Stories

I follow a blog called humans of new york zealously and constantly it reminds me I am just one person in a mesh of billions of people and even though our stories are all different; we are all the same.

I am nowhere near new York now. I do want to visit and live though. Hopefully soon as my journeys about the country find themselves to me and leave me speechless.

I just wonder, what would I say? Would it be I’m an artist in a caged and restricted environment? That I value food and sustenance to heart and dedication?

Maybe the answer is simple: what I wear now, what I study now, why I do what I do now.

Perhaps my story would go like this:

I’m a wanderer, a fighter, an artist, a shy folk, one rarely seen frowning. I am not good with words, I’m not good at expressions, but I’m good at being raw. What you see is all of me and more. No hidden messages or words scrambled on a page and across my body. No expectations. Just living life day after day and hoping that somebody who hit a rough patch as I did will find the inspiration to keep moving.

What will your story be? Will you share it with the world.

PS: I love elders, I love the stories they weave and the knowledge they share. Often you will find me stationary whenever I am near one listening intently to their memories, as one day, perhaps, they will mirror my own.

Changes

I am now nineteen and I’ve flown around the world and done things many people only dream of. I’ve managed to make people laugh, cry, smile, and get frustrated. I myself have found myself in those situations. In the past few months I’ve done a lot of growing up, realized what pain was, and held onto those I cared about. They held me up when I needed it the most.

The past few months have been a complete struggle for me. There was no moment where I never asked myself if I should quit now and leave, go back to who I was. There were moments where I pretended I was okay but I really wasn’t. I kept telling myself that people prayed for me and knew I could do it but I kept falling down and struggled to get back up. People helped me up, but I kept getting scared and forgetting my own strength. But despite the fear I smiled and found humor in the situation.

“Mem, you are resilient and that will be your greatest ally in your life.” Says a man I truly respect on the last day I was there. The changes are now set forth, and suddenly I feel lighthearted and stronger.

In my moment of weakness I found myself. I found humor in any situation that was given to me and spread it like an infection in an environment that tended to crush souls. Humor doesn’t transfer well on paper, but, at least it sticks in memory forever.

It never mattered who I was or where I came from, what I wanted to be or what I ended up doing. I’m living, breathing and supported by friends and family.

I’m now nineteen years old, still wondering about my future but now feel secure enough to let God lead me. I have a better understanding of myself and I’m still learning. My life and possibilities now seem so endless.

Dubstep violin

I needed a new album to rock out to because as much as I love and adore Kimbra, who I mention quite frequently, her album sounded lonely.

What better way than with a dubstep violin album made by Lindsey Stirling? Honestly, I love the violin, dubstep, not so much but it just sounds so wonderful and the fact she dances with a violin!

At current I’m working on a picture composition of one of her songs, I’ll probably forget to finish it or give up on it and refuse to show anybody about the forlorn project. So actually forget I mentioned it. 🙂

A lesson

I find myself sitting between two college students and watching them draw work that i will not see myself doing until years later. The idea haunts me. I eat the following:

image

As i continue to attempt to draw something way beneath their level:

image

(sorry about the shadow, its my arm).

the teacher comes out and plops a book next to me:

“youll soon be done with this book this is your next.”

“I think i can manage.”

“Thats the spirit! Youre at the point now where nothing will be easy anymore and everything will be progressively harder. Few will make it and those that dont will interpret this as failure. If youre willing to learn this everything is on you now.”

i look to the left at the beautiful hydrangeas (my favorite flower) the student is drawing and to the right at the mushrooms the other student is. I look on the walls and remember the motto she spoke when i first started my lessons:

“turn your home into your own art gallery.”

i remember when i was younger and drawing was all i had for a friend and for company. I remember how unartistic i was and wanted to learn how to paint so badly that i saved up money for an easel and paints when i was eight. I remember scrounging up the money to pay for these classes.

I answered with a line drawn on the paper. And the teacher dismissed me, planning her next lesson as one that may break me apart.

Veterans Day

Next year I will be wearing the uniform I have admired all my life and it baffles me. When did I grow up? I thanked many people today for serving my country and am going to make cookies for them, and just deliver them to passerbys because I want to show my gratitude before I become one of them.

Regardless of who the president is, what the wartime situation is, a soldier must always serve by oath, country first.

Pass

Walking home today in the chilled October weather, I walked past a house that had a lot of meaning to me. A house whose doors were always open and smiling hearts and warm food awaited.

I was a year younger, dressed in confusion. Newly out of the house with an argument behind me, I stumbled in once and fell in love. I felt like I was finally home after eighteen years of searching.

Well, the family left and the house still stands. I stood before it for a long while, thanking it but also regretting that I spent so much time there when really in my stubbornness, I should have been home with my parents. Talking things out, perhaps the situation I came under would have been easier to deal with.

The wind whipped my hair and chilled my cheeks, the door opened and I was almost happy and a little boy came out and I knew it was time for me to leave.

Skipping stones

My father and I, mother watching warily from a height above us, sat by the riverfront. I watch as the river swells, laughter rises, and beauty both diminishes and is soon replaced by the nighttime sky.

I wait until the sun sets the world on fire. I let this moment drag.

“Dad, I’ve never learned how to skip stones.”

“What kind of childhood have you had?”

A nomadic one, a cultural one, a confusing one thoughts flow into my head.

“The one you gave me.”

He bends down with his aching knees and has a fist full of rocks in his hands. He puts one into my hand and shows me how to throw it as if I’m still a child.

Moments like this make my mothers heart swell and my father regrets momentarily how much of a normal life I’ve never had. Then he laughs about it and realizes he could never change it. I’m eighteen now, I look and act nothing like a normal eighteen year old and that’s what makes me their child.

I continue to skip rocks until the fires dim out and the world is cold and cool again. I listen to the sounds of splashing in the canoes we rode earlier, the chanting of the temple we visited and although so much joy and beauty existed, I found my most favorite part of the journey was skipping stones along the river bank with my father watching the first ripple, create a second ripple, then a third, to sink into the bottom of the bank.

What was, what is, and what will be.