On July 4th, who wouldn't be excited to celebrate festivities honoring our land of the free? A tumultuous day in Emerald Isle, North Carolina changed all that, ingraining a painful memory that cannot be erased, but is vital when one asks about an event that made you “stronger”. In other words, this day defined me in more ways than one, as well as opened my eyes to those around me and see that not all help is in the forms we think it to be. The sweltering heat made my mouth dry and my throat itch, but we continued to trek along the narrow, sandy pathway between the dunes to the beach. I would much rather be at the beach house with my mother, we would have been perfectly content sitting by the pool at the house, maybe reading and drinking a cool glass of lemonade. Wisps of loose hair from my ponytail began whipping my face in the seemingly increasing strength of the winds. Aunt Suzanne commented on how this weather is likely due to the approaching tropical storm expected in a few days. The waves, almost as if agreeing with her, concocted an exceptionally large wave that came crashing down on my cousins who attempted to ride it into the shore on their boogie boards. After attempting a short nap by covering my head in my towel, and getting mediocre results, I decided to ride some of the waves with a boogie board. I was the only cousin who hasn't gone out yet, and they have all just returned to eat and rest from the rough current that had depleted their energy. I went out by myself, but not too far, always staying in sight of the beach should the waves pick up their attack. The sun was beginning its descent beyond the horizon, showering small shadows every which way as the orange and red hues gave off a cozy light. I follow my cousins out as far as I could, but in comparison to the rest of them, I'm rather small. I went as far as my legs could go without lifting my feet from the bottom unless I had to leap over a wave. I saw a large wave coming, looking larger than the rest and decided maybe it was time to call it quits for the day. In my attempt to flee, I rode a wave in but failed. The wave and current took me down farther along the stretch of beach. I resurfaced, but then realized that more waves were coming…and I can't touch the ground. I kept pushing forward to the beach, but panic slowly started to seep in. Almost as if a switch had been turned on, the waves kept coming, but at a more powerful impact and the current was rougher than before, pulling me back into the depths of the ocean with newfound vigor. I called out for help, but everyone at our little beach camp was turned away in a deep conversation, as well as being too far away for my pleas to be heard. The beach I was on was practically deserted with no beachgoers, and no lifeguards either making it all the more dangerous. I still have the boogie board attached to my wrist and am desperately struggling against the treacherous current trying to make my way back to shore. My feet dig into the too-soft sand beneath me, to get some form of footing. After another wave crashes over me as soon as my head resurfaces, I realize the only way I'll get out of this is if I fight my way out of the current and back to the beach. The pain and fear inside me reside and are replaced by the distinct survival instinct in which everything else around me is tuned out until I am safely in knee-deep water. I don't stop though, because in my mind I could still be swept away if I give up at this moment, and so I carry on until I collapse at the edge of the water, visibly out of breath. When I come back breathing heavily, I explain as best as I can what happened. Much to my dismay, a shocking majority of my cousins and aunts move on quite quickly from the event. Maybe I expected them to be a bit more sympathetic, considering they almost lost me. I start crying after the whole event finally settles in my head, which in turn makes my mother get teary as well. She tells me that they only had their heads turned for a second, but so much happened in that time frame. We start on our way home and I turn around for one last look at the ocean for the day, seagulls soaring over the ocean waves as they crash against each other, creating a calm lullaby leading one to believe the waves aren't as dangerous as they seem. Who would have thought that the day we as a nation proclaimed our freedom, it could be taken away from me so suddenly? I learned the lesson that to find your inner strength, there are times when you can rely on those around you, but eventually, you will need to fight for yourself and that at times only you can be the one to save yourself. Sometimes I think that God may have had a part in my survival, halting the waves and current just for a moment to allow myself to flee. There isn't evidence or any way I can prove it, but that evening, my mind couldn't help but wonder if He did help me out, and if He did, I am forever grateful to God.

A week before the temple trip, I sat through the uncomfortable interview, calm, maintaining eye contact with a priest as he asked me a variety of questions about my faith. I lied, proclaiming that I believed in the Book of Mormon and that I felt I was worthy to enter the temple. Even though it was deceptive, I didn't really feel guilty. My life was inseparable from the Mormon church. To publicly forsake it would mean losing all of my friends, not to mention the problems it would create at home. At that time, being honest wasn't worth all of the fights and difficult conversations that my parents and I would have to have. So I smiled serenely and thanked the priest as we shook hands. I spent the entire week dreading the temple trip. All too soon, I found myself in the parking lot where we congregated to carpool. I quite enjoyed the car rides to the temple. I got to be with my friends. I basked in the chatter and laughter, pretending that we were going somewhere else, somewhere normal. That illusion crumpled as I saw the white behemoth in the distance. The golden angel Moroni stood at the peak of a steeple, blowing his trumpet, mocking me. Objectively, Mormon temples are beautiful. Each one is unique, and ours in Atlanta had an art-deco sensibility with angular edges and symmetrical designs. Even the outdoor space had immaculately kept grass and decorative plants. But, even though they look so nice, they possess an oppressive stillness. Temple grounds are too perfect. The humid summer air swam around me as I stepped out of the van and made my way to the side entrance. The front glass doors, which I hoped to never walk through, were