I am standing at a train station. Waiting, for I know not what. A train is blurring past. The force of its speed blows tendrils of my hair up and away from my neck. In the windows, I see familiar faces.
Familiar in the sense I know their names, and parts of their history.
And by the looks in their eyes, I know they know mine.
But they are on the train, and I am not.
I am waiting.
Will the train slow down, or will it accelerate out of sight, and I, out of their minds?
I could have been on that train, but I chose not to be. Instead, I went to a far-away land, where I had adventures, and changed.
But I'm back, trying to gauge if I should chance it, and hop on.
Will there be room? Is there any use? I know I'm not staying long. I supposed to get off at the next stop.
Maybe I should I wait for the next train?
Life doesn't give us a timetable.
Friday, 11 May 2018
Monday, 5 February 2018
It Doesn't Feel Real
I said goodbye to my Grandpa Victor today.
I spoke a tribute and sang a song at the funeral.
Last night, I walked into a funeral home, and saw his face for the last time. The hands were his, but the face? Something was missing. He was missing.
And I am missing him. He was my only grandpa. He was in the picture for all of my life. I had the privilege of being his first grandchild. It's been a week since he left, and I've been overcome with memories. My grandparents were an integral part of my childhood. All day, surrounded by his siblings, children, nieces and nephews, I caught sight of him in their faces, heard his voice in their laughter, and thought, "This doesn't feel real."
Not seeing him last night, not the service, or the limo ride to the cemetery, or touching the urn with his ashes. I keep expecting him to walk through a door. I keep wondering if it's his voice I just heard. His smile is everywhere.
The grief hasn't really hit me yet. This is my first loss, my first goodbye to someone related to me, who's influenced my life. I have his flair for the theatrical, love of music, and curly hair. I love working with my hands. My grandpa was a quiet man, but he loved spending time with those he loved. My childhood brims with memories of bike rides, picnics, kite flying, gardening, and watching him in his workshop, bringing shapes and furniture out of blocks of wood.
Many lovely things were said about him today. I feel I know him better after hearing the stories his family shared, and seeing pictures of days gone by.
I don't know what to do now. I don't know when the haze will clear, and I'll see he isn't there.
The loss of him has created a lostness in me, which I think will fuel me to love my family more.
Thank-you, my community, for the love and care you've shown my family. It does not go unnoticed.
In closing, I leave my favorite memory, which I shared at the funeral:
I spoke a tribute and sang a song at the funeral.
Last night, I walked into a funeral home, and saw his face for the last time. The hands were his, but the face? Something was missing. He was missing.
And I am missing him. He was my only grandpa. He was in the picture for all of my life. I had the privilege of being his first grandchild. It's been a week since he left, and I've been overcome with memories. My grandparents were an integral part of my childhood. All day, surrounded by his siblings, children, nieces and nephews, I caught sight of him in their faces, heard his voice in their laughter, and thought, "This doesn't feel real."
Not seeing him last night, not the service, or the limo ride to the cemetery, or touching the urn with his ashes. I keep expecting him to walk through a door. I keep wondering if it's his voice I just heard. His smile is everywhere.
The grief hasn't really hit me yet. This is my first loss, my first goodbye to someone related to me, who's influenced my life. I have his flair for the theatrical, love of music, and curly hair. I love working with my hands. My grandpa was a quiet man, but he loved spending time with those he loved. My childhood brims with memories of bike rides, picnics, kite flying, gardening, and watching him in his workshop, bringing shapes and furniture out of blocks of wood.
Many lovely things were said about him today. I feel I know him better after hearing the stories his family shared, and seeing pictures of days gone by.
I don't know what to do now. I don't know when the haze will clear, and I'll see he isn't there.
The loss of him has created a lostness in me, which I think will fuel me to love my family more.
Thank-you, my community, for the love and care you've shown my family. It does not go unnoticed.
In closing, I leave my favorite memory, which I shared at the funeral:
One of my clearest, most vivid memories of Grandpa is of when I four.
It was an October morning, and I awoke to Grandpa excitedly calling my name. “Esther, Esther, get dressed, and put your shoes on!” Still groggy from sleep, I stumbled into my clothes, and was helped into my shoes. He flung open the front screen door, and took my hand. The world had been transformed into a mysterious sparkling white wilderness. The diamond shell crunched under my feet. “Esther, it snowed!” His excitement ignited my curiosity, and I explored the yard, leaving trails of footprints. More snow meant learning the magic of gathering up the white fluff in my mittened hands, shaping into a ball, and delighting when I hit my target-often unsuspecting grandpa.
Then, wonder of wonders. A ball not meant to be thrown, but rolled along the ground, gaining girth. And another, till it was triple stacked. Snow-man. Next, the frantic raiding of refrigerator and closet, in search of clothing for our creation.
A photo snapped. Esther and grandpa, beside their snowman.
Grandpa, from building snowmen, to working in the garden, you taught me how to work with my hands, but more than that, how to see the wonder in everyday tasks. Something I have never forgotten. Thank you for being present in my life, and being the best, and my favorite grandpa. In my 22 years of life, every single memory of you is a good one. I think that’s an amazing legacy. I love you.
Friday, 18 August 2017
Catching Up And Moving On
I often stand with my back to the future.
Gazing into my past, I try to sift through my mistakes, sorting out what I could have done differently, trying to learn, so history won't repeat history. Yet, sometimes I wonder if I wander the mazes too frequently. Have they become regular walking paths? Maybe I've learned what I can from the labyrinth.
I feel my lives colliding; present, future, past. I'm finally catching up to myself; the part of me who knows it's time to move forward. I've wrestled with questions. Some, I'll never know the answer to.
It is sad to say goodbye to yesterdays. There are memories I've clung to, wrapping myself in them like a blanket, shutting out the present, resting in an easier, simpler time.
Though, as time goes by, some memories become tainted by reality. The present always seems to burst the idealistic past's bubble, and I must accept things will never go back to the way they were.
That is not the nature of life.
The sweetness leaves some memories, and no matter how long I wander in the past, I find myself in the present, a slight bitterness on my tongue.
I cannot get the past back.
A part of me has waiting for the rest to catch up.
I think I'm finding and meeting her now.
I like this woman. I can see by the light in her eyes she has not given up. I can tell by the occasional flicker of wariness across her face she has known deep pain and loss, and has not forgotten the salty taste of heartache's tears.
I like this woman. She is becoming bolder when she needs to, and discovering the worth of silence. She is many things I've always wanted, from her long hair, to her adventurous spirit, to her heart who's bottom is yet to be found. She is spontaneous and dependable.
