Searching for Saina @coach-jellybean - Tumblr Blog

Brown Loafers and Island Girl Magic

How often do we pass over meaningful things without knowing that they’re meaningful? How often do we pass by meaningful people in ignorance too? The beauty of our connections are missed too often when we are focused on things that don’t matter—our phones, our anger, our worries, our selfishness. What is the purpose of this moment? Where is it taking you? Who is important here? Why do you need this? Where is it taking me? Why do I need this? Why do we need each other? Why do we need this flower, and this river, and this ocean, and this air, these birds, this whale, this shark, this karabao, and this coconut tree? Why am I crying? Is it because I know I need you and all these things, but I don’t feel certain if you know that you need me back?

Yesterday I picked up a rider on the StrollGuam clock. He was obviously from the states—one of those areas with heavy colonizer settlement, no sun, and definitely a lot of snow. Shiny blue eyes, red faced, with a head of blonde hair so light, it was almost transparent. The portly man wore a blue polo that didn’t match his terrible salmon-colored shorts. He stretched his loafer-covered foot into the car, and clumsily plopped himself on the seat. I said hello, and with no greeting in return he said “Three days on this God-forsaken island, and I know I’m never coming back here. God. I have to be here for three years and the night life sucks.” I felt my ears burn hot with anger, as I heard the clicking of my teeth with the clenching of my jaw. The drive is from beach bar to The Guam Plaza, I thought to myself. I opted to keep my opinions inside.

“Aw, why do you say that?” I asked, faking concern. He went on to complain about that lack of all the amenities and comforts he was used to. “Totally understandable,” I said. “The night life that you’re used to, is definitely not the night life that we provide here. To your standards, our nightlife definitely sucks.” He repeated how much he dreaded the next three years… and I thought about our connection. It takes only six minutes to drive from The Beach Bar to The Guam Plaza Hotel. If I’m stuck at the light for two changes, maybe 9 or 10. I drove a little slower and made sure to honor the yellow light. He scoffed at my choice, but I didn’t mind. “May I offer you possibility in finding the magic that is our island?” I thought he may scoff again, but I heard his hands slap against his thighs, as he exclaimed “YES PLEASE!” I prefaced my response with “This might sound really hippie-dippie,” ‘cause I know that it does—I myself, would have thought so in another time in my life. “… but the key to finding Guåhan’s magic is to connect.” He raised an eyebrow and looked at me like I was speaking in codes. “Connect to everything. The land, the people, the ocean… all of it. You can go clubbing anywhere in the world, where the clubs are better. You can go to malls anywhere in the world where the malls are better. Maybe you’ll be happier here if, instead of making us into what you wish we were, you find ways to celebrate the things that we are.” Drunk and probably a little confused, but he acknowledged me respectfully, and he seemed pensive. As I rolled up to his hotel, I wished him luck and told him that I hope he finds happiness here. He said thank you, reached his hand out to shake mine, and went on his way.

I hope that he finds it, realizes the beauty that is our island, her people, all lands, and the earth’s people. I hope he finds himself, and his light. I could not have gotten here if I honored my anger instead of my light. I could not have told him about the magic here if I didn’t reflect the magic here. We cannot ask people to connect to us if we do not first connect to them. It is hard. It hurts my Chamoru pride… but if I want to live in happier, healthier, better times, I have to be happier, healthier, and better.

Zalcoat's Tales and Stars in Retrograde

I didn’t know that I had a knack for watercolors. The way the pigment reaches out in all directions when the tip of the brush touches the moist spots on paper is enchanting. Even if I don’t quite have any of my own creative ideas, examples from pinterest give my eyes something that my hands can copy and imitate. But truthfully… that’s not what this post is about at all.

A recycling of events and experiences has brought me to a revisiting I didn’t want but will eventually accept was needed. One of those epiphanic memes say something along the lines of same behaviors and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. Am I insane? What if I’m doing different things, but still come back to the same results? Are they the same, or am I missing the nuance in this cycle? Am I doing something different, but it isn’t the thing that is key? I don’t regret anything, but I wish I didn’t have to keep coming back to this place. I felt so certain, and now the lack of certainty hurts me more than I care to admit.

Exploring the realities of coping versus healing and coming to terms that they are different is causing me to realize that there were a lot of things I coped with, and very little that I healed from. Maybe that’s why I approach most of my interactions with a one foot out the door attitude. “I’m used to losing people,” I’ve said before. “It hurts, but you get used to the pain.” How much has this damaged me? How much of this dirt is swept under the metaphorical rug of my existence?

Just because something is meant to be, doesn’t mean it was meant to be forever.

I am happy she is no longer suffering.

He deserves to live a quality life.

I want him to be happy, even if it isn’t with me.