reserved for adults with full-memberships who were performing more sacred and mysterious ordinances. As a temple worker scanned my recommend, I felt like I was sneaking across some country border with a forged document. In the next room, old women handed out the clothing we were to be baptized in. I blushed when she handed me a size small sports bra in front of the men in my group. The purpose of our trip, “baptism for the dead”, sounds quite creepy, but it essentially means that we would act as proxies for people who were waiting to be baptized in the afterlife. We remained exuberant and continued to talk about whatever menial things we had discussed in the car as we changed. After we put on the clothing, my best friend and I looked in the mirrors and did silly poses. I thought we looked like prisoners in heaven wearing the white zip-up jumpsuits. They were always unflattering and uncomfortable, made with a stiff cloth that creased in awkward angles when I sat down. Everything we wore for baptism had to be white, down to the hair ties. We shuffled out into the baptismal font and fell silent. The room commanded reverence among my peers. The circular pool was a white stone of some sort with ornately carved oxen supporting it and a high domed ceiling stretched above. I sat down on the bench to wait my turn, trying to appreciate the architectural splendor to distract from my mounting anxiety. I felt out of place, fidgeting while everyone else sat peacefully, supposedly filled with the spirit. Eventually, it was my turn. My stomach dropped as I made my way into the pool. Lukewarm water slowly surrounded me as I climbed down the steps. My friend's older brother was performing the baptism, and I felt a twinge of awkwardness as he touched my back and held my hand. He recited a prayer and I took a deep breath before he dunked me underwater. I resurfaced, looking to the two men who were watching me for confirmation that I had been fully submerged. They nodded and we then moved on to the next person, the baptizer reciting the same prayer but with a different name. I kept my eyes closed as chlorinated water dripped down my face. I felt as though a dead version of myself was being baptized. As if the “I” that had been killed off so long ago was resurrected and doing this baptism with naïve, shining eyes and a faithful heart. Still, my current, alive brain was still there, thinking: this the most cult-ish Mormonism has ever felt. If I ever needed confirmation that my religion was untrue, it was found in these moments. After a few more names it ended, mercifully. I climbed out and walked to the changing rooms, the heavy fabric of the jumpsuit weighed down even further by the water. The outside air was cold, and it felt like every eye was on my soaking wet, dripping form as I walked. I wanted to evaporate. The heavy door of the shower room closed behind me, and I felt at peace for the first time that day. Taking off the cumbersome garments felt like shedding a skin, and I stood naked, back to my true self as I turned on the water to the hottest setting possible. It burned me red but I needed to get that disgusting, blessed water out of my skin and hair. I stood there as long as I was permitted, enjoying a sort of baptism of my own.

“Someone in China got sick after eating a bat according to my history teacher,” the voice echoed around the room, as my head snapped up to join my friend's conversation. “Wow. What an idiot.” We laughed it off without a care in the world. Two months later, I couldn't see him again. This 21th century plague of the new decade had snuck up behind us like a hungry predator. Despite the warming weather, I was curled under the heavy blankets in my bedroom, the only source of lighting being my phone and sun-rays peeking through the window. My computer was set on my desk, calling me to finish the piling work assigned by teachers as they slowly realized we won't be going back to school any time soon. Instead of listening to the call, my eyes were still locked on my phone screen. Each day there is more news about the pandemic. One day they say it'll be over by mid-summer, the next, two years. I tear my eyes away from the phone to look elsewhere. Maybe if I'd ignore it, the pandemic would disappear. My body automatically shifted to the side, where I can stare at the walls crowding against me instead. It wasn't much better. The walls held the evidence of what happened in the past months. The empty walls of a recently moved-in home had now earned the right to be jeweled with posters and shelves, yet after gazing at them day after day, I want to tear them down and restart. Everyday since the quarantine notice went out, my room was where I was stuck. Yes, I could travel down the steps and hang out in the kitchen, but with five other people in the house, there is not much room for peace. The sound of footsteps outside my door pulled me out of bed, “Heading to the grocery store. Do you want to join?” Weariness was still clouding my mind when I looked at my father in front of me. Groceries meant it was Friday. I didn't notice. After a quick affirmation, I pulled on my new outfit, way nicer than anything I have worn in the past. In this day and age of pajamas and sweats, basic tasks meant you can dress up. I embellished myself with jewelry and reminded myself three times to grab my cloth mask before I headed out the door, regretting not grabbing one of the many snacks I had baked over the week. The car ride to the supermarket was short. Too short. If it were me driving, I'd take a wrong turn to prevent myself from the same daily routine. But I'm not driving, so I suck it up and enter the store like a kid entering a carnival. At first, it is fun. I reach for my favorite foods, as well as the obscure ingredients I need for my upcoming week of baking. Then, the crowds start to get tighter. Why do so many people need chips? One person moves around me, and another is blocking the shelves. I want to get out of the suffocation and the panic that I am not used to. Any of the people in this aisle can be sick. I could get sick. My sister can get sick. My mom, dad, and brothers as well. I want to go home. I need to go home. I always end up home. Pulling back into the driveway is like rolling back into bed. I'm safe, but I know that it is not for long. It is a sign of warmth. A sign of peace. A checkpoint in life, that reminds me that tomorrow I have to begin again. I'll wake up and be in the same pandemic. The new world that we live in. Each news article tells us a new story, but we have to hope we can prepare for it.

