I AM...

...just in the process of being, someone who just happens to be a Person of Integrity that understands that every life must end and therefore looks to live without regret or fear.

I am a Player, I blow bubbles and take deep breaths and occasionally color with Crayons.

I am an Understander, I consider that all people have pain and push down their beachballs and I realize love is all you can give -- even when it's hard.

I am not a Pretender, I do not act the way I should but rather how I am in that moment.

I do not see my emotions as a weakness, but rather an inner reserve on Life and therefore I am Strong.

I am a Changer, I look to the future with hope and ambition of what I can do.

I am a Tuesday person.
What are you?

Maybe Not.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had to get up very early to go to work before she attended to her studies. Her friends looked upon her with pity. "That's the worst." They consoled her.
"Maybe," the girl replied.

The next morning as she was getting up, she saw, since what had been the longest time, the sun rising and began walking. She was stopped short, having missed the changing crosswalk sign by only a few steps. "Such a shame," a passerby noted.
"Maybe," she replied.

Looking down, she saw a quarter which she picked up and she continued walking, glancing to the ground more carefully the rest of the way.
Almost to her work building, she spied a discarded soda can. The girl stopped and picked up can. Before she could place it into the recycle bin she emptied the contents onto the ground and some splashed back onto her shoes and jeans. "How terrible," a stranger comment.
"Maybe," the girl said.

She walked into the building and called for someone to hold the elevator. It closed in front of her nose. "How rude!" another waiting student exclaimed at their misfortune.
"Maybe," answered the girl.

Taking the steps two at a time up seven flights of stairs, the girl felt her body thanking her for needed movement and her heart pounded happily. She opened the door to her office and called a greeting to a woman whom she worked with but did not often speak to. The woman smiled and told her it was her birthday. She offered the girl a cupcake. The girl took it and thanked her. Telling her friends, they congratulated her on her good fortune.
"Maybe," she said.

For the Teachers

No witty title here, no thought investigation, just a solemn and deep gratitude to the teachers I have had, who make Taylor Mali's words the Truth.*

So pivotal you were, yet so subtle. When us students walk into a lecture hall and see that the exam was THIS Tuesday; We panic. I've seen kids look at the board, turn on heel and high-tail it out of the classroom. The rest of us who stay, sometimes we pass and we figure we just got lucky. 
That's how good you guys are, we don't even know you're sitting in our brains, nudging us toward the right answers the whole time.



 *The truth may come at the small cost of a bit of profanity.

This isn't funny anymore.

I have a chocolate stash.

Not just a stash. A secret stash. No one who lives with me knows where it's at and I only take it out when I need it. (Watching a tv show counts as an emergency.)

Every lady has a confidential fix of chocolate. Not a big deal, right?

No, huge deal. Gigantic deal. Blue whale-sized deal. Not only have I begun to hide my chocolate. Reaching for my delicious grocery bag of goodies today, a lightning bolt of realization struck me. I stood still, thought about it and confirmed it:
I hide my chocolate in the exact same place my mother hides her chocolate.

Dear Lord, what is happening to me...

Gotta have that funk

Write what you feel. How did you experience it? Give us your gritty, your subjective, your bias, and it will be believable. Believable, eh? I'm just looking for something time-passable. Ages have come and gone since I've even dreamed of posting. In high school I thought I knew what writer's block was, but I can't honestly say I ever wrote in high school. Ever felt like Plato was sitting in the back of your throat, but he's clasping his hands over his mouth, insistently shaking his head in resistance? What a jerk.

I have things to say, meaningful and powerful things. The words just won't come. Even when I speak, in class, at work, in more intimate moments, I struggle with my words and they stick and I can feel the concept, I form them with my hands and press them forward but no sound comes out. I cannot, with all the might I summon, describe or speak what I mean.

Selective muteness. I've given myself a complex. And a name. Who needs a degree to assess themselves? I am my own psychiatrist and I am prescribing myself a good night's rest.