I patted my back for being the coolest Mom on the block. I wanted them to be able to recreate this memory of all of us being crazy enough to go play in 19 degree weather. At night. I wanted them to be able to access all the details so fully, that someone near them would ask, "Do you feel a cold spot?".
As I sit here typing this out, all warmed up, the house is now as quiet as the night was when we invaded it earlier. The girls and the boys are sleeping, the Sailor is working on his music, and the house is making the night sounds houses make when they are resting. Through the windows, moonlight hits the now disturbed snow, and though I would agree with the Sailor that our house cannot be mistaken for a house with no children or animals, all I see/feel/hear are memories . Let's hope that when the time comes, the girls can access them.
As far as my memory, as easily as I remembered it all, it has now been tucked away to access later. For when I really need to feel the warmth of a regular sunny afternoon in my grandparents' house in Puerto Rico.
I don't know who thought it first, or how we even got on the topic! After dinner, I was suddenly inspired to look for all the girls snow gear. It turns out that we didn't have any for the Pixy, since she had outgrown the clothes she had. (I will not mention that there was no snow last year AFTER I had bought all the necessary gear...thank ya very much Mother Nature!) Banshee though, was golden! All of Pixy's old stuff fit her. I gathered everything up, improvised a little, and shepherded everyone into the living room and started dressing everyone up to go outside. Well, not the wolves but you know what I mean.
I could tell that the Sailor was happy that he wouldn't be alone outside and he quickly got dressed. The cold seeped in through the doorframe, and the girls shivered on the landing. "Let's do it!", I said. "Who will fall first?", the Sailor asked the still night and we shared a chuckle. The boys, my two pups, were excited to go out too. Who would be the first to cave in and ask to go in for the night?
It was actually pretty cool to see the girls hesitate, as if the serene street shouldn't be disturbed. They stood and listened to the "sounds of Nature", a skill I feel is very important because if you can't recognize what Nature is telling you, then you might find yourself in a serious problem. Both of the girls swore they heard the snowflakes landing on the ground, and I agreed as I started skipping over the pristine white snow covered on the yard. I heard little squeals of happiness behind me, as they both struggled to catch up. My big white GSD, lovingly called "The Big Bad Wolf", complained a bit as the girls got a little too far from him. "Oh, it's all right! You can go grab them in a second", I said. My other pup, was just scouting the yard for trails of things to hunt. It was pretty cool!
"Mama, this is the most fun ever!", Pixy shouted. So much for keeping playtime quiet! The girls quickly got bolder and went exploring around the yard, because "it is so different at night!". I went to help the Sailor out by clearing off the truck of snow, as I hummed "who's afraid of the big bad wolf?". As I moved to the truck, I took a quick look around at the undisturbed snow. It looked like someone had dropped golden glitter on the ground. It was really beautiful and..noisy? The Sailor started attacking the girls by shoveling snow on their feet and the dogs were happily barking. He laughed and said: "Watch out! Memories being made!".
I thought about this, as I cleared off the snow off the cars and kept an eye on the adventurous spawn and the boys trying their best to keep them close to the house. We all access childhood memories, but can we access the small details? The sounds, the tastes, the feel of it all, seem to get lost somehow. I found myself trying to access any memory from my youth and see how many details I remembered. Immediately, I remembered one! As if by magic, I was transported to a warm afternoon in sunny Puerto Rico, which was ok with me! It was 19 degrees, remember?
Maybe it was the cold but I remembered the cold tiles on the porch of my grandmother's house in Guayanilla. The memories all started flooding back, building a scene whose small details I thought lost forever. Growing up does that sometimes, you know! Anyway, I remembered the feel of the cement pathway on my feet as I made my way through the backyard to my grandfather's work space. As I kept thinking about this space, I remembered the feel of dog fur between my fingers. It was the family dog, a big German shepherd, who I thought was my personal horse and best friend(probably where my obsession with these wolfy dogs began). I also remembered the feel of fresh sawdust on my fingers and the sharpness of fresh cut woodchips on the bottoms of my feet. You see, my grandpa was an amazing hobby carpenter and his work space was my playground. I shifted noiselessly in my snow boots, as if they were somehow slowing this process down.
The small details did not stop coming, though. I remembered the sound of my grandmother washing dishes and running the water. I remembered the feel of the heat of the kitchen, as the stove was on. But most importantly, I remembered the feel of sitting on the old wooden swing beneath me as I sat with my grandfather, whistling at the Coqui in the bushes, listening for an answer back. I was awoken from that memory, as the girls hit my face with a snowball. I giggled and chased after them, but stopped in my tracks when the Sailor said, " Do you smell freshly cut wood?". Huh. That's interesting!
It felt nice to remember that and I wondered if I was doing the same for my girls. Would this night, through the details, become so ingrained in their memory that they could access it this fully later on in their life? I could only hope so. They seemed to be enjoying it. I mean, it was almost as if we were all alone in a little world of our making. Our noise didn't draw anyone out to peek out their windows, nor were there many cars out. The night was ours and I wasn't going to waste it reminiscing.
We quickly finished the shoveling, cleaning off the truck, and went off to play with the girls. They were pretending to be pixies in the garden and the dogs were their guardians. The Sailor turned into the werewolf that howled at the moon, and apparently, I was the deer that was going to get eaten. The dogs, both white in color, got in on the hunting and brought me down very quickly. It was a fun romp. A LOUD one too! Just like that, the fun was over and we entered the house as one.