My mom was always my hero. She is everything to me. My mom and I would do everything together. I idolized my older sister, who was out of the house before I was a teenager, but my mom is, well… that's my mama. She helped me through a number of anxiety-ridden moments: I remember the moment when I realized my anxiety was real. I was in First Grade. We were given a color-by-number assignment page. The way my brain saw it was to ignore the numbers (and clearly the directions). All I could see in front of me was a pretty picture for me to color however I wanted. I looked around the classroom and noticed that everyone's assignment was the same. I looked down at my own and started questioning my creativity and the differences between my coloring and theirs. Why was I so different? The “forbidden” color-by-number remained in the very back of my messy desk, looking like abstract origami. I felt like a freak, but why? Turns out, I was just flexing my creative muscles. I got my creativity from my mom and, through her, I eventually learned to build on it. At an early age, she would introduce me to art and books. We would walk to the public library together and sit there for hours and read. Now that I'm writing this all out, I'm realizing that it was probably just as nice for her as it was for me. She could quietly read in the atrium lounge where the only sound made was the buzzing from the lights and an occasional book page fluttering. When I was a pre-teen, Mom started working at a clothing alterations shop where she eventually became part owner. I was so proud of her when she worked there. She invited me to help out some days after school and taught me everything she knew about hemming (it's terrible), embroidery (cool!), jackets (hard to deal with), and little odds and ends that we could make together. She even helped me with design work when I applied to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology (big dreams, yes). My mother suffered from Alpha-1 Antitrypsin Deficiency, a rare, inherited disorder that can cause lung and liver disease. When Covid-19 hit in March of 2020, she was all I could think about. At that point, she was on constant oxygen. But my mom was ever so vigilant when it came to her health and was sure to wear masks, stayed in her assisted living apartment room, and asked for help if she needed it. By April, things had taken a turn for the worse and no one could find any masks to wear. I do what I normally do in stressful, anxiety-ridden situations: I was normal. Stressful situations where a large group of people are involved tend to make me less anxious - everyone is worrying enough for all of us! I got out my trusty Singer sewing machine that my mom gave to me and started sewing my own masks with a pattern I found online. I was being resourceful as Mom taught me. My mom and I talked on the phone a lot more while we sewed; she started making masks as well. She made them for nurses and friends and her church. She even started making more hot bowl holders (hot pads for bowls!) that she used to make all the time. Nothing could keep this woman down. I was tiring out from making tons of masks but here she was, steadily going at it. I knew then that I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to sew her patterns, cook her recipes, and do her Jane Fonda videos. Just like Mom. I mean, how could someone with breathing problems be almost healthy (for her) during this pandemic? She is typically in and out of the hospital all the time. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Her faith stood strong in the face of anything. Who wouldn't want to be her? February 3, 2021, 4:51 PM Voicemail from Mom: “Oh, hi, baby girl. This is Mama. I'm doing well and I miss talking to you, so give me a call and we'll chat.” April 20, 2021 Voicemail from Mom: “Hi, Honey. Call me back when you want to visit. Sorry I didn't get back to you, but call the hospital phone.” Mom was back in the hospital. It was not Covid related, but her lungs and heart were failing her. My mom has fought many battles; we weren't so sure this was one she would fight through. She had told me that she was ready. It didn't make the pain any easier to deal with. My mama, Dorothy Jean Berg, died on April 26, 2021. She lived a long life of happy memories and had a strong will to survive. In the end, she died a happy woman with a full, completed life. She was the queen in life's game of chess. As 2022 arrives, I am thinking about how I want to live my life like her. I want to be better and do better and create happiness around me. We all should want to create a world worth living in and worth making beautiful. By turning our anxieties and fears into tangible art and expression, we can conquer anything. I am now surrounded by many hot bowl holders, masks, and photos of her beautiful, smiling face.

“This is the story of your dresses made by me”. I smile as I read these opening words written by Nana in beautiful cursive. “I was excited you were a healthy baby girl!... You were only 6 weeks old on your first Christmas… It had been a long time since I had smocked so I kept it simple…” So began a tradition; for the next thirteen years I could always expect a homemade dress from Nana two or three times a year-one for Easter and one for the fall. When I was younger, she smocked patterns of bright red apples, pastel-colored ice cream cones, dainty flowers, and bold pumpkins, but as I grew up, she gradually switched to simpler and more grown-up patterns. The fabrics Nana picked out came in all different colors. Some were festive; I remember one that was a brilliant yellow speckled with multi-colored stars. Some were plainer; I remember an olive green dress with faded dots. But my favorites were the ones with floral prints- dainty buttercups reflecting an imaginary sun off of their fragile petals- another, a beautiful shade of muted green imprinted with blue and purple violets. And this is just a sampling of all the prints Nana uncovered. I can imagine Nana at the fabric store, carefully sifting through the many options, looking for just the right color for the occasion. Nana loved trying new patterns and color schemes. She told me that one of her favorites, a bright red dress with colorful twirls, was fun to make because it was something different. Every dress was unique and beautiful and every single one is carefully tucked away in my closet, waiting to be shared with my daughters in the future. Every pattern and fabric holds a story- fond memories of my childhood. I wore Nana's dresses to church, and would let all the little old ladies admire my Nana's artwork as I twirled cheerfully, letting the dress billow out around me. I liked to pretend I was a princess or a girl out of a story as I curtseyed and danced around. We have a picture from Easter every year of the boys in well-ironed suits and me in a dress that captured the essence of springtime. I went to piano recitals wearing Nana's dresses-there's a picture of me wearing a plum-colored dress with tiny, delicate, lavender flowers painting the background. Memories of these dresses are scattered all throughout my childhood. After the last dress Nana smocked for me, I didn't expect Nana to sew me anything after that. However, she had a surprise for my 17th birthday. I unwrapped my gift, my family circling around me to get a closer look. They all knew what I was getting, but I had no idea. Distantly, I heard Papa say “you don't know how long it took Nana to make this for you… a lifetime”. Slowly, folds of fabric fell into my lap. “What is it?” my family asked. That's exactly what I was thinking. I knew that it was a quilt, but some of the fabrics looked strangely familiar. As I sat in shocked silence, I heard a voice (I don't know if it was my mom or Nana) say “It's your dresses”. And realization struck me. Nana had been collecting pieces of fabric from the dresses she made me for the past 17 years. That's what Papa meant when he said this quilt took Nana a lifetime to make… my lifetime. I think that's the only time I've cried when given a gift. I wonder what Nana was thinking the day she sat at her sewing machine to smock that first dress. Was she thinking about how cute I'd look in it? Was she thinking about how much my mom would appreciate seeing her baby in a handmade dress? Was she wanting to tell me how much she loves me? And what was Nana thinking when she set pieces of that first dress aside? Did she know that I wouldn't stay a baby forever? Did she know that even though I was too little to appreciate the love and care that went into her artwork, someday I would treasure every one of the fabrics? Did she know that she was stitching my childhood together by giving me landmarks to remember every season by? Even though at the time I was just a baby, Nana understood that I wouldn't always be a little girl; someday I would grow into a young woman and she wanted me to have something as a reminder of her love.