I like this woman, facing the winds of future-change, unafraid.
She's let herself hope and dream again, while still remembering to breathe, and stand on her current stepping stone in time.
She is holding out her hand to me.
She has waited patiently for me to catch up. I haven't been ready before now.
We take our first step together, maybe for the first time ever.
Forward, on, moving as one.
Gazing into my past, I try to sift through my mistakes, sorting out what I could have done differently, trying to learn, so history won't repeat history. Yet, sometimes I wonder if I wander the mazes too frequently. Have they become regular walking paths? Maybe I've learned what I can from the labyrinth.
I feel my lives colliding; present, future, past. I'm finally catching up to myself; the part of me who knows it's time to move forward. I've wrestled with questions. Some, I'll never know the answer to.
It is sad to say goodbye to yesterdays. There are memories I've clung to, wrapping myself in them like a blanket, shutting out the present, resting in an easier, simpler time.
Though, as time goes by, some memories become tainted by reality. The present always seems to burst the idealistic past's bubble, and I must accept things will never go back to the way they were.
That is not the nature of life.
The sweetness leaves some memories, and no matter how long I wander in the past, I find myself in the present, a slight bitterness on my tongue.
I cannot get the past back.
A part of me has waiting for the rest to catch up.
I think I'm finding and meeting her now.
I like this woman. I can see by the light in her eyes she has not given up. I can tell by the occasional flicker of wariness across her face she has known deep pain and loss, and has not forgotten the salty taste of heartache's tears.
I like this woman. She is becoming bolder when she needs to, and discovering the worth of silence. She is many things I've always wanted, from her long hair, to her adventurous spirit, to her heart who's bottom is yet to be found. She is spontaneous and dependable.
I like this woman, facing the winds of future-change, unafraid.
She's let herself hope and dream again, while still remembering to breathe, and stand on her current stepping stone in time.
She is holding out her hand to me.
She has waited patiently for me to catch up. I haven't been ready before now.
We take our first step together, maybe for the first time ever.
Forward, on, moving as one.
Wednesday, 25 January 2017
Turbulence.
Fasten your seat-belts.
Sometimes I wonder if God gets a small measure of amusement at my tiny soap opera of a life.
Honestly.
The rate of crazy things, and how quickly my life changes, is truly astonishing.
Or is it?
Maybe everyone's life is like this, maybe it's part of being human.
My mom and I had a chat over Christmas about the bizarre things that have happened to our family. How it seems like we can't have a single year without some strange storm to blow us off course.
And I realized my life has lacked constancy ever since I was born.
Growing up a missionary kid, we were always moving, always making new friends, always travelling to new churches to raise support.
Politics forced us back to Canada, we had a year and a half of perceived peace, then we up and go to Winnipeg, of all places. But even there, what we thought we came for changed.
Change, change change.
Curves ahead.
Rocky road.
Turbulence.
Career changes, changing churches, house renovations.
I was swept in the tidal wave, adapting as best I could.
I was good at it. I became adept at letting people in, and letting people go. Staying deeply unattached. I craved constancy, even though I had no name for it at that point.
How I longed for a rock in the surging sea of change.
I found solace in books, knitting, music, and my dog.
The unasked question, every time I met a new person.
"Will you stay?"
Now, at 21, I see life works in cycles. Seasons.
The question is answered. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
I've spent a majority of my life trying to cling to shreds of what I thought would last forever.
Sound familiar?
and yet,
"Quick now, here, now, always-
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well
All manner if things shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."
Excerpt from "Little Gidding" of The Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
Sometimes I wonder if God gets a small measure of amusement at my tiny soap opera of a life.
Honestly.
The rate of crazy things, and how quickly my life changes, is truly astonishing.
Or is it?
Maybe everyone's life is like this, maybe it's part of being human.
My mom and I had a chat over Christmas about the bizarre things that have happened to our family. How it seems like we can't have a single year without some strange storm to blow us off course.
And I realized my life has lacked constancy ever since I was born.
Growing up a missionary kid, we were always moving, always making new friends, always travelling to new churches to raise support.
Politics forced us back to Canada, we had a year and a half of perceived peace, then we up and go to Winnipeg, of all places. But even there, what we thought we came for changed.
Change, change change.
Curves ahead.
Rocky road.
Turbulence.
Career changes, changing churches, house renovations.
I was swept in the tidal wave, adapting as best I could.
I was good at it. I became adept at letting people in, and letting people go. Staying deeply unattached. I craved constancy, even though I had no name for it at that point.
How I longed for a rock in the surging sea of change.
I found solace in books, knitting, music, and my dog.
The unasked question, every time I met a new person.
"Will you stay?"
Now, at 21, I see life works in cycles. Seasons.
The question is answered. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
I've spent a majority of my life trying to cling to shreds of what I thought would last forever.
Sound familiar?
and yet,
"Quick now, here, now, always-
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well
All manner if things shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."
Excerpt from "Little Gidding" of The Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
Friday, 25 November 2016
The Lie of I Can
Life can change in the blink of an eye. You know that I know that.
I'm tired. I'm tired of having to adapt to new, overwhelming situations.
I've heard I can. I've heard I'm strong. I've heard I'll get through.
Chase your dreams.
You can do anything you put your mind to.
Lies.
The truth is, I can't.
I'm not strong enough right now. I can't muster up energy that isn't there. I can't push myself like I want to. Sometimes I can't get out of bed in the morning. Except I do. Somehow. I rise. and eat, and go to class. Sometimes I pay attention.
I'm in a show. We open tomorrow.
Finals are coming up. Since I'm at a theatre school, most of them are performances I'm not ready for.
The next four weeks stretch out in a daunting array of tasks to complete.
Have I mentioned I'm tired?
Maybe this sounds like I'm complaining.
Maybe I am. I know I chose this program, I had a good idea of what I was embarking on. But you can't always foresee what will happen. The challenge lies in the unexpected.
I'm discovering my fragility, and have the responsibility to respond to what my body, my soul, my heart is telling me.
I can't.
Most of the work that happens here is emotional, internal. We're taught awareness and breath. Listen to instincts. Respond to your scene partner. Be affected.
What happens when my instinct is to sleep?
Yet, I go on. There is no stopping. I marvel at the human body and mind. What it's capable of withstanding. What I'm able handle. Somewhere, deep inside me lies resiliency.
So, of course, I wrote a poem. Maybe not where I'm at right now, but where I hope to be.