"That was really fun, Mama. Thank you," said the Pixy. " I loved it. We play in the nighttime," said the Banshee. As I looked at them, I couldn't help but think about accessing those details for the future. I tried to remember every single moment, as I patted my back for being the coolest Mom on the block. I wanted them to be able to recreate this memory of all of us being crazy enough to go play in 19 degree weather. At night. I wanted them to be able to access all the details so fully, that someone near them would ask, "Do you feel a cold spot?".
As I sit here typing this out, all warmed up, the house is now as quiet as the night was when we invaded it earlier. The girls and the boys are sleeping, the Sailor is working on his music, and the house is making the night sounds houses make when they are resting. Through the windows, moonlight hits the now disturbed snow, and though I would agree with the Sailor that our house cannot be mistaken for a house with no children or animals, all I see/feel/hear are memories . Let's hope that when the time comes, the girls can access them.
As far as my memory, as easily as I remembered it all, it has now been tucked away to access later. For when I really need to feel the warmth of a regular sunny afternoon in my grandparents' house in Puerto Rico.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
On an airplane, with Anita Blake
I was tired. We were in the airport, after an uneventful flight, to visit the Sailor's family and I was ready to call it quits. Find me a cozy reading spot already, won't you?! We had woken up early, taken the boys to their sitter (a chore by itself, not everyone wants to babysit these two. They're huge), and made our way to our airport for an early afternoon flight.
I had packed my book in my awesome Little Red Riding Hood bag and as we settled ourselves into our seats on the plane, I told myself: I dunno why you delude yourself. The girls are gonna be jumping up and down and you are not going to get any reading done. But...I had to. You see, the book in my bag was an Anita Blake novel and it was begging for some attention. I had just left Anita in the midst of an encounter with some wererats and some vampires. I.must.read.
The plane took off and within 5 minutes, the Sailor and the spawn were passed out! EUREKA! All asleep. We use white noise at bed/nap time and the white noise created by the plane in flight sounded the same. It was perfect! I opened my book and escaped again into the world of Anita Blake, which let's face it, is an awesome place.
In Anita Blake's world, vampires are everywhere, ruled by Masters of the City in which they live, wereanimals live by strict rules and always look for loopholes for them, and zombies are a lucrative business. See, Ms. Blake is an animator. She raises the dead for a living, so that grieving families (and sometimes shady people with ulterior motives) can take care of any unfinished business between themselves and the deceased. It must be done within a certain amount of time after death, so out to the cemetery Anita Blake goes, and she takes care of business. Anita might think she does this because of her great work ethic. Me? I attribute this all to the fact that she is part Latina, Mexican to be exact, with awesome curly hair and a no-nonsense attitude that gets things done. YES!
I am sure, that by now, you must be asking yourself: What the hell is so cool about that? Well, besides the fact that culturally speaking, the line between fantasy and reality is extremely blurry for Latin people, Anita Blake shares some of my characteristics. I have curly hair, I do not tolerate nonsense easily, I am comfortable in my skin (for the most part) and I get things done. I am also not tall, which is a Latin thing. Put me next to the 6ft. tall Sailor and I look positively puny. But, don't let the size fool ya! I have a temper on me that rivals whatever boogeyman you got hiding in your closet. Hell hath no fury like a Latina, baby.
Because I tend to lose myself in my reading, the short flight was even shorter. I had to put my book away. Sigh! We made our way through the airport and finally, met up with the Sailor's family. After our round of hellos and hugs, we made our way to the baggage area. As we were waiting for our bags, I grabbed my book, ushered the spawn to a nice seating area and began to read. In this certain passage, it seemed like Anita was wrestling with what her place in the world should be, and that hit very close to home. I may have mentioned before that the Sailor is bi-racial, Polish, Slovak and Filipino, and I am Puerto Rican (a whole 'nother kettle of fish as Puerto Ricans have African, European, and Native blood in their veins). My children are what is considered bi-racial here, and to be frank, if they ever ask me where they come from, I am going to have a hell of a time explaining everything to them.
While I was reading, the girls decided to start taking things out of my Little Red Riding Hood purse and play, but something about this must have made it different, or interesting. All I know is, suddenly I felt eyes on me. I closed my book and began to look around. There, in the corner, there were some people unabashedly looking at us. Nay, staring.
Let me clarify, I am by all accounts a nice person, but I am no shrinking violet. I am also really good at reading body language and I am not afraid to ask for clarification. So, as I saw this group of people staring my way, I stared right back at them. Enough to get them all to look away, except one. He had a mission, I could tell, and he soon started to walk over to us. Call it instinct or being overprotective, but the she-wolf in me was not happy and ushered the girls a little behind me. He came over but stopped about 4 feet away, since I hadn't stopped staring him down. I waited patiently for him to speak and this is what he had to say: "Excuse me, but your children are striking. What are they?"
I think I may have stared at him for a couple of seconds, as he repeated the question. I answered: " I got you. What do you mean?" I was a little shaken, because there I was reading this passage and being moved by it, only to be interrupted by this person asking me about the very thing that bugs me. He went on to explain that he was there with his family and they were drawn to the sounds of the girls playing. He said once he looked at them, he couldn't stop because he couldn't figure out what they were. Why does it matter?? I thought about his question, looking for the best answer. This is what I gave him: "Do you really want to know what they are?" He nodded. Oooookay, "My husband is Polish, Slovak, and Filipino. I am Puerto Rican. They got the best of each of us." He looked at the girls again, who by now, were looking very curiously at him. He whispered, "Wow.", wished us well and walked backwards for a bit before returning to his group. I presume he shared his findings with them. Huh.