I am not hurt by your hurt.

You know your worth, do not settle for less than what you envision.

Trust in the journey; everything happens for a reason.

The swaying hums of my self-soothing words repeat in my mind. A mantra, chanting me away from my bed, lulling me to sleep, carrying me through the dreams I cannot remember, fueling the muscles that support faked smiles, and the words that pat-dry my tears before they escape passed my eyelashes. Am I healing or am I coping?

Sometimes I admire the people who completely lose their shit. As the pieces of their foundations disappear from beneath them, and every bit of control follows in the chaos, and their truest, rawest, most vulnerable, and naked form is public for all. I wonder sometimes if that place is liberating, and if there is something that I am missing by never letting myself walk on such unstable pathways. Maybe that is why I find myself here over, and over again.

Indigo Bundles and Midnight Tokens

In my own sense of order, I move from room to room. Shoving things into trash bags, stopping at things I want, and asking myself “Have you used this? Does it make you happy?” I told myself it would only be twelve boxes. Ten large ones, two small ones, each delegated to contain only things I need, use, and are made happy by.

I pause in front of a mandala that we acquired on a reservation in Puyallup. The indigo leather is dusty and the feathers have fallen apart. “I don’t use this, it just hangs on the wall,” I think to myself. I change my focus to a framed photo of my little sister as a baby. Bright eyed, dimply, with a gummy smile, she is no doubt laughing at mom’s silly faces made behind the camera man. I picked up the dusty frame, wiping it gently before laying it with the rest of the pictures and keepsakes that belong to the house. I come back to the mandala and take it off the hook. After a sad attempt at ridding the fibers of all the dust, I consider throwing it away, but doubt decision, as I always do.

I don’t need it. It doesn’t bring me happiness. “But what if I need it later?” I ask myself—as I ask myself of all things that should be let go of. In an honest review of myself, I realize it took me years and years of life to come to this moment to acknowledge that I hold on to things because memories are all I have left of the very thing I’ve always felt like I needed, but didn’t have. I miss her.

Twenty years doesn’t dull the pining on days like this one. “What if” questions, sharp enough to spear the heart over and over again spill in from all sides of my consciousness as I ache for memories that were never made. Her absence missed at every milestone, her spirit yearned for at every celebration. I feel my face get hot as I flip through pictures and find one of my dad and me. I feel heavy with guilt as I battle with mistakes I made in my youth. I was angry then. I didn’t know how to appreciate him, as I spent all of my time comparing them to each other. She as softer, he was firm. She was affectionate when I cried, he was too, but he would remind me that I need to stand up, dust myself off and keep going—I didn’t like that part. I switch my gaze back to the mandala, then to the pictures and realize that these things guide me through these conversations, these memories. I wish I had appreciated him more when I was young. I hope he knows I love him. I hope he knows how amazing he loved us, and how thankful I am that he is my father. What if I do not have these things to remind me? What if I have nothing left of her or him? Will the stories still come if I do not have a dusty, tattered mandala of indigo leather? Will I be able to remember this moment at a Father’s Day gathering for church—where, for the first time in my life I realized I look just like him?

How will I face every nook? How will I choose which thirty two years of memories will go in boxes, be sold, or be stuffed in a trash bag? I’m afraid time will pass faster than my heart can brace itself for the strength it needs to face these next few weeks.

Of Nymph and Blood

As I walked up the pathway on the side of the church, I was enchanted for a moment by the beauty of the bright blue, almost cloudless sky. Unfamiliar faces passed, slowly walking from the entrance. I sighed with relief; I did not wish to see anyone that would require more than a polite nod or wave. My throat began to burn as I walked closer to the doorway, my chest tightening up against the heavy pounding of my heart. I tightened my lips, filling my lungs with air, crinkling my nose as I let out a deep sigh. Pushing passed the church’s glass doors, I hoped that the passing strangers would continue.

An upward glance revealed a simple sunlit church, with people scattered amongst the pews. People solemnly waited in a line that stretched to the back, to offer their condolences to the mourning family members; mother, sister, brother-in-law, grandparents, and a great grandmother. I found my eyes meeting with an all too familiar face just as I focused on the people in front of me. He turned as I stepped through the door, nodding a greeting, as I offered a half-hearted smile and a nod in return. I was happy to see him, but overwhelmed that his face was whose I saw first. Maybe it was because his eyes betrayed him for the first time, allowing me to see traces of emotion laced on his eye lashes, or maybe it was because he looked shockingly different outside of his rugby garb, looking even more tall and handsome than usual in his dark collared shirt, but our glances meeting instantly made all the existing sensations magnified, and I felt a rush of panic wave over me.