Resiliency.
When shadows come to shroud my joy
The sun sinks as sleep escapes
I lie in shades of darkness
Dream bring no respite
One thing comes to rescue
The uncanny gift
Resiliency
I stretch my hands to stop the time
From marching regimentedly
But it continues, putting distance
Between me and what has hurt me
Unasked, it heals
Granting
Resiliency
I'm tired. I'm tired of having to adapt to new, overwhelming situations.
I've heard I can. I've heard I'm strong. I've heard I'll get through.
Chase your dreams.
You can do anything you put your mind to.
Lies.
The truth is, I can't.
I'm not strong enough right now. I can't muster up energy that isn't there. I can't push myself like I want to. Sometimes I can't get out of bed in the morning. Except I do. Somehow. I rise. and eat, and go to class. Sometimes I pay attention.
I'm in a show. We open tomorrow.
Finals are coming up. Since I'm at a theatre school, most of them are performances I'm not ready for.
The next four weeks stretch out in a daunting array of tasks to complete.
Have I mentioned I'm tired?
Maybe this sounds like I'm complaining.
Maybe I am. I know I chose this program, I had a good idea of what I was embarking on. But you can't always foresee what will happen. The challenge lies in the unexpected.
I'm discovering my fragility, and have the responsibility to respond to what my body, my soul, my heart is telling me.
I can't.
Most of the work that happens here is emotional, internal. We're taught awareness and breath. Listen to instincts. Respond to your scene partner. Be affected.
What happens when my instinct is to sleep?
Yet, I go on. There is no stopping. I marvel at the human body and mind. What it's capable of withstanding. What I'm able handle. Somewhere, deep inside me lies resiliency.
So, of course, I wrote a poem. Maybe not where I'm at right now, but where I hope to be.
Resiliency.
When shadows come to shroud my joy
The sun sinks as sleep escapes
I lie in shades of darkness
Dream bring no respite
One thing comes to rescue
The uncanny gift
Resiliency
I stretch my hands to stop the time
From marching regimentedly
But it continues, putting distance
Between me and what has hurt me
Unasked, it heals
Granting
Resiliency
Friday, 14 October 2016
To Tree and Poppy
Firsts
Life can change in the blink of an eye
Some things I saw coming,
Some took me by surprise
Full of very last first times
Tour guiding, music writing, line memorizing
Opening night
Hiking and sunshine
First date
Long drives, late nights
Lives colliding
The bird who became a sister
Secrets kept and spilled
Shared giggles
Dreams born
Morphed
Knowing smiles
Dinners cooked and eaten side by side
Movies past midnight
Special songs, goodnights and good mornings
Goodbyes
Distance
Before you go, let’s eat one more cyclone
Talk about the road we’ve walked
Probing the depths of each other’s hearts;
Boys, found and lost
Faith and God
The summer we never wanted to stop
Long hugs
The ache of seasons change
Of what I’m not supposed to miss
New beginnings
Classes and auditions
Lines, scenes, and songs
The process once more begins
Fresh challenges
Phone tag
One month in, some things haven’t changed
In the blink of an eye
Six months of my life
Friday, 20 May 2016
Accepted and Fragmented
It's been nearly three weeks.
The letter came.
I'm in the Mentorship Acting Programme!
But I barely had time to register that fact in the swirling soup of my brain.
May 2nd I began training for my summer job; leading tours at the Atlas Coal Mine! Plus, I was doing a dance show that week.
Second week of May, rehearsals for a friend's final project began.
If you haven't heard from me lately, it's probably because I've been running and running and trying to keep my head above water. Ha! And I though school was busy. I think in a way, school prepared me for this new level of crazy. The end is in sight, though. My month of racing from work to rehearsal to bed to work to rehearsal to bed to work to. . is ending soon. The show goes up June 3, and closes June 5th. I'll (hopefully!) be able to resume my social life, and maybe get some time to myself, to sort out the fragments of thoughts and emotions I keep hitting the snooze button on, because there simply isn't time to feel right now.
Prayer would be appreciated!
The letter came.
I'm in the Mentorship Acting Programme!
But I barely had time to register that fact in the swirling soup of my brain.
May 2nd I began training for my summer job; leading tours at the Atlas Coal Mine! Plus, I was doing a dance show that week.
Second week of May, rehearsals for a friend's final project began.
If you haven't heard from me lately, it's probably because I've been running and running and trying to keep my head above water. Ha! And I though school was busy. I think in a way, school prepared me for this new level of crazy. The end is in sight, though. My month of racing from work to rehearsal to bed to work to rehearsal to bed to work to. . is ending soon. The show goes up June 3, and closes June 5th. I'll (hopefully!) be able to resume my social life, and maybe get some time to myself, to sort out the fragments of thoughts and emotions I keep hitting the snooze button on, because there simply isn't time to feel right now.
Prayer would be appreciated!
Friday, 8 April 2016
Thoughts Collided Part 2 (Post Audition Ramblings)
Precisely three years ago today, Esther, age 17, arrived in Rosebud for her scout week.
What a week it was. Full of discovery, new experiences, and comfort levels challenged. I left Rosebud certain of one thing: I wanted to come back.
At 1:30 today I had a maybe-life-changing-but-not-really-but-actually-it-could-be audition.
Today I auditioned for the Acting Programme.
I'm caught in the tension of knowing that the audition isn't the definitive factor of whether or not I'm accepted, but still, it feels big.
I've never done anything like this before. I think about what I prepared for my talent assessment three years ago, and what I did today, and marvel. I've come a long way, which is why I want to continue honing my acting skills. There's a high that comes from performing, that only comes from performing. I put a lot of work into my audition pieces, and yet, I know there's more.
There will always be more.
Which is why I'm here, (in Rosebud) why I'm going to be nervous and anxious and trying not dissect every beat of my audition, and swing from convincing myself that I did something wrong, I'm not getting in, to absolute certainty this is where I belong.
Because I want more.
Maybe this is confusing. Let me explain.
In Rosebud, you do a Scout Week, which ends in a talent assessment and interview. That gets you into the Certificate year. Once you finish Cert, you have to choose one of the mentorship programmes to apply for (Acting, Theatre Arts, Technical Theatre, or Music.)
You write a statement of purpose (see my past post) have an audition, and an interview.
Everything clear?
Good.
I still have my interview left, then I wait till the first week of May.
And yes, I know it's only as big a deal as I make it, and I'm starting to ramble, but that's okay. It's been an eventful day.