See, the thing is, after reading that specific passage and having this encounter, I realized my kids are totally like Anita Blake. Probably more like her than I am. They are the best of each of us. Just as she was the best of each of her parents(though I am sure she'd say no dice). One has brown skin, the other has light skin. One has curly hair, the other has straight hair. They both have more than their fair share of sass and prefer Monster High dolls to Barbies (Banshee actually walks around with a voodoo doll in her pocket; a gift from a friend). They are perfect in every single way. What bothers me is that they might wake up a day not too far from today, and ask: What is my place in the universe? Do I live on the sidelines or take an active role in something? Where do I fit in? Maybe, I realized, what I am really afraid of is that I am not going to be able to answer and that they will be disappointed in me.
The rest of the day went by as any other, we got our junk, got to the house, had a great time with family. But this thought, this idea, would jump out at me in between chapters of the book. It became this huge monster in the room and I had to acknowledge it.
Finally, after an eternity, I did. I thought about what I would say to Pixy and Banshee... and the answer is actually quite simple. I am going to start by saying, "I don't know. I have brought you here for my own amusement and you will deal with it." If that doesn't work, which I am sure it won't, I will say " You know, a long time ago, I was sitting in an airport reading a book...." I will talk it out with them and see where it leads. I might explain to them how I was always looking for my place in the world, questioning everything, and maybe how their Dad felt. Who knows? He might have something to say about fitting in too. How many Polish-Filipinos do you know that live in Milwaukee? 4. Just 4. I will also give them a copy of the book, so they get hooked but so they see something concrete of that day.
Sigh! I guess that is something I will have to deal with when the time comes, but one thing is for certain, I will try to answer it to the best of my ability and let them come up with their own conclusions. Because otherwise, I'd be teaching them that being afraid to question is ok, or that not pushing boundaries to get answers is ok, or that dealing with monsters is better than dealing with people because the monsters don't discriminate. Yeah, I like to think that Anita Blake would have a problem with me if I taught them that.
Here's to continuing a tradition of strong women who kick ass! Guess what I am giving the girls on their 15th? Thanks Anita.
I had packed my book in my awesome Little Red Riding Hood bag and as we settled ourselves into our seats on the plane, I told myself: I dunno why you delude yourself. The girls are gonna be jumping up and down and you are not going to get any reading done. But...I had to. You see, the book in my bag was an Anita Blake novel and it was begging for some attention. I had just left Anita in the midst of an encounter with some wererats and some vampires. I.must.read.
The plane took off and within 5 minutes, the Sailor and the spawn were passed out! EUREKA! All asleep. We use white noise at bed/nap time and the white noise created by the plane in flight sounded the same. It was perfect! I opened my book and escaped again into the world of Anita Blake, which let's face it, is an awesome place.
In Anita Blake's world, vampires are everywhere, ruled by Masters of the City in which they live, wereanimals live by strict rules and always look for loopholes for them, and zombies are a lucrative business. See, Ms. Blake is an animator. She raises the dead for a living, so that grieving families (and sometimes shady people with ulterior motives) can take care of any unfinished business between themselves and the deceased. It must be done within a certain amount of time after death, so out to the cemetery Anita Blake goes, and she takes care of business. Anita might think she does this because of her great work ethic. Me? I attribute this all to the fact that she is part Latina, Mexican to be exact, with awesome curly hair and a no-nonsense attitude that gets things done. YES!
I am sure, that by now, you must be asking yourself: What the hell is so cool about that? Well, besides the fact that culturally speaking, the line between fantasy and reality is extremely blurry for Latin people, Anita Blake shares some of my characteristics. I have curly hair, I do not tolerate nonsense easily, I am comfortable in my skin (for the most part) and I get things done. I am also not tall, which is a Latin thing. Put me next to the 6ft. tall Sailor and I look positively puny. But, don't let the size fool ya! I have a temper on me that rivals whatever boogeyman you got hiding in your closet. Hell hath no fury like a Latina, baby.
Because I tend to lose myself in my reading, the short flight was even shorter. I had to put my book away. Sigh! We made our way through the airport and finally, met up with the Sailor's family. After our round of hellos and hugs, we made our way to the baggage area. As we were waiting for our bags, I grabbed my book, ushered the spawn to a nice seating area and began to read. In this certain passage, it seemed like Anita was wrestling with what her place in the world should be, and that hit very close to home. I may have mentioned before that the Sailor is bi-racial, Polish, Slovak and Filipino, and I am Puerto Rican (a whole 'nother kettle of fish as Puerto Ricans have African, European, and Native blood in their veins). My children are what is considered bi-racial here, and to be frank, if they ever ask me where they come from, I am going to have a hell of a time explaining everything to them.
While I was reading, the girls decided to start taking things out of my Little Red Riding Hood purse and play, but something about this must have made it different, or interesting. All I know is, suddenly I felt eyes on me. I closed my book and began to look around. There, in the corner, there were some people unabashedly looking at us. Nay, staring.
