Thursday, May 30, 2013

The familiarity of sound

With summer starting to poke it's head through my curtains, I've gotten into the habit of leaving my windows open and blinds slightly cracked to catch the breeze - one of the many advantages of living so close to the beach, for all my complaints about how this area may never be a home to me, it certainly is a nice place for temporary dwelling when conditions are ideal - which is generally at least 7 months out of the year when the heat is just right and the humidity isn't out of control.

For the past few days, I've become accustomed to the sound of the fountain outside my apartment shutting off abruptly around 11 pm and then cranking on every morning at 7 am. It's a sound I never really noticed before, something that I honestly took for granted the last few months that was a big positive point when I first moved in, rather than having other apartments or woods to look at, I had the fountain, I had the sound of water to wake up to and then if I wasn't content with the sound, I only had a 15 minute walk to get to the beach.

I never realized how much sounds matter to me until I really began to concentrate on waiting for that 7 am waterfall to begin to flow, my indicator that it was truly time for me to get my day started if I hadn't already. Before, when I lived with my grandparents, I would laze about upstairs until I heard my grandmother making her breakfast: tea in the morning, with toast, and two hard boiled eggs.

It was like clockwork.

I knew that once I made my way down the stairs, I could expect to see her at the table in the kitchen, fully dressed for her day, newspaper laid flat where she would be working out the crossword puzzle and occasionally stealing glances out the window she faced while she sipped her morning brew.

Familiar like the sound of the garage door opening at our old home in North Carolina. Knowing that I could almost count down the seconds it would take for my mother or father to open the door and turn off the alarm.

It's little things, that move us forward like clockwork. It's the sound of my grandfather bellowing out through the house What up spook to my mother or to me, it's my mom jokingly telling my dad You're not the boss of me, you can't tell me what to do, with a scowl on her face before laughing.

It's hearing my own laugh and realizing just how much I sound like my own mother that went from being something scary to something comforting...the knowledge that even when we're far apart, that I can always have that as a reminder of where I came from.

It's the little things, the rhythm I've created at work when putting my stories to tape, the way that someone says something the same way every time, the staccato form our weekend weatherman says the news starts right now, while the evening weatherman almost sings it to viewers...it's sounds that we just learn.

I remember sitting up at night at my great grandmother's house in Philly and listening to the sounds of the street. Cars speeding, ambulances, firetrucks, police cars, all these sounds turning into a lullaby of sorts in the summer.

I remember the song my grandfather and I call ours...and listening to it almost always makes me cry because it reminds me just how close he and I are.

While there are plenty sounds that I love, a fresh rain storm, kids playing outside laughing, mothers cooing their children into submission, there's nothing that comforts more than the sounds that I know definitively; the things that never change that have become engraved in my being as a small nook to escape into when the world is so loud and I need some peace.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

In recognition of the woman I'll never be.

A friend of mine recently went through a rebranding of sorts in all that she does. While the new her and the old her are similar in a lot of ways, especially her open and honest writing style, there are some things that have changed. I can look at her and see how this new focus has caused her to grow and develop, the changes have been incredibly positive in her life and it all started by being willing to distance herself from her comfort zone and taking a chance on being the full authentic her.

Needless to say, the people I truly consider my friends are some of the most inspiring people you would ever have the pleasure to meet - and obviously, they inspire and challenge me.

I've spent the past at least 4 of the past 6 years attempting to be something that I'm not - and frankly, I'm tired.

It wasn't until I cried for the second time this week in a conversation with a woman who is becoming less of an acquaintance and more of a friend, that I came to realize that sometimes to make things work out, to make things ideal, you have to compromise who you are - and for years I had tried.

I had tried in college to be the girl that hung out with all the cool kids, went out to the clubs, and was crazy. I indulged in my excess, it worked for a year until it backfired and in response I shut out everybody.

Or at least I tried.

Later, I would try to put on the face of the reformed. No drinking, no hanging out, being so cautious with my words, so protected with my thoughts, trying in vain to be someone else, someone I knew and admired and thought of as better than me.

I've only had 2 years where I truly felt like I was being true to myself and those were the years that I filled my life with poetry, music, writing, and what felt like sisterhood to the girls that lived on my floor at school. It was camaraderie, it was honesty, it was great.

I wonder if being an adult is just a series of compromises that we make to feel better about where we are in life. Do we change our personalities to make others more comfortable? And if so, how much do we change? Coming from a culture of being upfront and blunt about my feelings and being transported to a place where everything is fine and dandy and all about appearances is stifling, but today and for the rest of my life, I'm putting the mask down.