The thought of committing to another 1-3 years here is intimidating. What do I think I'm doing? Acting isn't know for being stable, well paying, or other things you look for in a job.
I want more.
Something in me is being called, and today I made the choice to publicly say yes.
Yes, I want to be in the acting programme. Yes, I want to stay in Rosebud. Yes, I can handle myself in an audition. I better get used to it.
I'm not finished with Rosebud. I think Rosebud isn't finished with me.
What a week it was. Full of discovery, new experiences, and comfort levels challenged. I left Rosebud certain of one thing: I wanted to come back.
At 1:30 today I had a maybe-life-changing-but-not-really-but-actually-it-could-be audition.
Today I auditioned for the Acting Programme.
I'm caught in the tension of knowing that the audition isn't the definitive factor of whether or not I'm accepted, but still, it feels big.
I've never done anything like this before. I think about what I prepared for my talent assessment three years ago, and what I did today, and marvel. I've come a long way, which is why I want to continue honing my acting skills. There's a high that comes from performing, that only comes from performing. I put a lot of work into my audition pieces, and yet, I know there's more.
There will always be more.
Which is why I'm here, (in Rosebud) why I'm going to be nervous and anxious and trying not dissect every beat of my audition, and swing from convincing myself that I did something wrong, I'm not getting in, to absolute certainty this is where I belong.
Because I want more.
Maybe this is confusing. Let me explain.
In Rosebud, you do a Scout Week, which ends in a talent assessment and interview. That gets you into the Certificate year. Once you finish Cert, you have to choose one of the mentorship programmes to apply for (Acting, Theatre Arts, Technical Theatre, or Music.)
You write a statement of purpose (see my past post) have an audition, and an interview.
Everything clear?
Good.
I still have my interview left, then I wait till the first week of May.
And yes, I know it's only as big a deal as I make it, and I'm starting to ramble, but that's okay. It's been an eventful day.
The thought of committing to another 1-3 years here is intimidating. What do I think I'm doing? Acting isn't know for being stable, well paying, or other things you look for in a job.
I want more.
Something in me is being called, and today I made the choice to publicly say yes.
Yes, I want to be in the acting programme. Yes, I want to stay in Rosebud. Yes, I can handle myself in an audition. I better get used to it.
I'm not finished with Rosebud. I think Rosebud isn't finished with me.
Thoughts Collided
I cleaned my room today. I wrote my statement of purpose last Friday. I took a personality quiz. I'm going to throw unrelated paragraphs at you, and in the end, it will all make sense.
I found a scrap of paper while cleaning my room. It's probably 13 years old. Here's what it said,
"Third Culture Kid (TCK)
Definition:
An individual who, having spent a significant part of the developmental years in a culture other than the parent's culture, develops a sense of relationship to all cultures, while not having full ownership in any.
Elements from each culture are incorporated into the life experience, but the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar experience."
Here's a snippet of my statement of purpose. More on that later.
The personality quiz? I'm an ENFP-T. 92% extrovert. I wasn't expecting that. The past few months I've been wandering along, believing I'm an extrovert super close to the introverted end of the spectrum. Ambivert, is the term.
I'm taking the information with a grain of salt. I know myself better than an online test, done quickly at the end a of a long day. But, I didn't have time to stress over answers, I just clicked what felt right. Which made a lot of sense when my results popped up as 72% feeling.
What do these things have in common?
ME! Of course.
But seriously, I hadn't thought about the TCK thing in a long time. And acting school is all about figuring (or trying) to figure out how humans act, and why they do what they do. Being a human, that includes figuring out the mystery that is me.
Tell me about your childhood. . .
The definition at the top of the page says it all. Sometimes I've described myself as a chameleon, I can figure out groups and how to interact with them fairly well. I don't get cultural references. I thought it was because of homeschooling, but that's only part of the equation. I know a little bit about a lot of things.
But belonging?
I've looked for it, longed for it, and thought I'd found it. I have, to some extent. But do you know how hard it is to find Canadians who moved to Mexico when they were 2, and grew up as homeschooled TCKs?
Yeah, I gave up on that. Of course, I've had friends, wonderful, amazing, deep relationships, that I treasure. If you're reading this, you're probably one of them.
But there's this sense that I don't quite fit in.
It's true. I'm a mishmash of Mexican and Canadian. Always have been, always will be.
I like it. Spend any amount of time with me, and you'll find I'm an expressive person. I use my whole body to react to things. I talk with my hands. Some of that is growing up in Mexico, as they are a highly expressive culture.
92 percent extrovert, though.
Things are making sense.
One places where I've felt the most at home is theatre.
Hence Rosebud. My statement of purpose/poem.
Out of all the places that I've thought I belonged, Rosebud is home.
For now.
I found a scrap of paper while cleaning my room. It's probably 13 years old. Here's what it said,
"Third Culture Kid (TCK)
Definition:
An individual who, having spent a significant part of the developmental years in a culture other than the parent's culture, develops a sense of relationship to all cultures, while not having full ownership in any.
Elements from each culture are incorporated into the life experience, but the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar experience."
Here's a snippet of my statement of purpose. More on that later.
Teach me, please, I want to know how to act and move and sing, telling story with every fibre of my being. This hunger, this need for the stage has been awakened; the endless adventures it offers, and I'm longing to embark on.
Show me the tools, and how to use them. I have a voice, a brain, a body. What does it mean to be seen? This craft drives me crazy, it scares me, what if I’m wasting my time?
But the very thing that causes my insanity keeps me sane. The stage helps to satisfy my curiosity, keeping me safe.
I remember my dad telling stories, thrilling tales of the times he’s spent alone in the wilderness, embellishing the details to a wide eyed girl of eight.
It must be in my DNA.
I’ve been told, don’t do it unless you need to, have to, couldn't, wouldn't do anything else.
It’s true.
I’ve imagined life without the thrill of figuring out how to move, talk, think, and feel like my character, all the while bringing pieces of myself to the table.
Please don’t ask me to live a life of 9-5, steady paying, weekends off, predictability.
For me, that is insanity. The personality quiz? I'm an ENFP-T. 92% extrovert. I wasn't expecting that. The past few months I've been wandering along, believing I'm an extrovert super close to the introverted end of the spectrum. Ambivert, is the term.
I'm taking the information with a grain of salt. I know myself better than an online test, done quickly at the end a of a long day. But, I didn't have time to stress over answers, I just clicked what felt right. Which made a lot of sense when my results popped up as 72% feeling.
What do these things have in common?
ME! Of course.