Let me clarify, I am by all accounts a nice person, but I am no shrinking violet. I am also really good at reading body language and I am not afraid to ask for clarification. So, as I saw this group of people staring my way, I stared right back at them. Enough to get them all to look away, except one. He had a mission, I could tell, and he soon started to walk over to us. Call it instinct or being overprotective, but the she-wolf in me was not happy and ushered the girls a little behind me. He came over but stopped about 4 feet away, since I hadn't stopped staring him down. I waited patiently for him to speak and this is what he had to say: "Excuse me, but your children are striking. What are they?"
I think I may have stared at him for a couple of seconds, as he repeated the question. I answered: " I got you. What do you mean?" I was a little shaken, because there I was reading this passage and being moved by it, only to be interrupted by this person asking me about the very thing that bugs me. He went on to explain that he was there with his family and they were drawn to the sounds of the girls playing. He said once he looked at them, he couldn't stop because he couldn't figure out what they were. Why does it matter?? I thought about his question, looking for the best answer. This is what I gave him: "Do you really want to know what they are?" He nodded. Oooookay, "My husband is Polish, Slovak, and Filipino. I am Puerto Rican. They got the best of each of us." He looked at the girls again, who by now, were looking very curiously at him. He whispered, "Wow.", wished us well and walked backwards for a bit before returning to his group. I presume he shared his findings with them. Huh.
See, the thing is, after reading that specific passage and having this encounter, I realized my kids are totally like Anita Blake. Probably more like her than I am. They are the best of each of us. Just as she was the best of each of her parents(though I am sure she'd say no dice). One has brown skin, the other has light skin. One has curly hair, the other has straight hair. They both have more than their fair share of sass and prefer Monster High dolls to Barbies (Banshee actually walks around with a voodoo doll in her pocket; a gift from a friend). They are perfect in every single way. What bothers me is that they might wake up a day not too far from today, and ask: What is my place in the universe? Do I live on the sidelines or take an active role in something? Where do I fit in? Maybe, I realized, what I am really afraid of is that I am not going to be able to answer and that they will be disappointed in me.
The rest of the day went by as any other, we got our junk, got to the house, had a great time with family. But this thought, this idea, would jump out at me in between chapters of the book. It became this huge monster in the room and I had to acknowledge it.
Finally, after an eternity, I did. I thought about what I would say to Pixy and Banshee... and the answer is actually quite simple. I am going to start by saying, "I don't know. I have brought you here for my own amusement and you will deal with it." If that doesn't work, which I am sure it won't, I will say " You know, a long time ago, I was sitting in an airport reading a book...." I will talk it out with them and see where it leads. I might explain to them how I was always looking for my place in the world, questioning everything, and maybe how their Dad felt. Who knows? He might have something to say about fitting in too. How many Polish-Filipinos do you know that live in Milwaukee? 4. Just 4. I will also give them a copy of the book, so they get hooked but so they see something concrete of that day.
Sigh! I guess that is something I will have to deal with when the time comes, but one thing is for certain, I will try to answer it to the best of my ability and let them come up with their own conclusions. Because otherwise, I'd be teaching them that being afraid to question is ok, or that not pushing boundaries to get answers is ok, or that dealing with monsters is better than dealing with people because the monsters don't discriminate. Yeah, I like to think that Anita Blake would have a problem with me if I taught them that.
Here's to continuing a tradition of strong women who kick ass! Guess what I am giving the girls on their 15th? Thanks Anita.
Monday, January 21, 2013
On music, trumpets, sailors, and MLK
It was 3am. I think. I don't do early morning. Once the sun is out, my system shuts down. The alarm had gone off and I could hear the Sailor getting ready for work. Today was a special day because today was the Presidential Inauguration and the Sailor would get to march in it.
He got his uniform ready, and he felt prepared, as his usual practice routine got a little longer because of the importance of the event. I think I groggily asked him if he was getting ready to meet the other woman and I believe he answered: " She's polished and ready to rumble." He knows this is probably the only topic of conversation that will wake me from my vampiric-like stupor enough to crack a joke or two. You see, the "other woman" is a trumpet. The Sailor plays trumpet for the Navy Band.
The Sailor's trumpet has a name, because being Puerto Rican, I have a tendency to name everything and give it life, especially if they are inanimate objects. HER name is "Lisa2" and she's the one that he spends the most time with out of all his instruments. Put simply, when we were dating, I never had to worry if I didn't hear from him for a couple hours. I knew he was spending time with "Lisa2", practicing an excerpt over and over again, until it sounded absolutely perfect. After all, that is the quest of any musician, perfection of sound and perfection of his craft.
"Lisa2" has been his constant companion for a long time, enough that she's a complete extension of the Sailor. They are fused together, one as much a part of the other. The quote by Duke Ellington: "Music is my mistress and she plays second-fiddle to no one", always pops in my head as I see him practicing because by all accounts, I am the other woman. Oh, it isn't that bad. Grumble, groan. You see, if he's going to be spending time with her, then he better be damn good at what he is doing, because he is sacrificing time with me. Let's face it: she's cold, I am warm, she is shiny in the sunlight, I clean up good...he is coming back to me. Whoa! This has started to sound a bit like Twilight. <Insert evil laugh here>. In all seriousness and severity, I am the Sailor's biggest fan and his worst critic.
During this morning exchange though, unspoken between us, was that today was also Dr. King's special day. You see, if it hadn't been for Dr. King, my husband would not exist and be able to take part of this historic event. His parents, a white American woman of Polish and Slovak ancestry and a Filipino man, would not have met and fallen in love. In the conservative Midwest. Whoa, 'nuff said. Nor would I have been in this country and had our spawn. Gosh, they're cute girls; with a bite, but very cute.