Knowing I had roughly fifteen rows of pews to wait before seeing the images I did not want to see, I created a tunnel between myself and my obligations for the next few minutes. The book. My respects. My condolences. Chenchule’. It felt impossible. The pen sat clumsily in my hands, as I trembled, looking down at the book. I wrote my name, my village, and quickly passed the collage of photos that I knew my heart could not bare. The burning in my throat spread to my nose, as I looked up and saw people sobbing, and crying. I slowed my breathing and did my best to maintain my composure. I have not lost as much as the people in the front row—I have no right, I said to myself.

As I approached the front, my eyes flooded, the pounding thrashed against my insides. My stomach ripped and turned, like a furious serpent caught in a cage. Covered in white, and trimmed with lace, the most precious sleeping angel lay inside. I began to shake, when my eyes fell on the little silver cross, carefully placed around her neck, cradled by her little chest. Guilt, rage, sympathy, sadness, so much sadness. I turned to look at the baby’s mother, and not any bit of my empathy could understand or know her pain. I offered my condolences to each family member, trying to mask my own mix of emotions in respect for theirs.

I walked back to my car half hoping to see him, half not wanting to see anyone at all. I wanted to wander my way all the way up to Litekyan and dig my toes in the sand, fall asleep, and be washed away by salty water. I wanted to be embraced by someone—anyone. I felt, so desperately, like I needed a warm chest beneath my cheek, a calm heartbeat, a soothing voice. I wanted to let out one long hard, heart wrenching sob, in hopes to not revisit any of this pain that I was currently feeling. I wanted to ask him if his heart was hurting too-- if he needed to talk about the tiny lifeless baby girl that lay so still, so tragically and beautifully surrounded by white lace, because I needed to. I need to.

Names, people, places-- there are things that simply do not stick, and then there are things that the mind’s eye cannot unsee. Things which become deeply embedded in your memories. Energized by the silence of my heart, the unwanted impressions dance wildly behind my tightly shut eyelids, and I cry again for a second night.

30 Day Yoga Challenge - Day 2 #namaste

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Magic and Melody

A soft whimper, breath stolen just a moment before lips touch. This slow motion rush, hands, hair, scent, essence. Voice shaking, bodies embracing, fingers interlacing. Stars and moon watching, smiling, gracing us, blessing us.

But broken hearts sing sad songs. Jaded beats waiver, walls built high arms that lacking drive to climb. Come back to life with the sweetest hum of promise, before it fades away like the I love yous we wrote in the sand.

I felt beautiful today. Genuinely. I looked at myself in the mirror and smirked at the shiny quality of my brown eyes. My skin is glowing and my head is bursting with curls which are flying in all directions, falling in front of the corner of my eye. I feel mysterious like Carmen San Diego. My pencil skirt hugged my thighs, shaping and celebrating both my love of chocolate cake and my willingness to do squats for rugby. My top carefully chosen for a modest, but sexy bust, and an orange spondylus necklace stylishly adjusted close to my neck. I looked over my shoulder into my reflection go see if my squats extended to my dågan, and felt satisfied with my work.

I know my spirit shines best with my teethy smile, which is celebrated with the memory that my mother smiled at strangers too. I connected and said hello to familiar faces, and unfamiliar ones alike. I coyly bit the corner of my bottom lip when men stared, and released the moment I held eye contact for one second. Before smiling and looking away.

Just a few months ago, things were low-- incredibly low. I was feeling alone, and extremely hopeless. Not in any real danger of choosing to take my own life, but the reality of losing a former student laid the topic heavy in my heart. I felt ugly inside, outside, alone, hopeless. I licked salty tears from the corner of my lip as I quietly sat alone in my room, and reminded myself that the only way to know if things become beautiful again, is to believe they do and stick around long enough to see it manifest.

A hug passed from brother, from thousands of miles across the ocean. Reminders of my mother's goodness. Words of encouragement from those who follow my vlogs and food posts. Good hearts. Small blessings, and blessings, and blessings. Tonight. The food, the music, late night coffee, the movie that followed. I feel magical; inside, outside, me, my life, our island. All of it.

The movie tonight reminded to feel hopeful about falling in love and companionship. Too many sad stories of patching broken heart pieces with small bits of self empowerment eventually make it a little difficult for the heart to beat freely. Life, tonight, the movie, the memory of pain, the faith that carries, these magical phases... these are the ways I'm reminded that hopes become manifested, and good things come. <3

Angry Rivers and Planted Seeds

Reading between the lines of the smart words, witty conversation, inspirational dialogue, and the endless, ever changing plans and plans and plans for the future is a small, tiny, average beating heart laced with mistakes, and lies, brokenness, pride, and desires on top of desires with only a newly sprouted seed of determination and a tiny bud of belief that I can.