The things that make me who I am aren't bad, they're different. I'm a woman who loves to read and loves to talk, I'm loud and a bit impetuous. I sing, I dance, I scream, you can always tell when I come to work because my music is loud enough you can hear it before you can see my car, I eat all the time, and I love it. I love the little pieces that make up the bigger picture of who I am.

The hardest thing about trying to be something that you aren't isn't whether or not you succeed with deceiving the people around you, that's actually the easiest part, but the hardest part is understanding at your center that you haven't been authentic to yourself, that you're not free, that you've offered up only an empty shell of a person to those that you claim to be close to.

There's nothing wrong with being the person you are.

I guess after being around my friends that have seen me at my highs and lows, I'm realizing that being authentic is something that has to be valued. I know that not everyone deserves to see me in my full, and I also know that not everyone can handle me in my full, but those that can and do have always been the best. Tuesday I got a text from my friend that brightened my entire day:

I love you always. You're a bright light in my life. You're always welcome.


It was a short message with the most meaningful words that I could possibly receive. You're always welcome. Despite my crazy spells, my loud nature, my random decisions, and my general muchness, I was always welcome, and I know it wasn't just something she was saying for the hell of it. It was real.

I guess it was that message and several others that helped me to come to terms that I need to stop being a people-pleaser, I need to stop trying to make everyone a friend and realize that not everyone is meant to be a friend, that it's okay to not be liked, even without reason, and that the people who are worth my time, will be clear as day. Not everyone will accept me as I am, and while it may be a little late in the game to be willing to acknowledge this fact, I prefer getting it now versus never getting it at all.

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Homeward bound

I don't think I've had a more genuine cry as I did on Sunday at 12:39 pm.

Every now and then, you have a moment that touches you to your core, that really stirs your heart and makes you think and Sunday at 12:39 pm, I had mine.

The Arnold family in all their glory before
I started a mini sob fest on the train.
This weekend I went to see my parents at their new home in Virginia, while there I saw one of my four sisters, grandparents on all sides, my aunts and cousins, and a handful of friends - and to say that I felt at home and in the right place would be a gross understatement. I was the happiest that I'd been over those 3 days than I had been in a long time. It wasn't a fleeting happiness either, it was a wake up in the morning and look forward to my day type of happiness that hasn't been present in my life so strongly for about a year.

I traveled, via car and two trains, from Panama City Beach to Manassas, VA, for about a full day and half both ways and it wasn't until my second trip, the one back to Florida that it hit me just how much I didn't want to come back to Florida.

There's something to be said about spending 6 years away from all your close family. It's one thing if you dislike your family or if you don't trust your family, but it's never been that way for me. My family has always been a rock for me, a part of my core. When I went away to college, I was fine, I could see them over the summer or over the winter break and they didn't seem so far away, but by the end of my freshman year, I was ready to drop out of UF, transfer to a new school, and leave the state behind. I don't know if I was desperate to get out of where I was or if I just needed a change, or if I thought running away was the answer. I've only been in one other situation in my life where I've truly wanted to leave somewhere and never come back, and that was when I maybe 10.

There's a small part of me that wishes that I had transferred out...but I know that the bargain that I made with myself and with God about my decision to stay had amazing results, and the people that became my second family, my children, my residents, became the things that kept me going...because I didn't want them to hate their new home as much as I did in that first year.

It wasn't until I was on a train watching my mom search for my face and having her stop - still unable to see me - and have her still be looking me dead in the eye that it hit me what I've missed so much.

The people I've met here have been some of the sweetest, most caring individuals you could ever find. They've let me into their homes, cooked for me, helped me when I was down and out with literally nothing but a deflated air mattress and a laptop...but for all their efforts to be there for me, they don't know me. No matter how much I may open up, they still won't completely understand who I am, where I came from, or what I'm really like - simply because they haven't seen me - and I miss that.

I miss intimacy - not a closeness to a person, but the lack of fear that when I'm exposed that I will still be loved and cared for, that I won't be looked at in shame or anger. It's a feeling I got when I started dancing with my family and caught my cousin taking blackmail worthy video, it's the feeling I got while sitting and drinking with a close friend that I hadn't seen in years, it's the feeling I got when sharing secrets about fears and being a grownup with my cousin...it's the exposure that I've tried to develop with people here that I simply don't seem to have the ability to facilitate.

I don't know if the reason I cried when I left Manassas was because I missed being near my family, I'm sure that it was a piece of bigger puzzle, but I think what I really missed was the comfort of being home despite being in an area I'd never been before. I missed being raw, honest, open and not being scared that I would turn people off to me - because these people have seen me at my worst and they didn't run away then.