A wonderful feeling of joy would come to me by opening the gray door of my grandparents' big house, which grew small as I grew big. We had to travel to my Grandparents house for about one hour, and I clearly remember that we had flown over this beautiful, green and full of life oak forest which was followed by a pink lake. The best part of the trip was guiding the taxi driver to the allies that would lead to their house. After opening the gray metallic door, I would look for my grandma. She would run outside of the house with a big smile on her face and would greet us with hugs and kisses with a big excitement and joy. The house I will forever have embedded in my mind is located in Tehran, Iran at the end of a blind alley. My Grandparents' house looks quiet and serene, surrounded by its own garden. The front door of the house is connected with the garden by a stone path made of limestone which is smooth to step on. Along both sides of the path were some pink and purple wildlings. The garden is bordered by a circle of different types of tall, green trees and beautiful, colorful flowers which made the garden smell amazing at all times. As far as I can recall red roses were in the garden at all times. The dew would shine on top of the red petals every morning. The first time I heard that roses bloom once or twice a year I was surprised. I remember I would spend the afternoons enjoying the coziness and happiness of the living room, “red room” as everyone calls it. Someone outside the family cannot guess which room it is. Because the room is no longer covered in red velvet wallpaper and a new life has been given to the furniture. They don't have small red roses on top of the milky background anymore. Instead, it is covered in a light blue velour. There is still evidence of red in the room. A medium-sized painting of red rose bush is hanging on a white plaster wall. The painting is in bright colors but somehow it is still dark. It is framed in dark wood. Every color in it is bold and it is painted with such precise lines that it almost looks like a photo. The lines are curved, yet sharply defined. I never saw the “red room” in its original state. I didn't like drinking any kind of tea but the only time that I would be the afternoons in the “red room”. My grandma would bring me a special one. It was lighter than the other ones. The best part about it was the sweets next to it. Carrot cake, banana bread, apple pie or petibor biscuits, didn't matter which one, they all tasted differently in the red room. They tasted wonderful. After having tea I would invite my dolls for a picnic. I would sit under a short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender, next to the swimming pool. The main element of the tea party was my small set of rose teapots and cups. They were similar to a set that grandma has. I would spend hours under the shadow of that tree. My grandma would make a big jar of lemonade with big pieces of ice, it was the colour of summer sun. It would steal the heat from my sole. Sometimes she would play with me while drinking the cold lemonade and she would tell me stories. These days when we fly to Tehran there are no signs of green forest or pink lake. I don't need to guide the taxi driver though the allies. He has the destination address on his phone. Still, sometimes I show them the way. They may think I'm weird but I don't care. I like to go through the allies as fast as possible and get to that grey door. These days grandma doesn't run out in the garden when we arrive. She observes me running through the gate and then garden with a warm smile on her face from a large window of the red room. Although the garden still has green plants, it is not as green as it one day was. Once in a while bushes of roses appear, and grandma asks someone to pick a few for the red room. Grandma doesn't pour tea anymore. So no one brings me a special one. I still drink tea in the red room but without sweets. Grandma forgets how many she had and it is not good for her so anyone who pours tea doesn't bring sweets with it. Grandma points at the dired short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender and tells me “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?” After having a bitter sip of the tea she points at the short tree again and asks, “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?”. I miss everything about the tea and chocolate cake in that room but I prefer drinking bitter tea with her in the red room to anywhere else. I enjoy listening to her stories over and over just like the old days in the garden. The roses are not always around, we should enjoy their company while they are still around.

Fear and I are no strangers. Growing up with abusive parents and marrying an abusive man at the age of nineteen; you become accustomed to being afraid. Nightmares have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember; but the fear that grips me now is like none I have known before. I am a Christian, so I should not be afraid of dying. I should be happy that if I die, I will go to heaven, right? No. I am afraid. I am afraid because although my soul is ready, my mind and body are not. I am afraid of never seeing my children and grandchildren again. I am afraid of dying on this God forsaken island when there this so much I want to do. I am afraid to go back into the classroom because what if I get the coronavirus and give it to my students? The guilt would eat me alive! Physically, I have trouble sleeping. I can't fall asleep until at midnight or later and when I do, I have nightmares. I have chest pains. Heart conditions run in my family. I can't tell anyone. I don't want to burden them with my fears. I have little appetite. I have to force myself to eat something every day. I used to love food. I am an old-fashioned cook. I bake from scratch. Growing up all my kids' birthday cakes were homemade. Add to that, I am a stress baker. My daughter used to give me a hard time when she came home from school and caught me baking. She'd ask, “What's the matter, Mom?” Food was a big deal. I have often been told I needed to open my own restaurant or bakery. I almost did once. Now, the kitchen brings little solace. Emotionally it's like an alien has taken over my body. I have had some pretty traumatic things happen in my life; but I handled them with relative calm and that lack of a habit of panicking has gotten through them all. I take a deep breath. I tackle the most urgent thing first. I make a list of what I need to do or what I need and mark them off as I go. Over the years I have managed to show a brave front; but I can't anymore. I cry a lot. I am anxious going out in public. My heart races when I do. For five months, I have gotten out to go to the grocery store and that is all. I live on a tropical island and I can't even enjoy it. I am calm one minute and hysterical the next. I'm moody and volatile and it has caused serious strain on my relationship with my fiance. Who can blame him? It doesn't help that I am a redhead and have the trademark temperament. So, how afraid am I? Pretty damn afraid! I have begun to write my will. I have written my daughter a six-page “goodbye” letter. I have written my son a letter. I have always prayed, and I know I am saved; but now I pray every night the traditional children's prayer, just in case… Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray Dear Lord, my soul you take. God bless Quinton and Little Jack. God bless my daughter Christina and her husband Clifton. God bless my granddaughter's Zoey, Malia, and Alice. God bless my son, Monty. God bless Bree (my son's soon-to-be ex-wife), Alaynah, Kaden, and Alex. God bless all of my friends and family and loved ones. God, please watch over all of them and keep them safe from harm. Please God, put a hedge of protection around my family and don't let them die. In Jesus' name, Amen. There are times that fear chokes me and I am unable to get out of bed or do; but don't want to. I force myself to get up and face each day. Going through the motions of fixing my fiance's breakfast (he works nights). I force myself to walk our dog and do the laundry. I force myself to cook supper each night; and then I have to force myself to eat. I look out the window and long for the beauty of the island around me but am too terrified to go out and see it. I have always written a journal, but now I am writing four to six-page entries. I have gone through four ink pens in the last two weeks alone. I have days that all I can do is “depression sleep.” Even this rest is plagued with nightmares. I'm aging fast. Dark circles under my eyes and wrinkles appearing daily around my eyes, mouth, and hands. I am just 49 years old, but I look and feel sixty. With all of this, you would think that it was impossible to look forward at all. You would think that it is impossible to dream about tomorrow, next week, or next year. Even I am surprised that I can, that I have. My fiancé and I have a dream of buying a live-a-board sailboat and sailing around the world. Planning for this dream consumes our days and nights. We have made lists. We watch sailing videos. We talk and discuss what we need to do and what we need to buy. We've laid out all of the steps to follow and have it all worked out. Yet, all the while a shadow lingers behind the surface fueled by the fear that this dream will never come true. That one or both of us will die before it becomes a reality. A voice whispers in our minds, This will never happen. Why do you bother to dream at all? I answer back, “I don't know, but I do.”