I’m okay. I’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Lies. I was drowning in everything. As the waters of life rushed passed my face, I caught air only for brief moments when my body would slam into rocks, allowing me to breath for a moment before the waters would rush harder to whisk me off once again. Flaying in an angry river, fed by the rains that washed from the lands, stripped by the wounds of others, stripped by my own wounds, exhausted by those who trample through. Sometimes I swam, sometimes I thought of letting myself sink, under the water, one last dare to myself, like ripping off a band-aide. It’ll only hurt for just one second.

My body breaks. My spirit breaks. My will breaks. I wasn’t okay. I try to patch it up, my body, the spirit, my will. And another rock, and another, and another, and another. My tears make a new river, and I let it whisk me away again, and again. Sometimes my nails dig into the muddy walls, desperately grabbing at mud and the roots, as friendly bamboo limbs hang happily over the cool waters that rush quickly passed. I catch for a moment and then give up again. I wasn’t okay.

Stubborn and afraid of looking like a failure, I repeat the lie. I’m okay. I’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. I let my pride away, and I let the help come. Thank you—I will return the favor, the gesture. “I will repay,” I say. I lie again. I took only enough help to get back on another rock, not realizing that I was still in the middle of the rushing waters. I carelessly sit, thinking I am safe, and foolishly, I am whisked away again. I let myself do it. I let myself be helped only to there, to that place of false safety, and I did not do as promised. The river takes me far away. I am too ashamed to look back. I promise myself that I will come back again—to that place, to those people, to that person who helped, who lifted me, gave to me, brought to me. I have to. It is part of my healing.

I dream and dream and dream and hope and hope and hope, and I just let the river take me. Spew motivational ideas and wisdoms that sounded poetic on my tongue, but difficult for my hands and feet. That was my problem.

Somewhere, somehow, at some point, I realized what I’ve been needing to learn—that I need to plan out my dreams, down to the smallest errand day, down to the smallest need, the most necessary sacrifice, and do them, not just dream about them, talk about them, or hope about them. To speak always and never do, made me a liar—a hypocrite. I want so badly to let my gaze rest only in my lap; I feel ashamed of the reality that I am a master at lip service, dreaming, and hoping. That would change nothing– is not the way to move forward.

Realizing that it was always my choice took pain, and suffering, and struggle. Realizing that it was always my choice came from realizing that other things were my choice too—my health, my wellness, my lifestyle, my finances, my connections, my disconnections, and the dreams that came true. The choice to be rooted, planted, and to allow myself to grow, required the journey through the river though. To be the seed that was stripped away as intended. I needed to find my place to be planted, to be nurtured, the soil where I was meant to sit, with the cracks I needed to germinate and be.

Hiding Stars and Sunflower Kisses

Where do our obligations end and theirs begin? At night fall, do we lift our palms to heaven and look towards brighter days? The stories are spilling in, the reasons, the whys. Fingers point madly, and the sounds of tear drops falling on these empty sheets of paper are so loud. Are solutions unfindable because questions are a difficult task?

Her funeral was today. I don’t know why my timing was so perfect to fall in line just before her entire class of Academy alumni. Sobbing young women ripped at my empathic insides, and the tears that fell gently from my face turned into waterfalls that I attempted to choke back, but failed miserably. I cried for more reasons than I can organize in my heart and mind. I cried for them—the girls that spent years of their lives bonding with her. Her friends that shuffled in and out of the room, tears masked by dark aviator shades. I cried for her grandmother, who gently squeezed my arms at mass on Thursday, and told me that I was a reminder of her because of my build and my energy. I cried for her parents who could not seem to lift their eyes towards all who offered their condolences. I cried for her—her pain, her loneliness, her struggles, her hopelessness, her fear, her anxiety. I cried for myself—the guilt, the shame, the questions, my fears, my pain, my struggles, my hopelessness, and my fears.

As I sit in this café watching the cars go by, effectively avoiding my obligations, I can’t see any stars in the sky to wish on. I don’t want to experience loss like this again, but the reality of life on our little island is that I will. I won’t want to cry for yet another student loss, but the reality of our torn fabrics is that it is unavoidable. Tomorrow is another day to give time for wounds to heal. While the stars hide away from my wishes, I pray for the healing of those whose hearts are broken, lonely, afraid, and hopeless.

The most beautiful colors surface in the sky as the sun rises from the darkest nights. Stay for each dawn. The spectacle is enough to feel peace. Even if it just for a moment, it is a moment worth living for each day. <3

Grit and Grubs

I always wonder how other people deal with expectation and actual outcome differences. I try to take the “What can I learn from this?” route. There have been a number of extremely disappointing life experiences that I sort through in my heart, mind, and soul by sifting through the dirt for little sparkly pieces of gold. Sometimes I find the gold and sometimes the basic lesson is that the true value is the earth itself—the thing I’m sifting through, and not the things I’m sifting for.