I've come to accept that the phrase home is where the heart is isn't as much about love, but about feeling the freedom of intimacy and closeness, the ability to be open and honest with no fear of rejection. It's not something that can be grown just anywhere - it's in special friendships, special relationships that we turn from two people into a true love bond, and I hope that one day, whether I'm close to family or not, that I'm able to call someplace my home.

Monday, May 20, 2013

The effects of a simple change

It's not often that I listen or care too much about what a celebrity has to say. Generally speaking, their words don't hold much weight outside of their own circle of friends because they're opinions. However, I will say that if I do look to celebrities for inspiration, it's hardly ever from the ones that we see on the television screen today. They range from activists to directors, photographers to bloggers and, on occasion, an actress or two.

Over the past year, I've had 3 major hair changes - the third happening last Thursday. (I'm sure you know where I'm going with this post, but humor me - especially those of you that are friends with me on Facebook or Instagram, lol.) Years ago, Coco Chanel said something about changes like this:
A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.
Well. She was right.

I remember a few years ago when I basically cut all my hair off to sport a TWA (teeny weenie afro as we call it in the natural hair community) and I hated it at first, mostly because the local hair dresser was terrible. After I made my way back home, my original hair dresser fixed it, dyed it, and boom - after a few days, I was in love. It was freeing, it forced people to really see my face which sounds kinda crazy, but since I didn't have to deal with my hair so much, it just made it easier to notice me.

It made me notice myself…and I took a bit of pride in that, not in a bad way, but more of a healthy dose of self-love.

Fast forward to 2012, I started working as a reporter in Florida and my afro had grown quite a bit and everyone loved it…but eventually I came to terms that my best move professionally would be to make another change, so in November I went back to chemically straight hair. It was a welcome change, I mean, I could swish my hair from side to side, throw it in a ponytail, do spiral curls, all sorts of things, but after 6 months of ponytails, heat damage, and laziness on my part, I decided I needed to make a real change.

So I cut it.

And I felt like I did when I first went natural. Absolutely terrified, almost to the point of tears, when I saw the hair on the ground being swept up, followed by a feeling of joy and freedom when I looked in the mirror. No long bang, no morning frustration trying to figure out what the heck I was going to do with my hair, just easy, relaxed, with more time to do what I feel is important.

The past few days have had more reading, more music, more fun, and newly opened eyes to things I want in life - and it's obviously not just the result of an amazing haircut, but positive friends that encouraged me as I debated doing it before hand and built me up after wards.

The new look!



Friday, May 3, 2013

Smile Day

Fridays are made for smiling.
So here's what's making me smile this week.

Cute things that make me think about love and relationships.


The Civil Wars doing…anything…but especially singing.


Dancing in my apartment to this vinyl.


The end.




Thursday, May 2, 2013

On faith and fear

"Faith is the substance of things unseen…and so is fear."

I had never thought of it that way, my grandfather has a special way of saying things that always come back to be so much more relevant than I ever realize and after a lovely morning conversation, those words (among many others) are still reverberating within my skull.

I've recently been in a fierce standoff with fear - and not just fear, but confidence in my abilities. I call it a standoff because it hasn't really been a fight, I've kinda let things happen and react to them rather than making things happen.

There's something about the uncertainty of the future that makes fears seem less like an unseen thing, but a definite. I know that fear has kept me from pursuing opportunities - I can recognize moments in time where I can't say a door was slammed in my face, I had simply looked at the door and walked by, too scared to knock because I was sure that the door would never open, that what was on the other side would be too much for me to handle, that I wouldn't be good enough, smart enough, that I wouldn't measure up to what the unknown people on the other side desired out of me.

It's a terrible way to go through life if I have to be completely honest, haha. Living at the mercy of unseen specters, sucking the joy out of your daily existence because you're so sure of something that you haven't even attempted. 

How many things have you not accomplished simply because you didn't try?

As I continued this conversation with my grandfather, that question began to bounce around my head. How many times had I killed a chance by simply not taking a risk?  It's crazy the logical reasons we can come up with to not pursue our purpose. It's not the right time… It's a bad economy, I have to take what I can get… I need more experience… when the truth of the matter is that we shut ourselves out for no reason. 

What's the worst that could happen? They say no

We seem to forget that life doesn't end there. If there's one thing this job I have now taught me, it's that no doesn't have to mean never. It just means not now. It doesn't mean to stop trying to reach that goal.

If every actor I knew stopped what they did because they heard a no, I wouldn't know many actors, lol. There's a beauty in rejection, there's beauty in continuing to fight for your life, your livelihood, your purpose, whatever it is that you love, you have to have some fight in you.

It all comes down to one thing: if I take a chance, believe in myself, I can't get discouraged by a no, but I can get discouraged if I allow my fear to stop me from asking a question, because nothing is more discouraging than letting fear - something that's all in your head - win.
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