It got me to thinking. How scary is it to think that if things had gone differently for Dr. King, life as we know it wouldn't exist? Pretty damn scary, to be honest, and this is coming from a woman who thinks werewolves are just big puppies. Has it been that long that a single man had a dream? The answer is no. Is hate now replaced by love, as Dr. King preached? Hell no. Are we moving towards that ideal? Maybe. That's the truth, but the fear that we aren't appreciating this holiday as we should, is always just under the surface. I have heard friends argue the validity of this holiday and "can't we all just go on with our lives as we always do?'. Well, no you can't, dummy. Life as we know it wouldn't exist. Duh!
So, I humbly request that if you have children, please teach them to enjoy this holiday and remind them that not so long ago, black people(any people of color, Puerto Ricans included) and white people were not allowed to be in the same places. Not so long ago, celebrating our origins was completely taboo, and being different was not ok, by any means. That in spite of racism, brave couples of different racial backgrounds said: "I love you, no matter what they say and I will marry you, PERIOD". That not so long ago, there was a man, who liked Star Trek, was a vegetarian, and could preach like nobody's business. This man had a dream that we all would love and live together in perfect harmony. He fought for his dream, and gave up his life for it. He did all that so on a day like today, a day a lot of people dub "a day like any other", a biracial trumpet player could march before a black President as part of the US Navy and help celebrate his inauguration.
So, thanks Dr. King for all your hard work, for all your dreaming, and for giving up your life so that others could live theirs freely. In this house, we appreciate you greatly and your work has not been forgotten.
He got his uniform ready, and he felt prepared, as his usual practice routine got a little longer because of the importance of the event. I think I groggily asked him if he was getting ready to meet the other woman and I believe he answered: " She's polished and ready to rumble." He knows this is probably the only topic of conversation that will wake me from my vampiric-like stupor enough to crack a joke or two. You see, the "other woman" is a trumpet. The Sailor plays trumpet for the Navy Band.
The Sailor's trumpet has a name, because being Puerto Rican, I have a tendency to name everything and give it life, especially if they are inanimate objects. HER name is "Lisa2" and she's the one that he spends the most time with out of all his instruments. Put simply, when we were dating, I never had to worry if I didn't hear from him for a couple hours. I knew he was spending time with "Lisa2", practicing an excerpt over and over again, until it sounded absolutely perfect. After all, that is the quest of any musician, perfection of sound and perfection of his craft.
"Lisa2" has been his constant companion for a long time, enough that she's a complete extension of the Sailor. They are fused together, one as much a part of the other. The quote by Duke Ellington: "Music is my mistress and she plays second-fiddle to no one", always pops in my head as I see him practicing because by all accounts, I am the other woman. Oh, it isn't that bad. Grumble, groan. You see, if he's going to be spending time with her, then he better be damn good at what he is doing, because he is sacrificing time with me. Let's face it: she's cold, I am warm, she is shiny in the sunlight, I clean up good...he is coming back to me. Whoa! This has started to sound a bit like Twilight. <Insert evil laugh here>. In all seriousness and severity, I am the Sailor's biggest fan and his worst critic.
During this morning exchange though, unspoken between us, was that today was also Dr. King's special day. You see, if it hadn't been for Dr. King, my husband would not exist and be able to take part of this historic event. His parents, a white American woman of Polish and Slovak ancestry and a Filipino man, would not have met and fallen in love. In the conservative Midwest. Whoa, 'nuff said. Nor would I have been in this country and had our spawn. Gosh, they're cute girls; with a bite, but very cute.
It got me to thinking. How scary is it to think that if things had gone differently for Dr. King, life as we know it wouldn't exist? Pretty damn scary, to be honest, and this is coming from a woman who thinks werewolves are just big puppies. Has it been that long that a single man had a dream? The answer is no. Is hate now replaced by love, as Dr. King preached? Hell no. Are we moving towards that ideal? Maybe. That's the truth, but the fear that we aren't appreciating this holiday as we should, is always just under the surface. I have heard friends argue the validity of this holiday and "can't we all just go on with our lives as we always do?'. Well, no you can't, dummy. Life as we know it wouldn't exist. Duh!
So, I humbly request that if you have children, please teach them to enjoy this holiday and remind them that not so long ago, black people(any people of color, Puerto Ricans included) and white people were not allowed to be in the same places. Not so long ago, celebrating our origins was completely taboo, and being different was not ok, by any means. That in spite of racism, brave couples of different racial backgrounds said: "I love you, no matter what they say and I will marry you, PERIOD". That not so long ago, there was a man, who liked Star Trek, was a vegetarian, and could preach like nobody's business. This man had a dream that we all would love and live together in perfect harmony. He fought for his dream, and gave up his life for it. He did all that so on a day like today, a day a lot of people dub "a day like any other", a biracial trumpet player could march before a black President as part of the US Navy and help celebrate his inauguration.
So, thanks Dr. King for all your hard work, for all your dreaming, and for giving up your life so that others could live theirs freely. In this house, we appreciate you greatly and your work has not been forgotten.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
"Hey, are you from Baltimore?"