But seriously, I hadn't thought about the TCK thing in a long time. And acting school is all about figuring (or trying) to figure out how humans act, and why they do what they do. Being a human, that includes figuring out the mystery that is me.
Tell me about your childhood. . .
The definition at the top of the page says it all. Sometimes I've described myself as a chameleon, I can figure out groups and how to interact with them fairly well. I don't get cultural references. I thought it was because of homeschooling, but that's only part of the equation. I know a little bit about a lot of things.
But belonging?
I've looked for it, longed for it, and thought I'd found it. I have, to some extent. But do you know how hard it is to find Canadians who moved to Mexico when they were 2, and grew up as homeschooled TCKs?
Yeah, I gave up on that. Of course, I've had friends, wonderful, amazing, deep relationships, that I treasure. If you're reading this, you're probably one of them.
But there's this sense that I don't quite fit in.
It's true. I'm a mishmash of Mexican and Canadian. Always have been, always will be.
I like it. Spend any amount of time with me, and you'll find I'm an expressive person. I use my whole body to react to things. I talk with my hands. Some of that is growing up in Mexico, as they are a highly expressive culture.
92 percent extrovert, though.
Things are making sense.
One places where I've felt the most at home is theatre.
Hence Rosebud. My statement of purpose/poem.
Out of all the places that I've thought I belonged, Rosebud is home.
For now.
Wednesday, 10 February 2016
Confusion, Tears, and Dancing with a Dinosaur
Phew. I haven't written like this a awhile. Raw, honest, unafraid. I love writing poetry. I love hiding behind my words, leaving it up to you to figure out what I mean.
I am confused.
I've cried more in the past week than I have since diagnosis.
Weird, because I don't cry. (Sometimes I joke that cancer used up all my tears, or maybe it's the meds that suppress my emotions. I don't cry.)
I saw a show last Thursday titled Sarah and the Dinosaur: A play about a girl, her cancer, and a dinosaur.
Cancer used up all my tears? Ha.
Nope. I cried for about ten (?) minutes after the show ended. It was honest, and real. I related to almost every scene. It was uncanny how similar our experiences were, or maybe it's just a survivor thing?
The cryptic phone message? Check.
Quitting your job? Uh-huh.
Being one of the few who doesn't lose their hair and "look sick"? Yup.
I could go on. In fact, I will.
There are the best intentioned people who try and try to heal you. A fridge full of lettuce, weird diets. Your mom having to do all the gross stuff. Bedpans, bathing, it's like you're an infant again. Except this time, you can talk, and have been independent for the past 18 years of your life.
In the last scene, Sarah dances with her dinosaur. She's realized he's never going to leave. She has to learn to live with it.
Sometimes I forget it happened, then in movement, I'll point my toe, and my scar rudely reminds me, "Hey, Esther, your last surgery was in June!"
Can I say this? Me, the tower of hope and optimism, (well, sometimes) can I say that I'm scared?
Frightened that Cancer might get hungry again, and find my cells tasty.
Again.
Sometimes I wonder if where I am right now is the eye of a storm, and I'm holding my breath for. . .
Don't think about it.
These are the things I didn't know, until I sat down and wrote.
I'm confused.
Why did the play make me cry?
Am I wallowing?
Shouldn't I be okay by now?
Why am I still talking about this?
I recorded an album, for crying out loud. Isn't that therapy enough?
Why can't I put this all behind?
Why did the play make me cry?
I cried, because folks, I'm dancing with a dinosaur.
Or, as I put it in a post last year: There Was No Funeral
Yes, I acknowledged that things were different, but then I released an EP, had surgery, performed in two Winnipeg Fringe shows, and moved to Rosebud.
I was determined to prove myself, to show that I had overcome huge obstacles, and could do the program.
I talk about it; everyone asks how you came to Rosebud, The staff knew. I've been waiting three years to get here. Everyone knows I had cancer.
But I left the theatre last week burning, aching to tell my story. To be asked how the play impacted me. I wanted to explain that what we witnessed on stage had also taken place in my living room.
I've told my story on radio, TV, and in newspapers. But they only want sound bytes, the encouraging stuff, so that's what I focused on.
Have I told you about the ugly parts?
Read back over my blog, and you'll see them.
When can I talk about it? I'm afraid of my story, in it's entirety, being too much to handle. I use humour to diffuse the truth.
Nobody really wants to know all that stuff.
But, what can I do with all the memories that have been stirred up?
As my acting instructors would say, bring that into the room with you.
How?
Now I'm rambling. I don't have answers. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, and wonder what the hell I was thinking to post this. But, I've been challenged lately to be honest, so here it is, the dis-jointed sentences, confused, tired, ugly-honest.
Me.
I am confused.
I've cried more in the past week than I have since diagnosis.
Weird, because I don't cry. (Sometimes I joke that cancer used up all my tears, or maybe it's the meds that suppress my emotions. I don't cry.)
I saw a show last Thursday titled Sarah and the Dinosaur: A play about a girl, her cancer, and a dinosaur.
Cancer used up all my tears? Ha.
Nope. I cried for about ten (?) minutes after the show ended. It was honest, and real. I related to almost every scene. It was uncanny how similar our experiences were, or maybe it's just a survivor thing?
The cryptic phone message? Check.
Quitting your job? Uh-huh.
Being one of the few who doesn't lose their hair and "look sick"? Yup.
I could go on. In fact, I will.
There are the best intentioned people who try and try to heal you. A fridge full of lettuce, weird diets. Your mom having to do all the gross stuff. Bedpans, bathing, it's like you're an infant again. Except this time, you can talk, and have been independent for the past 18 years of your life.
In the last scene, Sarah dances with her dinosaur. She's realized he's never going to leave. She has to learn to live with it.
Sometimes I forget it happened, then in movement, I'll point my toe, and my scar rudely reminds me, "Hey, Esther, your last surgery was in June!"
Can I say this? Me, the tower of hope and optimism, (well, sometimes) can I say that I'm scared?
Frightened that Cancer might get hungry again, and find my cells tasty.
Again.
Sometimes I wonder if where I am right now is the eye of a storm, and I'm holding my breath for. . .
Don't think about it.
These are the things I didn't know, until I sat down and wrote.
I'm confused.
Why did the play make me cry?
Am I wallowing?
Shouldn't I be okay by now?
Why am I still talking about this?
I recorded an album, for crying out loud. Isn't that therapy enough?
Why can't I put this all behind?
Why did the play make me cry?
I cried, because folks, I'm dancing with a dinosaur.