Life is funny like that. Those nights where you go home only half broken hearted, realizing that even though you never found gold, your journey through the dirt has opened up an entire world of grubs, bugs, plants, and other minerals you didn’t expect to find. While your heart is a little broken over the unfound—your expectation, your character is defined when you’re able to see the value in the present experience—the outcome.

True Grit was over the weekend and I had prepared for this one more than I had prepared for any other. I got in a good hit or two, I ran faster than I have in previous tournaments, and I was with the line more than I have been in previous tournaments, but it was nothing like I imagined. I had no clue that teams would come out as forces! I had no clue that high school girls would play fresh from their seasons, that they’d be hellishly fast, and even though I had gotten faster, I was not as fast as them. The outcome was nothing as I expected. No hardware, no gold. We didn’t even make it to the semis.

I fought hard to fight the shame I felt and my deep desire to go home, shower, and sleep off the bleh feeling from eating so much friggin’ dirt. My high schoolers were all around, and they saw my team get destroyed. They were all around, and they saw me miss tackles, and lose my footing in rucks, costing my team yards. I kept my head up, laughed with the others, encouraged the boys’ team, and fought the heavy feeling in my heart all day. If I had not continued to see the value in the grubs, and bugs, and minerals, and others, I would not have gathered so much joy from the jam sessions that ensued through the night. I would not have laughed so much, cheers’ed so much, nor would I have had bonded with so many people that have always simply been high fives, hellos and goodbyes. If I had lamented the losses all night, I would not have listened to international refs tell me that I was a very powerful rugby player. If I had hung my head low, I would not have enjoyed these extremely precious, more valuable than wins moments.

My heart still hurts a lot, and my list of the million things I need to do to not get spanked next tournament, is unspeakably long. I am kind of questioning if I am oblivious and entirely unrealistic, or if there is some kind of survival tactic to my optimism… but the search continues, as I appreciate good stuff in between. <3

Blue Jeans and Flowered Tees

On some days, the salt is just right, the gravy is the right thickness, the chicken spaghetti is cheesy the way she did it, the smell of onions and garlic sautéing, another meal with chicken; adobo, fried, baked. Toast with butter and grape jelly dipped in milk, the smell of coffee, mint and cigarette smoke in faux leather purses. These days I wonder a lot about her.

There is a large utensil caddy on my counter, white with cows and birds on it. It doesn’t fit all of our large utensils, it is ugly, but it was hers. I can’t bring myself to throw it out and frankly, I don’t want to. It is ugly to my eyes right now, but it is valuable to me at the same time. Sometimes when I’m waiting for something to boil, or while I take a break from prepping, I look at it and wonder what she liked about it. Did she like it? Was it a wedding gift from someone who visited often, and she hadn’t the heart to throw it away? Now it sits, left here to be our large utensil caddy for 20 years since her wedding day, plus 19 years since she last cooked a meal in her kitchen.

Whenever I realize a meal has been done just right, I slow the entire meal and savor each bite. The flavors remind me of feeling safer and more secure. Moms tend to make that feeling so tangible. Sometimes, for a moment, while the scrambled eggs are just the right texture, while the mashed potatoes are buttery and slightly sweet all at the same time, I feel safe again.

This journey to health and wellness has shined light on a lot of different realities and truths. The hardest part about becoming a grown-up has been facing myself. It’s as if all my parts and pieces that lay shattered about the world, need to be collected so that I may be complete again. Each experience, a new piece found, people loved the glue, tiny white chips in delicate life ceramics, covered by brightly colored, happy, adventurous, exciting, new chips made from lost, hurt, broken, sadness, and new ones found all over again.

Today, as I stared at the ugly utensil holder, thinking about the just rights, I wondered if I ventured into this realm of physical unwellness because I ate to find that “just right” flavor, hoping and wanting deeply to feel that maternal protection that seemed to feel the most close during meals… and then, as I sit and write so many realizations come to me at once.

Maybe I was searching, and searching, and searching, and never finding, because I never wanted to face myself. Finally now, as I do each day, I find more and more pieces, connect with more and more people that glue, and realize as I click on my keys, not looking at the keyboard just as she did, tasting more and more meals that taste has hers did, this venture to loving myself truly has made me realize that there was no place outward to find her. All of what is left of her spirit is in the way my sisters mother their kids, the way I cook, the way I type, the way Christine cooks, the way Mo sits, the way Peppy stands, the way I laugh, the way we love.