It was cold and quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you look around for shadows where there aren't supposed to be any. Then out of the quiet stillness came this: "Hey, are you from Baltimore?!" "Well, yeah and you're not," I answered as I ushered my little pack away. Score one for me!HA! The voice had come from a group of drunk guys, obviously celebrating SOMEthing. They thought that I was extremely funny, and the Sailor just shook his head at me, smirking because he knew I couldn't leave it alone.
It isn't usually this quiet in Baltimore at ANY time(even with the screaming drunk guy), except that the Ravens were playing and it was 6:30pm on Sunday. The city was dead, which made me a little sad. Baltimore always offers some kind of pulse, even in the oddest of conditions. Suck it up, lady! Let's have fun anyway!
I had won my spawn a couple of passes to the National Aquarium from the Pathfinders for Autism society. The night promised to be relaxing, as the Aquarium was closed down to the general public and only open to pass holders. They also made it more sensory-friendly, so the lights were turned down a bit and the music was turned off. The girls were extremely excited. In fact, so excited that they were skipping down Pratt Street in anticipation. It was rubbing off on me.
It wasn't that long ago that I would zip out of my university and come to this same place to sit in front of the dolphin tank to think. You see, every Friday you can stay in late if you get in by a certain time and boy would I milk it.I think most of my papers were written in front of the observation windows to the dolphin tank. While most college kids were closing down bars, I was closing down the Aquarium. On Fridays, anyway.
We made it into the main entrance, after our encounter with the drunk kids on the street, took our coats off and went to touring the Aquarium. The Sailor was a bit excited too. It had been years since our last date there and the place "has changed quite a bit!" There was some construction going on, so the sting ray exhibit was closed off, but other than that...it looked the same, smelled the same, and the walls felt the same. Talk about a sensory experience!
Lots of families with children with special needs and children living with autism were present, which was nice since the night was so they could all enjoy the place without the crowds. In reality, it was quite loud and busy. I looked at my Banshee for the tell-tale signs that she was uncomfortable(she can't do crowds, at all) and to my surprise..she was ok. She pulled on my hand and said, "Mama, it's ok. Let's go."
And go we did. We jumped on the escalator(Woohoo! You rock on escalators girls!) and managed to wade through all the exhibits(Sorry! Your butt was in the way), pouted when we saw that the Rainforest and the Dolphin show were closed(Why would they close the bestest parts?), and were excited to see all the awesome jellyfish floating about like spacecraft(Dude, those are SO aliens). She took turns looking at things, laughed when she saw the real-life Nemo and Dory, and "concetrated" (concentrated in Banshee-speak) when asked to find the tarantula in a certain exhibit. Even Pixy got in on the fun! We made a bet that whoever found the snake first, who was expertly camouflaged in a branch by the way, got the honor of buying everyone a snack. Pixy won! SCORE! We all had a good laugh and soon enough, two hours had passed and it was time to go. The Sailor had to work extremely early the next day and we wanted out of Baltimore before the bars let out. Gotta head home, chicas!
We made our way out of the Aquarium with lots of lamenting, because "we really want to stay with our dolphin friends, Mama" and "Daddy said we can hang out in Australia with the crocodiles"(I am SURE he did, girls), back out to the quiet streets. We walked in front of the Hard Rock cafe, behind Pier V, all in quiet observation of the night. "Can you hear what it's trying to tell you?", I asked the girls, "besides that the Ravens rule." I looked at both of them pointedly, which gave us all the giggles.
I am sure it was then that we all felt it. The city was welcoming us there. It was happy that we appreciated it. It's pulse or city-melody was intoxicating: the lights on the buildings like glitter, the drunken songs drifting on the breeze, the sounds of water hitting the pier, the smell of the sea heavy in the air, and the feel of comfort and safety all around us. It assaulted all our senses, which was ironic as we had just left a venue that was supposed to be "sensory friendly", and there it was...the nameless feeling that I always looked for in my youth and always found in Baltimore: the feeling of home and belonging somewhere. We belonged there. The city was ours and it was wonderful. She makes no apologies for who she is. In your face, friendly, full of shadows and light, happiness and sadness too. She is history made and history being made. She is Baltimore. Whoa!
On the drive back home, I kept thinking about the reason why I answered the drunken guy that way...besides me being a smart-ass, I mean. Maybe I read him too well and could tell he wasn't all there(he WAS drunk), maybe it was the regional US accent(he said BALTimore, not Bawl-mer), maybe it was the way he was dressed(like Zack Morris), or maybe it was just plain obvious that he didn't know where the hell he was or where the hell he was going...but I was certain of this: I knew where I was, what I was doing, where I was headed, and who I was going with. It felt good.
So, if I could have a rewind of that moment, please maestro!
"Hey, are you from Baltimore?", asked the drunken guy in an overly loud tone, while he weaved in between two other drunken guys.
"Well, yeah and you're not," answered the no-nonsense city she-wolf, as she ushered her littles and her mate to their destination, without a glance back...
Yup, it still seems like the right answer to me!
It isn't usually this quiet in Baltimore at ANY time(even with the screaming drunk guy), except that the Ravens were playing and it was 6:30pm on Sunday. The city was dead, which made me a little sad. Baltimore always offers some kind of pulse, even in the oddest of conditions. Suck it up, lady! Let's have fun anyway!
I had won my spawn a couple of passes to the National Aquarium from the Pathfinders for Autism society. The night promised to be relaxing, as the Aquarium was closed down to the general public and only open to pass holders. They also made it more sensory-friendly, so the lights were turned down a bit and the music was turned off. The girls were extremely excited. In fact, so excited that they were skipping down Pratt Street in anticipation. It was rubbing off on me.