Or, as I put it in a post last year: There Was No Funeral
Yes, I acknowledged that things were different, but then I released an EP, had surgery, performed in two Winnipeg Fringe shows, and moved to Rosebud.
I was determined to prove myself, to show that I had overcome huge obstacles, and could do the program.
I talk about it; everyone asks how you came to Rosebud, The staff knew. I've been waiting three years to get here. Everyone knows I had cancer.
But I left the theatre last week burning, aching to tell my story. To be asked how the play impacted me. I wanted to explain that what we witnessed on stage had also taken place in my living room.
I've told my story on radio, TV, and in newspapers. But they only want sound bytes, the encouraging stuff, so that's what I focused on.
Have I told you about the ugly parts?
Read back over my blog, and you'll see them.
When can I talk about it? I'm afraid of my story, in it's entirety, being too much to handle. I use humour to diffuse the truth.
Nobody really wants to know all that stuff.
But, what can I do with all the memories that have been stirred up?
As my acting instructors would say, bring that into the room with you.
How?
Now I'm rambling. I don't have answers. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, and wonder what the hell I was thinking to post this. But, I've been challenged lately to be honest, so here it is, the dis-jointed sentences, confused, tired, ugly-honest.
Me.
Thursday, 7 January 2016
Untitled
In your darkness, how can I help?
I wish is was as simple as a turned switch
But I know the night, and it is not for me to fix
What can I do?
The path you walk, I cannot light
But I can come alongside
Take your hand
Whisper words of love that heal
I will not force you faster towards the end
I may be able to see
But for now
I know you can only
Lift and set down your feet as you go
I will not leave, though I know there are things
You must fight on your own
I cannot make you whole
But I will stand here, until my body
Is cold
Strengthened by the Love who will not let me go
I give myself to restore
I wish is was as simple as a turned switch
But I know the night, and it is not for me to fix
What can I do?
The path you walk, I cannot light
But I can come alongside
Take your hand
Whisper words of love that heal
I will not force you faster towards the end
I may be able to see
But for now
I know you can only
Lift and set down your feet as you go
I will not leave, though I know there are things
You must fight on your own
I cannot make you whole
But I will stand here, until my body
Is cold
Strengthened by the Love who will not let me go
I give myself to restore
Thursday, 31 December 2015
Everything Has Changed
I'm processing through poetry more and more, so here is my latest offering:
I think I am a wandering minstrel
Spinning my song as I go
There and back again
Un-tethered, I am free to travel
Adaptable, I easily flow as
Air: light, wild, unpredictable
Earth: rooted in truth
I am reaching balance
Becoming healthier, more and more
I feel it, from the inner clockwork
To the outer shell
The cracks repair
The time has arrived
Say goodbye to former fears
Dawn has come, day begun
Wings have grown
The time has come to fly
There will be no glancing back, reaching for things past
They satisfy no longer
"You are ready, go out, you can make it on your own," is uttered
The choice is made, the course is set
The time for owning has begun
Who I am
I am me
Changing constantly
Messy, friendly, entertaining, passionate, God-breathed
Artist
I think I am a wandering minstrel
Spinning my song as I go
There and back again
Un-tethered, I am free to travel
Adaptable, I easily flow as
Air: light, wild, unpredictable
Earth: rooted in truth
I am reaching balance
Becoming healthier, more and more
I feel it, from the inner clockwork
To the outer shell
The cracks repair
The time has arrived
Say goodbye to former fears
Dawn has come, day begun
Wings have grown
The time has come to fly
There will be no glancing back, reaching for things past
They satisfy no longer
"You are ready, go out, you can make it on your own," is uttered
The choice is made, the course is set
The time for owning has begun
Who I am
I am me
Changing constantly
Messy, friendly, entertaining, passionate, God-breathed
Artist
Thursday, 17 December 2015
Shaped
Stories flowing over me
Water slowly eroding
Shaping, creating who I am
How can I resist the constant pressure?
How do I shape what has shaped me?
I am water too
I erode you
Do I make you jagged and broken
Or soften the edges others have made?
I am both
Silt
Impure, and rough
I cut through rock
Reaching your heart
What do I do when I get there?
Wednesday, 9 December 2015
Movement
Moving is losing the voice that tells me I can't in a joyous flow of steps
It doesn't have to make sense
There are no thoughts, only pulsing impulses
I'm giving myself to them, letting them rip through me
Spinning, pounding, slipping, moving, slowly, quickly
The driving need to find the next place to be my sanctuary
Escape, oasis, my reality
Away from fear and doubts, cries of all that's lost
My pocket of peace, where all I have to do is be
It doesn't have to make sense
There are no thoughts, only pulsing impulses
I'm giving myself to them, letting them rip through me
Spinning, pounding, slipping, moving, slowly, quickly
The driving need to find the next place to be my sanctuary
Escape, oasis, my reality
Away from fear and doubts, cries of all that's lost
My pocket of peace, where all I have to do is be
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
Freefall
On stage
Looking in your eyes, it seems I'm
Hearing these words for the first time
My mind spins with how to respond
My mouth is moving, saying my next line
This is a new sensation, I'm not sure what's coming
Yet I know this rhythm, for we've been practising
How could each carefully crafted moment hold a new discovery?
Nothing is default
This is what it is to freefall
Thoughts after acting class today. What it's like to be in a scene so deeply, that you don't know what's coming next, yet you do. It's hard to describe. It's freefall.
Looking in your eyes, it seems I'm
Hearing these words for the first time
My mind spins with how to respond
My mouth is moving, saying my next line
This is a new sensation, I'm not sure what's coming
Yet I know this rhythm, for we've been practising
How could each carefully crafted moment hold a new discovery?
Nothing is default
This is what it is to freefall
Thoughts after acting class today. What it's like to be in a scene so deeply, that you don't know what's coming next, yet you do. It's hard to describe. It's freefall.
Sunday, 8 November 2015
Shifting
The world smears and blurs and bends.
The morning mist drifts across the road as I walk to class.
My backpack is loaded with books, my mind full with everything I'm doing today.
I trudge on, into the lifting fog.
I hear the voices of my classmates as we travel to our next class.
I know the sun is shining beyond the fog. I blink, and a ray spears through, illuminating the hoar frost on the grass. The sunbeam reflects, and the blade of grass is transformed into an icy spear, the tip burning light. I pause, and let myself absorb the sight. It lasts only a few seconds, but I continue on my way with a sense of peace and awe. Yes, life as a Rosebud student is hectic. Yes, I feel overwhelmed a large percentage of the time.