World Cups and Crunchy Grass

Finn Gruva’s Overwhelmed softly spills from my bright orange Boss speaker, the buzz of my air conditioner drowns out the sound of dogs barking outside. Sharp pains shoot up my right leg, from heal to knee. I shut my eyes tight when I fight myself to rotate my ankle to strengthen the weak muscles that cause the pain to begin with. My dad’s cautionary words replay in my mind. Should my 10th True Grit be my last? I don’t know if my heart could stand it. I love this song a lot. Most love songs make me laugh inside, because frankly, they’re usually tide pool deep and the recent ones out seem to be especially stupid. Although this one is pretty simple and lacks poetic elements, it feels honest… and who has a lot of great things to say when they’re overwhelmed anyway?

The sound of dead weeds crunched loudly beneath my cleats. My club mates yelled “watch the hole,” as I carefully eyed the brightly colored yellow and orange ball pop from hands to hands. Red dust kicked up from enthusiastic players, blinding us all. We laughed and rubbed our eyes. Memories of shoveling and raking rocks slide through my mind’s eye as I run back on sides. The grass from the main field was getting some much needed rest in preparation for True Grit, so playing rugby with the poor conditions of field 2 was well worth it.

Sometimes the boys get really competitive and treat social touch rugby like it’s the rugby world cup. There’s so much yelling and cursing, and I can’t help but laugh. Sometimes people are playing so hard just to win, they never develop a better sense of team work, or polish their skills in the game. They just run, and run, and run, and spin, and juke, and run, and yell at others for not following them… when really, they never actually went anywhere but sideways– or my favorite, they never improve their passing, ‘cause they never pass. I often hold back the urge to stroke their temples so they can calm the frick down. Well, despite the unwarranted passion for the social game of touch rugby, I feel happiest here, even if it’s on the crunchy dead weeds, with yelling men, getting high blood pressure over a pick up game.

True Grit approaches in 3 weeks, and I am really so overwhelmed by my love for this sport, much like Finn Gruva is Overwhelmed by his love for this chick. This is also my first time, in all my years of playing rugby, that I’ve personally prepared for tournament. Sprint drills, gym, healthy diet, exercises that reinforce muscles to support injured parts. I can’t wait to dig my cleats into the ground, to slam my shoulder in to some unsuspecting girls gut. April 14th and 15th at Wettengel Rugby Field, it’s all going down.

Ah, rugby, your grass is my serenity. You’re so damn amazing. <3

The Little Guy and Sweet Piña

I have been struggling with writing lately—not because I have nothing to say, but because I’ve been going through yet another cycle of repeated and already expressed thoughts. I couldn’t think of anything I haven’t already said or expressed, and I didn’t want to lament about things I miss, or pine for things or people I want, and most importantly, because I didn’t want to complain about the things that aren’t going my way. My dining room is like the purgatory of my house right now. It’s become the dumping ground for things that are not going to last and things that I will keep forever. There is an over ripe pineapple here—I’d forgotten to cut it for too many days now. The papers I rushed to grade from 2nd quarter are now the stand for my Bose speaker. There are scattered napkins, bread tabs, books, and papers. My laptop might be overheating, and I’m not sure how long that Fuse has been here. “I haven’t cooked in about 2 weeks,” I thought to myself. As I scanned over all the things I didn’t want to talk about, I noticed a stalk of green onion standing proud in a little jar that I placed on the edge of the table two weeks ago. With one tall, large stalk and a little arm that looks as if it’s waving at me, I saw in this overwhelming chaos, life that was growing and thriving. “The late afternoon sun is treating you well,” I said out loud. As I leaned forward to take a better look, I noticed that the other cuttings that I placed in the jar weren’t unsuccessful after all—they grew too, but got caught in the curve of the jar and are now spiraling around, growing in the space it’s been allowed to thrive in. With a quick flick, the tips are sticking out, water replaced in the jar and a note to self that I should put them in soil soon.

I’m sitting here surrounded by all these things I didn’t want to talk about, tearing up over this stalk of green onion and as my mind and heart embrace what I thought was the only bit of beauty in the space, I realize that the pineapple smells sweet, the bread is still soft, and I have a dining room to sit in. Today may not have been the most beautiful of days, but there was definitely beauty in it.

84 Moons & Counting

Beneath the stars, on the grass, Between the lines, Hair hanging outside of car doors, Sandwiched between cotton sheets, Futons on cold floors, Upward adventures in seas of endless dips, Calling in, then casting stones. Third eye, tapped inside. Heart pounds heaviest in musing. Not breath, not touch, not words compare, To what here was shared.