We made it into the main entrance, after our encounter with the drunk kids on the street, took our coats off and went to touring the Aquarium. The Sailor was a bit excited too. It had been years since our last date there and the place "has changed quite a bit!" There was some construction going on, so the sting ray exhibit was closed off, but other than that...it looked the same, smelled the same, and the walls felt the same. Talk about a sensory experience!
Lots of families with children with special needs and children living with autism were present, which was nice since the night was so they could all enjoy the place without the crowds. In reality, it was quite loud and busy. I looked at my Banshee for the tell-tale signs that she was uncomfortable(she can't do crowds, at all) and to my surprise..she was ok. She pulled on my hand and said, "Mama, it's ok. Let's go."
And go we did. We jumped on the escalator(Woohoo! You rock on escalators girls!) and managed to wade through all the exhibits(Sorry! Your butt was in the way), pouted when we saw that the Rainforest and the Dolphin show were closed(Why would they close the bestest parts?), and were excited to see all the awesome jellyfish floating about like spacecraft(Dude, those are SO aliens). She took turns looking at things, laughed when she saw the real-life Nemo and Dory, and "concetrated" (concentrated in Banshee-speak) when asked to find the tarantula in a certain exhibit. Even Pixy got in on the fun! We made a bet that whoever found the snake first, who was expertly camouflaged in a branch by the way, got the honor of buying everyone a snack. Pixy won! SCORE! We all had a good laugh and soon enough, two hours had passed and it was time to go. The Sailor had to work extremely early the next day and we wanted out of Baltimore before the bars let out. Gotta head home, chicas!
We made our way out of the Aquarium with lots of lamenting, because "we really want to stay with our dolphin friends, Mama" and "Daddy said we can hang out in Australia with the crocodiles"(I am SURE he did, girls), back out to the quiet streets. We walked in front of the Hard Rock cafe, behind Pier V, all in quiet observation of the night. "Can you hear what it's trying to tell you?", I asked the girls, "besides that the Ravens rule." I looked at both of them pointedly, which gave us all the giggles.
I am sure it was then that we all felt it. The city was welcoming us there. It was happy that we appreciated it. It's pulse or city-melody was intoxicating: the lights on the buildings like glitter, the drunken songs drifting on the breeze, the sounds of water hitting the pier, the smell of the sea heavy in the air, and the feel of comfort and safety all around us. It assaulted all our senses, which was ironic as we had just left a venue that was supposed to be "sensory friendly", and there it was...the nameless feeling that I always looked for in my youth and always found in Baltimore: the feeling of home and belonging somewhere. We belonged there. The city was ours and it was wonderful. She makes no apologies for who she is. In your face, friendly, full of shadows and light, happiness and sadness too. She is history made and history being made. She is Baltimore. Whoa!
On the drive back home, I kept thinking about the reason why I answered the drunken guy that way...besides me being a smart-ass, I mean. Maybe I read him too well and could tell he wasn't all there(he WAS drunk), maybe it was the regional US accent(he said BALTimore, not Bawl-mer), maybe it was the way he was dressed(like Zack Morris), or maybe it was just plain obvious that he didn't know where the hell he was or where the hell he was going...but I was certain of this: I knew where I was, what I was doing, where I was headed, and who I was going with. It felt good.
So, if I could have a rewind of that moment, please maestro!
"Hey, are you from Baltimore?", asked the drunken guy in an overly loud tone, while he weaved in between two other drunken guys.
"Well, yeah and you're not," answered the no-nonsense city she-wolf, as she ushered her littles and her mate to their destination, without a glance back...
Yup, it still seems like the right answer to me!
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Letter to my 15yr old self
Hi Lisa!
You might not know me now, but you will know me later on in life. See, my name is Lisa, and to put this simply, I'm you. You see, I'm sitting in a dark dining room of a house you will know in the future and I thought to myself there are some things I think you should know. I'm not sure the why of it all, but maybe that will become more evident in this missive.
I want to begin by telling you a story. There once was a forest, and in this dark place, lived a she-wolf with her pups. She was a strong thing, always kind to her pack, loving with her pups, and free. Free to go wherever she pleased. By her side, after dealing with more line wolves than she'd care to admit(thank ya very much), there stood a wonderful male wolf. He was kind, bold, daring, and a bit of a jokester. Even though the she-wolf was strong, she was faltering. You see, she'd lost two pups through no fault of her own, members of her pack had left her, and she found herself not as free as she used to be. She would go through the motions doing wolfy things, but she had lost her way. That is a bad thing for an Alpha. It means that the rest of the pack is confused, unsure about what to do because their leader isn't there. When one falters, they all falter together. Well, in one of her usual trips for food and such, this she-wolf saw a ray of sunshine. She decided she would chase it and eat it, because that's what wolves do. She never stopped to think that it might be to replace the light in herself, because she'd become as dark as the forest. She chased it, tumbled a few times, and she thought she ate it. Well, the truth is, she didn't eat it. How can you eat a sunbeam? But, a funny thing happened to this she-wolf. She regained her strength, she walked in beauty, and for once felt she was at peace. When asked by her pack what changed, she'd mention the day she ate a sunbeam and it changed things for the better. The pack would smile and were happy for her, but they wondered what was up. Then, something happened to one of her pups; she wasn't as happy as her other pup, something was wrong. The she-wolf faltered and was angry because the sunbeam she ate must have gone out. She was so angry at the forest, at her pack, at the world, that she went out looking for a new sunbeam. She didn't find it and became angrier still. So she ran until she couldn't run anymore to get this anger out. When she stopped to catch her breath, there in front if her was a little meadow surrou ded by new trees, new flowers, and all throughout there were sunbeams! She didn't believe her luck and attempted to eat every single one of those sunbeams. Suddenly, after trying to eat the sunbeams for what must have been hours, she stopped. She looked around her and thought how silly she must look doing this thing. Seriously?! Sunbeams?! She thought, meditated, and tried to figure out why she felt so happy when she ate the first sunbeam. Did she eat it? She wasn't sure anymore but she knew that she felt happy, carefree, like her old self after that. Maybe that's what made her feel better! That she paused long enough to be impulsive and do something just to see where it went....like she used to before she had terrible times. Well, she trudged home, thinking all the way and she told the pack about her journey. That's what it was, a journey! She told them how she felt, how she was feeling, and that she wanted badly for things to change for the better. The pack felt her strength returning and so they were happy. It was almost like there was a chain connecting all of them and they were all themselves again. The she-wolf didn't know what was ahead of her, but she knew that as long as she remembered her sunbeam journey, she would be all right. She'd never let herself go back to that dark place in the forest again, she'd walk in sunlight and beauty wherever she went.