But oh, yes, there are these precious moments where I stop and see the breathtaking beauty that makes my heart hurt, in the best way.
Shifting
I wouldn't have noticed that two months ago
Awareness
I'm becoming attuned
Beauty
Its there
Surrounding
How many of these moments go unseen?
The morning mist drifts across the road as I walk to class.
My backpack is loaded with books, my mind full with everything I'm doing today.
I trudge on, into the lifting fog.
I hear the voices of my classmates as we travel to our next class.
I know the sun is shining beyond the fog. I blink, and a ray spears through, illuminating the hoar frost on the grass. The sunbeam reflects, and the blade of grass is transformed into an icy spear, the tip burning light. I pause, and let myself absorb the sight. It lasts only a few seconds, but I continue on my way with a sense of peace and awe. Yes, life as a Rosebud student is hectic. Yes, I feel overwhelmed a large percentage of the time.
But oh, yes, there are these precious moments where I stop and see the breathtaking beauty that makes my heart hurt, in the best way.
Shifting
I wouldn't have noticed that two months ago
Awareness
I'm becoming attuned
Beauty
Its there
Surrounding
How many of these moments go unseen?
Saturday, 19 September 2015
Now. Here. This.
The winding road wended its way down into the valley. . .
That is how I arrived in Rosebud. Driving down into a lush green bowl, where cell service is spotty, and the water tastes funny, but you don't care because you're surrounded by beauty.
The road to Rosebud has been travelled. Three long years, and now,
I live in Rosebud.
Rosebud.
I usually don't repeat words that much, but
Rosebud.
I'm here.
This is home now.
I'm repeating myself, trying it out, seeing if it feels real.
I was looking back over this blog; there are things I wrote three years ago, that I don't have the heart to take down or edit, though some don't represent who I am any more.
My posts are snapshots of who I am, and where I've been, since I don't usually take pictures.
Am I leading up to one of those, "it's been great for a season, I've loved blogging, but I'm too busy now, blah blah blah" posts?
No.
This space has been a place for me to vent, heal and process.
I'm already an infrequent writer, so sporadic posting is consistent with my style.
Plus, I have a ton of writing to do for school.
The Road to Rosebud.
The title isn't going to change.
I will.
I already am.
I'm acclimating to a hectic school schedule. On a typical day, classes start at 8:30 am, and sometimes you don't get home till 9 pm, with breaks for meals in between.
Maybe I love it.
Maybe I'm scared, and uncertain about how to balance homework, people, meals, and sleep.
Maybe I'm figuring out how to maintain my relationship with God in all the crazy.
Maybe my mind is hurting sometimes from information overload.
Maybe I find myself crying while watching a heart-wrenching performance.
Maybe I absolutely love my room, and having my own space.
Maybe I love it.
Maybe there's no maybe; simply a word standing in the way of the truth, a truth no one will be surprised by, and I just wrote all that because I like the sound of the words flowing together.
I love it.
It's not all sunshine and roses, and I know I'm going to be unravelled and undone
But
If there were ever a place for that to happen, I'm already here.
More ramblings to come soon!
That is how I arrived in Rosebud. Driving down into a lush green bowl, where cell service is spotty, and the water tastes funny, but you don't care because you're surrounded by beauty.
The road to Rosebud has been travelled. Three long years, and now,
I live in Rosebud.
Rosebud.
I usually don't repeat words that much, but
Rosebud.
I'm here.
This is home now.
I'm repeating myself, trying it out, seeing if it feels real.
I was looking back over this blog; there are things I wrote three years ago, that I don't have the heart to take down or edit, though some don't represent who I am any more.
My posts are snapshots of who I am, and where I've been, since I don't usually take pictures.
Am I leading up to one of those, "it's been great for a season, I've loved blogging, but I'm too busy now, blah blah blah" posts?
No.
This space has been a place for me to vent, heal and process.
I'm already an infrequent writer, so sporadic posting is consistent with my style.
Plus, I have a ton of writing to do for school.
The Road to Rosebud.
The title isn't going to change.
I will.
I already am.
I'm acclimating to a hectic school schedule. On a typical day, classes start at 8:30 am, and sometimes you don't get home till 9 pm, with breaks for meals in between.
Maybe I love it.
Maybe I'm scared, and uncertain about how to balance homework, people, meals, and sleep.
Maybe I'm figuring out how to maintain my relationship with God in all the crazy.
Maybe my mind is hurting sometimes from information overload.
Maybe I find myself crying while watching a heart-wrenching performance.
Maybe I absolutely love my room, and having my own space.
Maybe I love it.
Maybe there's no maybe; simply a word standing in the way of the truth, a truth no one will be surprised by, and I just wrote all that because I like the sound of the words flowing together.
I love it.
It's not all sunshine and roses, and I know I'm going to be unravelled and undone
But
If there were ever a place for that to happen, I'm already here.
More ramblings to come soon!
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Metallic Fog
The meds make my mouth taste like metal
In the fog I stumble, blindly
Trying to find a scrap of me
I'm sick, but no one knows what that means
Because nobody sees
Why don't you drink coffee?
They ask when I say I have no energy
They don't understand as I try to explain
The pain the meds take away is replaced
With mind-numbing fog
Get some sleep! It'll help you feel better
I know that but
My body is a rebel
My mind an endless tangle of thoughts
And concerns that never stop
More medication required
Till I'm taking more pills that my grandparents
And it tastes like metal in my mouth
Recovery is really really hard.
I feel like I keep trading one problem for another.
Cancer is gone, Yay.
Cancer causes lots of stress, and so does creating an EP, and performing in two fringe shows.
I haven't recovered yet.
I'm on multiple medications for various things.
Sometimes my meds don't get along, and my mind is the field they battle upon.
I'm tired.
I leave for Rosebud in 11 days.
But I'm trying to find the off switch for the fog machine someone put in my brain.
There are rays of light, like long talks and walks in beautiful parks with wonderful people.
And I know today was especially difficult; there are good days and bad days, and I'm writing this post under extreme exhaustion. Who knows, I might read it tomorrow and delete it.
Please grant me grace in the upcoming days, as I adjust to the medications and side effects.
Much love,
Esther
In the fog I stumble, blindly
Trying to find a scrap of me
I'm sick, but no one knows what that means
Because nobody sees
Why don't you drink coffee?