The Archer and the Ladies of Good Counsel

The faces that say good morning, warm smiles, and teethy ones that weren’t. – warm, I mean. Trivial maps followed on mentors’ paths, and a plethora of battles to choose from. Another skill I acquired in the space between—the realization that I don’t have to succumb to the illusion that my only choices are to fight or flee. So really, I chose none. It was true what she said, about alchemy, you know. What happens when you have so much power concentrated in a single space? Extraneous elements and so much heart and so much soul. The richest of spices that burn the tongues of the less refined. What else could I be, but silent? From the most difficult, to ones most treasured, every connection is sacred, and I cannot feel any animosity about beings that filled a space where I grew.

I wonder if the nature of this work was foreseen to be something I would be challenged by. I felt like my mother was always there. It was in the scent of the xerox toner, and the way the wheels of the office chairs rotate against carpet. It was the gentle voices that answer telephones, and the laughter that mysteriously rises and falls from cubicles away. She was there in the conversations that distracted us from work, and she was there in the will to finish a task. She was there next to backdoor toms and she was there when my tongue bled from silence. She was there in the giggles shared by kindred spirits, and eyes that speak languages of their own. She was there in the morning coffee, and there in the sighs of the 5:30 breeze. She was in the memories of the veterans I spoke with and she was there in the simplicity of classic yellow post-its.

Today when I cried in the office as people said good bye, I wasn’t sure how to explain the tears that ran down my face. I am thankful for what I’ve learned, for the connections that I’ve made, and for how I’ve grown, but most of all, I was overwhelmingly thankful for having been able to feel her so close in this space. I can’t say I filled her shoes or anything, but I definitely got to try them on for a little.

Flames, Dames, and Rainbows

I feel so alive surrounded by flames. It was that slow, pulsing, steady pain; the absence of flames in my life. What is it about our spirits that mesh so well? I do not know. I love the way they gently toss their heads to the side, dropping their eyelids slowly—maternally. I love the sass that pulls their S’s, puckered lips and raised eyebrows. I love the carefully coordinated outfits, the clean manscapes, and cologne that carries that perfect balance of sweet and masculine. I love the puns and the creative ways about… everything. “Let me know when you get here, I said.” “I’m queer!” he texted, when he arrived at our meeting spot. We stood in front of a Thanksgiving meal set for friends, it was our habit to bless the food. He smiled coyly, and said “In the name of Brittany, Madonna, Mariah and Cher…” They are truly blessings.

Sometimes slow, pulsing, and steady pains have their way of becoming forgotten, and the numbness becomes norm. When my flames moved away, my LGBTQ family kind of dissipated with the absence, and I just accepted that others already had their families and I wouldn’t find my way into another. I can’t quite say I’m there, but through Sanchez, through LGBTQ Club, through GALA, and my summer job too—I’m surrounded by rainbow, and I’m so thankful to be surrounded by a community I’ve been missing, and a kind of love that I’ve been yearning for.

Happy Pride Guahan <3

Divination and Chinese Dragonflies

“When you want something, all the universe conspires to help you achieve it.”

Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist

Every year when we’ve reached the end of the term, I allow my students to ask me anything they desire. The only rule is that the question’s potential answer cannot get me fired or arrested. So questions like “Have you ever gotten high off of crystal methamphetamine?” are not allowed. Even if I’ve, in fact, never even touched crystal meth or seen it in person, the question isn’t allowed because the POTENTIAL answer could get me fired. This rule forces the students to A. Design their questions carefully in order to get the juicy personal information they want; B. Ask questions other than the revelation of vices and personal history; and C. Inquire in a deeper frame of mind. The close out is a display of mutual trust; as they spent their entire year spilling their hearts out in their journals, they have a few days at the end of the year to squeeze out whatever they wish or desire to know from my heart, in return.

These last few months have been laced with so many moments where I feel extremely defeated. The bitter taste of being rejected in more than one capacity still lingers on my tongue, and I am in a constant state of reminding myself to maintain balance. I must insure that the bitter taste of things forced down my throat don’t become me. I must learn to smack my tongue on the roof of my mouth enough times to find the hidden tinge of sweet beneath the terrible flavor. The search for this kind of balance is like deeply appreciating and loving every bit of our island when you’re drenched in sweat deep in the jungle, with mosquitoes singing in your ears-- singing the songs of celebration after their feast. Haha.

These moments of defeat remind me to polish all of my faith sensies (yes, sensies). These moments remind me that I am truly wanting something ultimately greater than things here and now. My heart, mind, and soul know what I want, and I must remind myself that momentary desires are not always part of that grander scheme.