I suspect that all writers are impulsive, and now that I am a writer, I have license to be what I always was: impulsive. It's not that I am not full of shame, because I certainly have regret and sorrow in full repair, but I decided long ago that inspiration was the thing. I would follow it anywhere. To give away my childhood piano, sell most of my guitars, and pack my entire life into a valise and a manila envelope, for a chance at la vie Parisienne; yes, a thousand times yes. I spent years shuttling my fiancée across the Atlantic to L'Opera, to the Christmas markets in Brussels, and Besançon, and Annecy - for what? A simple life in the syrupy hills of the Pacific Northwest, caught between the corridors of an interstate highway and the modest Siskiyou mountains, with brittle art and bad conversation as a prelude to nothing. I should have risked more. Yet, for many, this is heaven. Bah. I am recently inspired by the writings of Dawn Powell, via my new membership with the New Yorker, which I will probably keep forever. Malcolm Gladwell brought me to you, and you brought me to Peter Schjeldahl, and John Jeremiah Sullivan. Even trade? For once, as a prosaist, I feel infinitely small. That's new for me; I benefit from a large ego, one that has made sense of chaos and walked the tightrope between selective memory and unrealistic hope. Dreamers win, I say, or at least they die dreaming. And my life is deliciously normal: morning coffee, scant breakfast, the howls of children, surprise kisses. The monotony of daily writing has finally found me sober, and together we keep up appearances, all the while waddling towards greatness in a way that will either be remembered as gritty, or not remembered at all. I can make peace with that. Because life comes in large doses, and then nothing; and it is our job, as artists, to peer through the muck. To find out: not just why we cry, but to what end is suffering? Do we recoil, or push against the fire? Do we run, laughing, from conflict like Sullivan's glorious King Parker, or do we climb a tree, veiled in darkness, with the vague hope of being forgotten? If justice is blind, then so, too, is beauty, because true beauty is not a vision, but a state - of improvisational recklessness, of tentative caution, of tender caress. We don't see it with our eyes - we yearn, and we find, with tendrils of the soul. Impulsiveness. For a hundred strikes at the trunk of the tree of life, the integer of success is always misleading: it is said that we learn more from failing, than we do from accomplishment, but I think that still misses the point. Success will teach you something, too - that it is a drug of violent compromise, such that per your minute successes you will be tempted to rearrange the great vistas of your own life in accordance with last-minute detours; the ego, temporarily nourished, pushes aside the intellect with a plan for everything. You will never be so free as you are in the unanticipated rebuke of failure, because from the wake of distress and self-deprecation emerges a peculiar treasure: spiritual nudity. The ability to be nothing. And, to begin from nothing is a gift - because in that moment, anything is possible. Today was Christmas: the town was quiet, the air was cold. It was not a day for impulsiveness, but rather, a moment of appreciation for the burning of wood in the fireplace, a new recipe for mulled wine, and the stillness of a road with no traffic. One of my enduring lucidities of early adulthood was that time is a mysterious force, like water. It does not see detail, but completeness, and is bound by complexities that the mind cannot fathom. So, we respond with the blunt tool of faith, in the hopes that the light of personality is enough to illumine another footstep. Tomorrow will not remember today, except that we command it to do so. Yet, I have never been one to deify the past: better to forge another blade, aimed at the swollen fruit of circumstance. Every day is an apple.

Two hours north of Boston, the creaking walls of a cottage hold the secret to love. The guestbook on the coffee table repeats our names on multiple entries, each one ending with “Can't wait to be back soon.” The kitchen, barely big enough for the two of us, but especially not big enough when there's red wine and dancing, our hips bumping and laughter colliding. In the morning, the countertops crowd with coffee he brewed while I scrambled the eggs, the sink overflowing with dishes that I'll scrub while he tidies up the living room. We called it a writing retreat, but it quickly became more than that. We became more than that. We were both writers, using words to get through every bump in our lives, connecting phrases to emotions and plot lines to heart lines, parachuting into the unchartered territory of companionship. Very quickly, and dangerously, everyone noticed a change in me. Friends and co-workers made comments, how I spoke more freely, showed more patience. A heaviness that had been weighing on me looked like it was lifting. So, naturally, I fell in love with him. “I shouldn't write this yet,” I told him one day as we sat on the beach, his back burning slowly because of my inability to properly apply sunscreen. We don't know how it ends. I was in a bathing suit I'd bought on the clearance rack twenty minutes earlier, a perfect example of how we lived life together on the fly. Where we were both careful and methodical in our everyday life, together, we could throw caution to the wind and do things like leave work early on a Friday and drive to Cape Cod for the weekend. “We don't know how it ends,” something we both said too often, both of us prepared to act like that didn't terrify us. His track record of love that had left him, something I couldn't understand. I'd seen his flaws, sure, his temper in traffic or his words of honesty that sometimes came laced with cruelty, but I'd never understood why anyone would leave. Where he had documented years of love, I'd fake a smile as I said I'd had a very loveless life, with love at the wrong time and usually for the wrong person. Years after love had failed us, we were here. Still, we always joked about leaving. He said that I'd hate him by the end of the winter while he sat on his hands and watched me fall for someone else. This theoretical live-in boyfriend would come to my graduation from the same program that had united the two of us. Some nights, I go to sleep thinking of the mornings in our future where we'll cook breakfast together, retreat to the opposite ends of our house to write, and meet back up for lunch- sleepy eyes from creativity coursing through our veins to our pens all morning. But then there are the nights I go to sleep hoping that the next day, I'd meet someone new. Someone who doesn't walk the fine line of uncertainty, someone who can look at me and know that we are each other's future. Someone who plays the lyrics to “For the Longest Time” and relates them to me, not to the physical fling of attention from someone else. It made sense to leave him, but it made even more sense to stay. I had spent my entire life in the doorway with every person I encountered, mapping out their exit route for them- pinpointed road maps of events that would lead them to the quickest way out, not even a glance over the shoulder as they became another name etched into the passenger side window. But with him, I couldn't find one. Every route on our map led us back to each other.