Do you understand the story, Lisa? That she-wolf in the forest? She's you. You as a young girl, as a young mother, as a young woman...she is you. I want you to know that there will be times that you will find yourself in that deep, dark part of the forest. You will feel lost, confused, and weak. I cannot promise that you will find that meadow of sunbeams right away, but I never want you to stop looking for it. You are not alone. You will have a great partner who will love you above all things, you will have two children here with you, and two you have lost. You will surround yourself with your own pack. And all will be as it was meant to...in its own time.
You might not know me now, but you will know me later on in life. See, my name is Lisa, and to put this simply, I'm you. You see, I'm sitting in a dark dining room of a house you will know in the future and I thought to myself there are some things I think you should know. I'm not sure the why of it all, but maybe that will become more evident in this missive.
I want to begin by telling you a story. There once was a forest, and in this dark place, lived a she-wolf with her pups. She was a strong thing, always kind to her pack, loving with her pups, and free. Free to go wherever she pleased. By her side, after dealing with more line wolves than she'd care to admit(thank ya very much), there stood a wonderful male wolf. He was kind, bold, daring, and a bit of a jokester. Even though the she-wolf was strong, she was faltering. You see, she'd lost two pups through no fault of her own, members of her pack had left her, and she found herself not as free as she used to be. She would go through the motions doing wolfy things, but she had lost her way. That is a bad thing for an Alpha. It means that the rest of the pack is confused, unsure about what to do because their leader isn't there. When one falters, they all falter together. Well, in one of her usual trips for food and such, this she-wolf saw a ray of sunshine. She decided she would chase it and eat it, because that's what wolves do. She never stopped to think that it might be to replace the light in herself, because she'd become as dark as the forest. She chased it, tumbled a few times, and she thought she ate it. Well, the truth is, she didn't eat it. How can you eat a sunbeam? But, a funny thing happened to this she-wolf. She regained her strength, she walked in beauty, and for once felt she was at peace. When asked by her pack what changed, she'd mention the day she ate a sunbeam and it changed things for the better. The pack would smile and were happy for her, but they wondered what was up. Then, something happened to one of her pups; she wasn't as happy as her other pup, something was wrong. The she-wolf faltered and was angry because the sunbeam she ate must have gone out. She was so angry at the forest, at her pack, at the world, that she went out looking for a new sunbeam. She didn't find it and became angrier still. So she ran until she couldn't run anymore to get this anger out. When she stopped to catch her breath, there in front if her was a little meadow surrou ded by new trees, new flowers, and all throughout there were sunbeams! She didn't believe her luck and attempted to eat every single one of those sunbeams. Suddenly, after trying to eat the sunbeams for what must have been hours, she stopped. She looked around her and thought how silly she must look doing this thing. Seriously?! Sunbeams?! She thought, meditated, and tried to figure out why she felt so happy when she ate the first sunbeam. Did she eat it? She wasn't sure anymore but she knew that she felt happy, carefree, like her old self after that. Maybe that's what made her feel better! That she paused long enough to be impulsive and do something just to see where it went....like she used to before she had terrible times. Well, she trudged home, thinking all the way and she told the pack about her journey. That's what it was, a journey! She told them how she felt, how she was feeling, and that she wanted badly for things to change for the better. The pack felt her strength returning and so they were happy. It was almost like there was a chain connecting all of them and they were all themselves again. The she-wolf didn't know what was ahead of her, but she knew that as long as she remembered her sunbeam journey, she would be all right. She'd never let herself go back to that dark place in the forest again, she'd walk in sunlight and beauty wherever she went.
Do you understand the story, Lisa? That she-wolf in the forest? She's you. You as a young girl, as a young mother, as a young woman...she is you. I want you to know that there will be times that you will find yourself in that deep, dark part of the forest. You will feel lost, confused, and weak. I cannot promise that you will find that meadow of sunbeams right away, but I never want you to stop looking for it. You are not alone. You will have a great partner who will love you above all things, you will have two children here with you, and two you have lost. You will surround yourself with your own pack. And all will be as it was meant to...in its own time.
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