We search for a long time for that-- that purpose, that reason—our destiny. I don’t quite know what I want to fill the middles. I don’t quite know what I want the journey to look like. I don’t know with who, or how. I don’t have a plan, and I don’t really know my direction exactly. I just know that during one of those end of term “ask anything” sessions, a student asked me “When you’re really, really, really, really old, and about to pass away, what is the one thing that you want to have achieved in your life?” I looked around at my students in their pinstripe uniforms, I folded the paper and looked at the way my hands sat in my lap. I looked back up and gazed around my classroom with dream catchers dangling from the ceiling. I thought of my Mom, and my Oma. I thought of stories of others’ lives, and I thought of the stories from mine. I thought of my dreams of achievement, dreams of being called “Dr. Shannon,” and dreams of traveling everywhere my heart desired. I thought of those perfect HGTV gardens, outside of those perfect little houses with sunrooms, with happy families sitting on the waterproof chairs laughing, drinking coconut water out of a freshly cut specimen.

I started to cry before I could complete a word from my first utterance. I want to know that I lived a life where I loved truly, where I was loved truly, and to know the feeling of happiness in its truest form. My students and I cried for a moment, and I walked away from that classroom session knowing for the first time what I wanted to be when I grew up. I want to be happy. I don’t know what it looks like, and I don’t know how to get there. I just know that I want it, and I know that I will not settle for anything less.

In the midst of discovering my latest disappointment, I lifted my eyes from my laptop and reminded myself over and over how much I do not like to cry in public. My students filed in from their 15 minute Eskuelan Puengi break, and I calmly returned to my place in our reading circle. The next reader continued reading the passages from our class novel, The Alchemist, and the perfect thing happened, at this perfect time, and for perfectly beautiful reasons. The post break read was a little difficult to follow, as my mind was busy trying to calm the unsettled nature that my heart was in. My student read through Santiago’s arrival in Africa, about his encounters in the bar, and the thief disguised as a friend who claimed he was going to help him on his journey. Penniless, freshly robbed of the key to his dreams, and hopeless in this new place, Santiago seemed completely defeated. As my student continued to read, the story narrated how Santiago thumbed over divination stones given to him by an old man, and how he found comfort in the wisdom given to him. As Santiago pondered in the story, his thoughts brought him to this line: “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping to achieve it.”

I gasped audibly at the passage. As soon as my students settled their glances back into their novels, I quietly cried at my desk as my students read on. It's easy to feel like the universe is working against you, if you don't pay attention to all of the signs she sends you to remind you that you're truly on your way.

Sita’s Hand and Flashing Spirals

The rain spit through my window, as I shifted to fourth. My arm covered in droplets, I noticed the fog crawling in spirals across my windshield. I thought twice about driving anywhere above thirty and down shifted. While I wiped the spirals away with my sleeve, my mind raced as quickly as the impatient drivers that swerved around my 4runner.

You remember those little hand held projectors—The View Master! You throw the little wheel of images into the binocular apparatus that carried the light through the teeny film wheels. Whenever I say my mind races, it’s like flipping through those slides really quickly. I see faces, and places, and people, and memories. I see images of things I want to see and dreams I always dream. Wishes, desires, and all the sensations that come with each, travel through my body just as quickly as the images travel through my vision.

The montage of sensations and perceptions left me feeling and thinking. I considered passing through Hagatna with a solo stroll through the South. I thought of turning left to sit at the lookout by Ag-building at UOG. I felt an instant pining for Manenggon River, I wanted to swim at Grotto in Saipan, I desired the taste of fresh manha, and the tickling sensation of sweat dripping down my brow while cracking open coconuts to prep for making oil. I remembered that one epic adventure out of Umatac Bay to Sella Bay, the intimate way the moon caressed the evening horizon, the sparkling of the stars, the song of the ocean. I realized… I am craving something magical.

Despite all the considerations, I decided that the rain and windshield fog made a solo stroll too risky and made my way up San Ramone. Exhausted from my day, I stared at the ceiling thinking about a conversation I had recently about desire—and how desire doesn’t create the outcome. “Patience,” I thought to myself... What does it mean to truly possess it? To live it? To be it? What are the qualities of it? What does a patient person look like? How do they act? How do they think? How do they understand? I am still learning.

Magic. Companionship. Happiness. To desire with patience. To desire with good intention? To desire with good intention, with patience. I am not truly patient—only mildly skilled at appearing so. While I inhale silence, and exhale anxiety, the waiting game makes the process difficult. Is it truly patience, if the anticipation of desired outcome makes it difficult to function? Hah. Probably not.

The soft song of rain on tin roof is lulling me now. My long curls brush across my back as I turn over, and I smile at how beautiful the sensation makes me feel. I imagine my final moments before sleep; hugging my giant pillow covered in Egyptian cotton, snuggled under my favorite tattered blanket. One last sting of desire always flips passed my mind’s eye at this moment in the night time. Just as I settle in my shapes of comfort, a momentary pining for skin in place of cotton is sure to flash by, and I will wish for patience once more.

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