Depression fogs the brain as does humidity fogs the air. It causes one's view of the world to be warped into another reality, a dark, misty, reality. Depression, however, is not just a state of mind, it is not so easily fixed by yoga and clean eating. It swallows you up, chews, spits you out, and convinces the world that you drowned yourself, and you, and you alone, are responsible for your shape. It is a thief. Selfishly, it takes your job, friends, family, hobbies, and various opportunities hostage. You have ran a marathon with only 2 hours of training, climbed the highest mountain, dove into the middle of the Atlantic with no life vest. Save yourself, you are lazy, always making excuses the world says. If only they knew, if only you knew, what you have gone through. Maybe it would have been different. Maybe we could have saved you. My dearest baby brother, soft spoken, a gentle soul. He did not deserve the sentence that he was given. Depression is a gruesome punishment, not to be wished upon anyone, not even the person that you or perhaps the world hates most. He was a blooming tulip surrounded by barbed wire, slowly, painfully being torn apart. Petal by petal he diminished. Permanent damage, an act performed by the broken, shattered, weak souls that had been subjected to depressions horrendous beatings. You can't take it anymore, the pain and suffering depression has caused you over the years has racked up tremendous debt, debt you could never pay back. You are depression. Depression is you. There is only one way out. My brother knew the way, Drew, just barely 14 years old, had committed suicide. It is all over now. And just like that, my life, and my view of the world changed. Mortality, mental illness, and the meaning of life made their nest in my heart while my brain tried to comprehend their stay. Death wasn't meant for him, his soul was so precious. Suicidal thoughts pulled the trigger, when he shot himself, he shot all of us. The night I got the texts to come home, I knew one thing: Drew had been found. I had assumed he was alive. His date of death? August 12, 2015. 3-4 pm. Found? August 13, 2015. The passing of time was whimsical, but the night he passed had stopped all time. I had no idea that Drew had the option to stop the clock from ticking. Screams. After the news there were just screams, my throat hurt. I was alive. My fault. My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault. I couldn't see. My fault my fault my fault my fault. A paramedic had placed an oxygen mask on my face. Heart beats racking my brain like a meat mallet, everything was just so aggressive. I was standing in the middle of a field, paralyzed, watching the herds of buffalo charge towards me. How I wish that would've been true that night. How can someone, the one who made me a sister, a bond for life, for goodness sake, his blood ran through my veins, how could he be gone… Clouds were messages from heaven. Cotton candy swirls were now passionate messages that conveyed the message that he, Drew, was alright. Hysterical, everything had transformed into messages from above. Feather hunting rituals, dragonflies, and birds on wires, he became. Grasping for air, I had known, but for the sake of my sanity, I continued. Anything to lift the weight of reality off the delicate heart. The brain had yet to catch up with it, for it had not received the news. This, of course, had created milky eyes and muted ear drums. My previous reality shattered onto the floor at my feet, and looking down, it was utterly unrecognizable. Not like it was wanted anymore, how foolish had I been! I had took upon a perspective not known to many that night, you know, the worst night of my life. I had never thought that death was an option, death was not real, I was so young. I grew old that night, Drew became forever young.