They ask when I say I have no energy
They don't understand as I try to explain
The pain the meds take away is replaced
With mind-numbing fog
Get some sleep! It'll help you feel better
I know that but
My body is a rebel
My mind an endless tangle of thoughts
And concerns that never stop
More medication required
Till I'm taking more pills that my grandparents
And it tastes like metal in my mouth
Recovery is really really hard.
I feel like I keep trading one problem for another.
Cancer is gone, Yay.
Cancer causes lots of stress, and so does creating an EP, and performing in two fringe shows.
I haven't recovered yet.
I'm on multiple medications for various things.
Sometimes my meds don't get along, and my mind is the field they battle upon.
I'm tired.
I leave for Rosebud in 11 days.
But I'm trying to find the off switch for the fog machine someone put in my brain.
There are rays of light, like long talks and walks in beautiful parks with wonderful people.
And I know today was especially difficult; there are good days and bad days, and I'm writing this post under extreme exhaustion. Who knows, I might read it tomorrow and delete it.
Please grant me grace in the upcoming days, as I adjust to the medications and side effects.
Much love,
Esther
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
The End of the Beginning
Weird. I feel weird. The last nine months have been focused on the album. Writing, editing, singing, practicing, recording, coordinating musicians, my schedule has been all about the album.
I finished recording the last song.
Frankly, it was anticlimactic. I had a good chat with my producer, and walked out the multiple soundproof doors, like I regularly have for the past four months. Except. That was it. My job in the studio is done. It seems only yesterday I was laying the scratch tracks while sick with the flu.
Now, months later, after many mugs of tea, and minus the flu, the final tracks have been mixed and mastered. Unquenchable Hope releases May 26th.
I'm waiting for the artwork to be finished, then everything will be sent off to be printed.
Weird.
It's weird to have to shift focus, and realize recording wasn't the end, it was the end of the beginning.
My time in the studio was it's own adventure, filled with laughter, tears, and learning curves.
Creating Unquenchable Hope has been full of surprises and challenges. I have no idea what to expect next. It might be a huge success, beyond the horizons of what I could dream.
Or, like a shooting star, it could blaze for a moment, then disappear.
It's already done the job I intended for it--an outlet for my emotions. The rest is up to God.
But, if I were to dream out loud, my desire is that the EP (extended play, industry speak for my project) would touch you, deeply. That you would cry with me, and come out celebrating your battle scars, emotional, physical, or both.
Unquenchable Hope.
It's an ambitious title to live up to.
The thing is, I'm not referring to myself ;)
I finished recording the last song.
Frankly, it was anticlimactic. I had a good chat with my producer, and walked out the multiple soundproof doors, like I regularly have for the past four months. Except. That was it. My job in the studio is done. It seems only yesterday I was laying the scratch tracks while sick with the flu.
Now, months later, after many mugs of tea, and minus the flu, the final tracks have been mixed and mastered. Unquenchable Hope releases May 26th.
I'm waiting for the artwork to be finished, then everything will be sent off to be printed.
Weird.
It's weird to have to shift focus, and realize recording wasn't the end, it was the end of the beginning.
My time in the studio was it's own adventure, filled with laughter, tears, and learning curves.
Creating Unquenchable Hope has been full of surprises and challenges. I have no idea what to expect next. It might be a huge success, beyond the horizons of what I could dream.
Or, like a shooting star, it could blaze for a moment, then disappear.
It's already done the job I intended for it--an outlet for my emotions. The rest is up to God.
But, if I were to dream out loud, my desire is that the EP (extended play, industry speak for my project) would touch you, deeply. That you would cry with me, and come out celebrating your battle scars, emotional, physical, or both.
Unquenchable Hope.
It's an ambitious title to live up to.
The thing is, I'm not referring to myself ;)
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
There Was No Funeral
There was no funeral
No flowersNo ceremony
No one had died
No weeping or wailing.
Just in my heart
I can’t. . .
But I did anyway,
and nobody knew I couldn’t
I don’t want to. . .
But nobody else said they didn’t
So I put down my panic
and picked up my luggage
and got on the plane.
There was no funeralThis was a poem I found in a book for MKs (missionary kids. Another post for another day) I really connected with it. Moving countries is hard, especially when you have no say in the matter.
Recently, I came back to this poem because it applies on another level.
I had no say when the tumor came, made me pack my bags, and travel to the country of Cancer. The plane landed in the middle of a field, at the foot of a huge mountain. The natives wore white lab coats.
Cancer is a different culture. You learn a different language, and how to navigate new territory.
You're told that there is no way around; you have to climb. This is when the strange irony sets in. You're in a different country, but geographically speaking, nothing has changed.
Your friends cheer as you start hiking. Days go by, and the echo of their words fade. Close friends keep up with your progress, and supply you with energy bars. (In Cancer, energy bars can be visits, encouraging notes, or prayer)
You have a goal: Go through radiation, surgery, whatever it takes to ascend. Finally, the peak is in sight; hitting the mountaintop is being told you're cancer free.
The thing is, after the declaration has been made, you can't get on a plane and leave the place it brought you to.
You're still stuck in another country, on a mountain, and the only way off is to trek down.
Only you feel like you have nothing left, nothing more to give. Even your tears have been used up.
There aren't quite as many people cheering, because the worst is past, right?
The assumption is once you hit the top, a helicopter comes, life returns to normal.
It doesn't.
The natural high from reaching the peak fades quickly. You sit down, confused, engaged in a different kind of struggle. There was a wide, clear cut trail leading to the top, but now, a forest stretches ahead, and you realize you have no compass. The air is thin, forcing you to get back up, and keep going, though the destination is unclear.
You find an overgrown deer trail and start bushwhacking. It's dark, and sometimes lonely.
Again, the contradiction of Cancer washes over you. You still hang out with friends, and try to do normal stuff, but nobody can see the forest. Life has gone on normally. Yours has continued in the sense that you eat, breathe, try to sleep, and meet new people. But it also involves forging new paths, and being unable to shake a deep feeling of loss. Then guilt sets in over feeling that way. Everyone is asking when you're going back to work, telling you that this was only a small part of your life, and look to the future!
But the trees.
They can't see the trees.
As you continue hiking, your daily interactions reveal fragments of an answer.
There was no funeral.
Somewhere along the way, innocence was lost. Nightmares of intense, traumatic pain became real.
Dreams died.
The whirlwind of your experience engulfs you, ripping through your body, leaving exhaustion in it's wake.
Dazed, you look around, wondering where to go, who to talk to. How to mourn.
Fear sets in. Will anybody want, or try to understand?
There was no funeral.
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