All my things, I must
not value all my things so much.
********
All
my thoughts, I was stirring in all my thoughts:
My mind fumed about an arrogant co-worker who unapologetically ignored
others. No one mattered to her. Sharp
words consumed my mouth and I exploded toxic anger from my eyes shooting
straight to the back of her head. I
hoped she would hear my nasty remarks and feel offended, bashed, and small. I
was able to excuse my judgments because it was obvious that her attitude needed
improvement. So I allowed bitterness to drip from my fangs. “Which girl do you speak of?” My friend inquired.
My head nodded her way. “Janell, that girl is deaf” she whispered.
All my thoughts, I must
not to value all my thoughts so much.
********
I
watched the Wizard of Oz while waiting for the chance to hold him—that
unplanned adventure every family receives: the gift of another human, who will
commonly spend their lives knowing you, loving you, and laughing with you. My
eight year old self giggled at the interpretation of his name which meant “Dog”
in Hebrew. His black hair and blue eyes
installed in my memory forever—the first time I saw my little brother. My best
friend came into the world on December 3rd, and we continue our
journey of smiles. We grew up, took walks together, ate donuts at midnight,
laughed so hard that we couldn’t finish dinner. We yelled at each other,
wrestled on the floor, and made up while he had me in a headlock. He grew
taller than me. We got in an argument at a drive-though—we laughed. We watched our
Dad try to finish a sentence while watching TV (practically impossible)—we
laughed. He turned 16; new ripe age of
supposed rebel-hood, but we never ceased our laughter. We laughed about his personality being
different than mine; he would say sentences like, “Big brach fell”—he was a man
of few words—but we laughed. He was at school when my parents called me, the
shaky whisper of my father, “Caleb has cancer.”
Surrender scratched her nails on the blackboard of
my being.
********
Sometimes when I lay in
bed, past murmurs run through my head:
“I hate you.”
“You’re
cheap.”
“I don’t appreciate you.”
“I won’t ever love
you.”
“You
look like the sunrise.”
“Your man should be
mine.”
“You’re my best
friend.”
“You’re
lovely.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“You’re fat.”
“Janell, he hung himself.”
“I think we should never talk again.”
“It serves you right…”
“I
wish I was more like you.”
“Why
can’t you forgive me?”
********
I
tread. I tread along the Romanian sidewalks—up cobblestones streets, down red brick
alleys, and through historical churches. Brasov welcomed me like nature’s
invitation to new birth. Vivacity surged
through my traveling mind, as a friend and I found ourselves standing at the
bottom of the highest mountain in the city.
Coffee first; we knew a warm drink must come before we threw ourselves
into the chill of the wind streaming the mountain top. We bypassed a few
places. But our picky selves grew weary of the hunt, and we surrendered to a
Pub on a small side-street. What was it I heard? Not Romanian music. What was
it? Not Turkish, not American, not Swiss. My eyes caught the items on the
wall—oh yes, Scottish. Had we switched worlds? Kilts covered the stone walls. I
supposed some Romanian must of had a massive love for west European style. I uninhibited
my internal thoughts and divulged my humor across the four walls of the
room—“Haha, look at the man skirts!” I expressed. But I was silenced by the sight
of a light skinned man who came out of the back kitchen, and I was gripped as he
whispered in his English words, with
his Scottish accent, “Seven leu, for
your coffee, a special price for you.”
That’s when I learned,
it’s ok to tread to foreign places, but I must treat my language lightly.
********
Some
people thought I was a little boy. I used to twist my hair in knots, and my
mother would have to chop my fine, blonde locks. I took a comb out of my
babysitters hand and threw it across the bathroom, once; I was tired of people
trying to make me look lovely. I remember a strong, handsome, blue eyed,
teenager captured my attention when I was only six. The same dude ended up
making a joke about me looking goofy in front of a group of people. I hit age twelve and felt fat. I went to high school; on the first day a boy
said I looked forty-five. Then you turn
seventeen and walk next to a pretty friend in the grocery store; every guy that
passes looks at her. I struck twenty-one
and stopped myself one day, demanding my insecure self to look in the mirror,
and I saw: my hair—long, dark, shiny, my skin—flawless, glowing, soft, my eyes—green,
big, piercing. And I had a flashback to
me as a little girl playing with my Barbie dolls. My favorite doll had dark hair,
light skin, and green eyes, and I realized that if I had seen my grown up self
as a child I would have tapped my mother’s leg and whispered, “Mommy, I want to
look just like her someday.”
The whisper of my childhood
acceptance, beckons my eyes to see my beauty.
********
So I
embraced the truth that I couldn't walk by myself.
I
realized that small words can help
to
pull me out of the hard times and set me free.
So I
saved these text messages that saved me:
“Janell, you’re a cool
person, I really appreciate you.”
“ Dear Janell, I hope
you work tomorrow”
“You are an incredible and beautiful
woman!”
“You are gracious.
Thank you.”
“You inspire me.”
“You’re an absolute
gift!”
“You’re top in my
life.”
How undeniably true: the
whispers poured out stick like glue—they humble us, stretch us, strengthen us,
teach us, and most of all they can rescue us.
©Reward Publishing 2012