They say love can make you do strange and peculiar things. Others say it's exhilarating. But my husband, Will, and I think of ourselves as much too practical when it comes to life's important matters, such as love. And then we took a vacation to Belize. We read, researched, and planned. But only a few hours into our itinerary, we had to abandon it. As darkness snuck up on us, rain poured, and a windshield wiper on our tiny rental car didn't work. We dodged dogs and people moseying along the highway. The highway had no lights. Will suggested a place to spend the night but I countered, remembering reading about Hopkins Village. Little did we know, it would take us a white-knuckling, breath-holding 45-minutes to maneuver the four miles of unpaved, crater-filled so-called road. “Are you sure there is a village at the end of this?” Will asked. No, I wasn't. I panicked silently, wondering what I had gotten us into and hoping I hadn't made the entire situation worse. This situation being our vacation. I thought about shouting “We should've gone to Costa Rico!” but refrained. When the village's twinkling lights emerged ahead, I managed to breath. As we approached, the rain began to let up. The sea was straight ahead, and we arrived just in time to watch the full moon rising over the Caribbean. It was magical. So magical, it didn't seem real but more like an Elvis Presley movie set. The restaurant had thatch roofs, waves softly lapping, and this amazing moon emerging from the sea. And that was our very first night! Listening to the faint drumming sounds over a meal of fresh fish, the rain turned to a slow mist, melting the stress we had brought with us. And then we did something strange, peculiar, and exhilarating. We vowed to move to this little fishing village in Central America. In reality, there would be several more trips, extensive planning, and a five-year plan. But really, it was that first night, with the tropical breeze, delicious food, rum-drinks, and rain-soaked hair, that we fell in love with a place. We gazed at that moon and each other until our eyes succumbed to sleep. We wanted salt air, tropical moonrises, and authentic living. We wanted to fall asleep to the waves of the Caribbean Sea rather than the planes of Love Field. We wanted to ride on beach cruisers instead of sitting in traffic. We wanted beach walks not side walks. We wanted slow and relaxed instead of frantic and frazzled. We wanted Belize. Belize is a small little country about the size of New Hampshire with an abundance of nature—both sea and mountains. The rural country boasts of no fast-food or big box stores and it probably has more chickens than people. This developing country has much the romance of the wild west, complete with chaos, dangers, and take matters into your own hands' kind of place. And what an adventure it was! We decided to “go west,” buying and building. We planned to live in a little wooden cabana--Belize's version of a mobile home-- while building our dream beach house. We were so full of optimism. We embraced our setbacks and challenges with unabashed enthusiasm. No bed? We will sleep in a hammock. Can't find parts for the bathroom door? No problem. We will hang a hammock up for privacy like some hippies from the sixties. It could be months before any of furniture is ready? We'll reminisce our younger days—crates for nightstands…concrete blocks and boards for dressers. Four months later, we took delivery of bespoke tropical hardwood furniture. We took our time, we went slow, and soaked it all in. If we weren't blessed enough, it turned out the oldest bed and breakfast, our favorite vacation spot, with Lucy, our favorite beach dog, may be for sale. We'd known Lucy, the Irish wolfhound mixed with something much smaller, over the years and enjoyed our walks together to our favorite beach hang out. She trotted the two blocks to our place frequently. Some mornings we'd open our front door only to discover Lucy laid across it like a welcome mat. Lucy reminded us of our first dog—smart and funny. Will and I day-dreamed of Lucy and the inn being ours. We talked of importing expensive mattresses and soaps…of expanding the verandas and having romantic double showers. We drank dark rum. We strolled along the beach. We made love without worrying about rushing off to work. We were happy in this magical, quirky, little village. And, I could say “the end.” But it may not be fair to finish the story like that without also including that it may have been a rash decision to purchase a bed and breakfast to get a puppy dog. I could also add that we didn't do things the way they've always been done, upset the status quo, and made a whole bunch of people angry. No doubt, there were twists, turns, and stumbling blocks on our adventure. But even so, our goal of adventure-seeking was reached in record time.

Boobs, Bra's and virginity They say you always remember the first time you have sex no matter how long ago or how many partners you may have had since, and this is certainly the case for me, although my earlier experiences of fumbling my way around the workings of a ladies bra behind the school bike shed had introduced me to the pleasures of sex it cannot be classed as losing my virginity and I was now entering into my 16th year. Frustratingly I still had not actually progressed passed boob manipulation, but that was all about to change when 2 weeks before my 17th birthday I eventually lost my virginity. Yes, it was memorable, and I will never forget it but sadly for all the wrong reasons, to say it was a disappointment would be an understatement it was in fact traumatic and definitely not what I had imagined my first time to be like. The evening began as most Friday nights did with a group of friends and me sneaking into one of the less reputable public houses where we would be guaranteed to be served. Liverpool had many Pubs that turned a blind eye to the age laws, and we took full advantage of these watering holes and we accepted their hospitality wholeheartedly. Eventually we would end up in a night club rather worse for wear after consuming large quantities of Lager. As the night progressed and my newfound self-imposed Dutch courage took over, I approached a beautiful girl who was displaying all the signs of actually liking me, we chatted and danced for hours and eventually I offered to take her home which she accepted. Arriving at her front door we started to kiss then tongues got involved and my newfound skills (learnt from behind the bike shed) took over releasing the clasp of her bra with one hand while the other roamed around fondling and exploring the rest of her body. We were now into some heavy petting and both enjoying the moment when she whispered, “You can come in, but be quiet my mum and dad are in bed upstairs”. Well this was definitely an offer I couldn't refuse and without hesitation we entered the front door of this typical 2 up 2 down terrace house and realizing these old terraces had walls that were paper thin and definitely the kind of accommodation you couldn't swing a hamster in never mind a cat, but this was an opportunity I was not going to miss it. We crept along the hallway and into the lounge and purposely not turning on any lights we lay on the floor in silence and continued our sexual exploits, kissing biting and shedding clothing while trying not to breathe heavily, When suddenly we heard a creek, we both froze for a second and listened “shhh don't make a sound she whispered into my ear” at this point I think my heart stopped, but after a few seconds all was quiet again and our exploits continued where we left off trousers pulled down and undies whisked off, shirt off, bra and panties discarded and as quietly as I could while laying on top of her I began to enter her, my head was awash with a thoughts of my seven times table “one seven is seven 2 sevens are 14 etc etc” I didn't want to ruin this moment with an uncontrolled premature embarrassing release and reciting my seven times table took a lot of concentration. Then suddenly as I continued to thrust there was a huge smack on my bottom, ‘whack' a big wet smack hit me across my backside, as I let out a yelp I was sure this time I was about to die and as I turned around expecting to see an angry parent standing over me I realized I was being mounted by the biggest bloody dog I'd ever seen, there I was as naked as the day I was born being molested by a horny bloody Labrador. Well to say the episode was over would be an understatement there now was movement from the upstairs, obviously my scream had woken the household and footsteps could be heard and like a true hero I was up dressed and heading for the bus before things could get any worse after all I wasn't about to hang around to be introduced to her parents. Although it was an absolute nonromantic episode a total disaster which had probably left me with a permanent heart defect at least I was no longer a virgin, although penetration was minimal it was penetration and therefore in the eyes of the law legally, I was no longer a virgin, my cherry had been popped and my journey into manhood had begun.

RHYTHM OF ANCIENT SONGS AND BEAT OF AFRICAN PRAISE POETRY My birth is a metaphor of bullet-traces and the ironic verse of Leninist style-songs for black liberation that reverberated the grey-mist clad red-mountains of home – Zimbabwe. My birthing was a stitch between the thud of war-time guns and a heave of pungwe jives. Young women of my mother's age were volunteer maids during the traumatic but zeal-oiled Chimurenga times, cooking and washing for the cadres of liberation. Chimurenga songs sung by these war-ironed peasant mothers and bullet-toughened collaborators in the red-hills of Wedza. These Mother-guerrillas endured the hard throbs of grenades and the thrash of midnight-rains in those village hills alongside bushy male combatants. They learnt the soprano of the gun and the tenor of death.These were heaven-echoing struggle hymns. On the day of my birth, heavy rains rattled the winter-crusted red-earth. Rivers sobbed with heaven's tears and sorrows of war. That grueling night, swarms of collaborators were moved from one base to another, my earthly goddess was among those pilgrims of war. …her heartbeat thrilled my tender ears and her blood-ripples lulled my faint soul to sleep. And somy foetus spirit rode along with waves of echo and beat of verse. Ingenuity. I am the blessing of the trip, the child of war song and rain. A mystery. I am a child of song. I was birthed during the exodus. That rebel's war was characterized by death, wailing, stampede, bravery, shallow-graves, song and continuous walking. A trailblazing Africa reality show. My earthly goddess was a dedicated collaborator, volunteer and songstress. She carried freedom in the sacred cave of her womb. After their strange overnight long walk to freedom base of Mbirashava – rains ceased fire, war-drums paused and their echoes got trapped into the blankets of early day mist. Then came my birth cry they say like an exclamation engraved on the yellow-disc of the smoke-bruised African sun. Claws of dawn caressed the sorrow-soaked red-hills. My goddess wriggled in a thick volcano of red-clay mud, ochre-red blood and dead grass. Her womb groaned from labor pangs and suddenly the wind was cold. June dared the earth and everything in it. Cold-winds whined ferociously to disobedient flora and delinquent vultures. Winter, fast clicking a pause button to the jungle's daily festivals. I was born. Cadres and collaborators dribbled a liberation jive for my homecoming. They called me Gandanga. I was initiated into this earth by the alto of howling winter-winds, baritones of barking-baboons and the ease soprano of hooting-owls. A child of song. I was introduced to the festival of sounds, loud and low, good and bad, discordant and beautiful. Upon arriving at the village homestead, the earth trembled, the air got electric with ululations. My paternal grandmother fervently recited a traditional totemic praise poem. “Chirasha, Chikandamina, Weshanu uri pauta, Mavsingo a Govere, Vari Zimuto, Mukwasha waMambo, Vakafura bwe rikabuda ropa” A lone drum thrilled them into the audience into another dancing routine. The echo of the tinkling drum resonated with the beat of my grandmother's recitations. They said that my eyes winked in response to their merriment. Even up to this day, I beat my chest with pride to that ceremonial reception performed by an elder qualified to be my ancestor. My old singer-grandmother usually bundled me behind her old but steely back. Lullabies caressed me into dreamland until my goddess returned from her daily errands. I was raised by extraordinary songs, sweet and mellow to every infant's senses. I enjoyed the ear-tickling ancient poetry. They say I slept to the rhythm of that beautiful lullaby. My grandmother was Gogo in African – she would fall asleep too. Mother returned from the red-clay fields to find us under the watch of spirits and snores. After some weeks my umbilical cord wilted and fell. They buried it under the hearth near the main fireplace. Thus how we are bonded by our departed clan spirits. And so I grew up in a highly strict African traditional clan. My father and fellow clansmen brewed ceremonial beer for traditional rites. They supplicated to ancestral gods to end life-tormenting ailments, ravaging hunger, abject poverty and bad omen. Their usual incarnations, totemic praise's performances cultivated the griot in me. Praise and protest poetry became my official language. After my umbilical cord rites, my father gave me a name. He named me after the most powerful battalion of Tshaka Zulu, a battalion that never lost even a single battle – Imbizo.

Before giving birth, Mother undoubtedly read child development books and baby-proofed her house. But no one could tell her what to anticipate. No one could tell her that the little girl she'd soon birth would come with a personality all her own and it would often ran in direct opposition to her own. I guess what got me thinking about Mother was a Mother's Day keepsake the six-year old me prepared for her in school. Our teacher mimeographed pictures for us to color; I selected the rose picture and colored the roses red because Mother's favorite flower was red roses. When I ran across the keepsake in one of my scrapbooks, my mind was flooded with memories of Mother. I remember the summer I picked plums with her from the tree beside our house and made plum jelly. I remember walking with her to the nearby corner store, buying a package of M&Ms, and washing them down with a diet Dr. Pepper. I remember her making me peanut butter sandwiches; combing the tangles out of my wispy, fine, hair; and making me wear the itchy, frilly dresses that she made. I remember the five-year old me sitting on her lap while she read me books. The older me remembers her reading the dictionary to me every night. “Words are powerful,” she repeatedly said. “Learn their meanings, how to spell them, and how to use them properly. The teenage me half-heartedly listened as she impressed upon me, “ Choose your words carefully and kindly when conversing with others.” From kindergarten on, she dropped me off at school. As she drove away, she rolled down the window and said, “Remember, you're smart. You'll do well in school.” Whenever I wrote a paper for any class, she always read it before I turned it in. Rather than offering criticism, she asked, “Is this your best effort?” Even now, her words echo in my mind whenever I'm critiquing or editing my own writing. Her methodology gave me confidence by teaching me to measure my own abilities and efforts from an internal standard and compass. I thank Mother for her shaping words—words that made a difference. There have been those times in my professional career and personal life when I felt stretched beyond my ability. But I would always hear her gentle voice telling a younger me, “You're smart; you can do whatever you need or choose to do.” Her words pushed me beyond where I might have been tempted to stop. The much older version of me stares into the eyes of the reckless, demanding, know-it-all child I was; it must've been difficult to be my mother, for my personality and hers clashed. Frequently, I think about the words I said and wish I could take them back. I was unbelievably blessed with the quintessential mother. Were Mother still alive, I'd thank her for the words she gave me and the non-stop encouragement she administered—encouragement that's sustained me my entire life.