Rambling Roads 🏵

Isn't it strange how certain stories get recycled on an endless loop at family gatherings while others get skipped over like stones across the water never to drop beneath the surface.  Every time someone mentions Spain, there are the funny stories of my sunburn and the overnight train ride shivering on a hard bench across from the Japanese couple who merely dropped their chins to chest to sleep peacefully while we restless Americans twisted and turned, grumpy and complaining. And how the Spaniards simply stepped outside for a smoke while the strike left us stranded in the middle of nowhere just a few miles outside the Madrid border.  But no one talks about my brother’s heartbreak as we traveled, him dutifully showing his little sister around the tourist sites.  And no one mentions the outing that cut short my innocence and that will forever haunt my subconscious.  My pent up energy ready to explode, I  instinctually  rebelled when my older brother sa...

There’s just enough light for one more lap around the lake she muses vaguely to herself.   Feeling strong, she savors the way her muscles flex and hold her as her feet land firmly on the ground.   A smile sweeps across her face as she quietly greets familiar strangers passing by.   A breeze provides a luxurious pause from the Texas summer heat.   A song fills her mind, and she laughs to realize she is singing out loud and not just to herself.    Crossing the Mopac bridge, she falls naturally into her latest ritual.   A look left toward the sprawling city acknowledging her past and with a slow turn of her head to the right, she watches her future disappear tantalizingly around the bend.   The excitement of that catches in her throat.   She loves the sound of her footsteps on the long metal bridge, as cars rush by on an endless treadmill up above.   She shares a suspended moment over the water, a runner’s community acknowledged with...

She peers out at me from the curve of my arm, a reminder released from the buried depths of my skin.  She holds me with her eyes.  Powerful but compassionate.  I feel the ink seep into my muscles.   A promise not to forget.  To not take this life for granted… Mesa Verde, Colorado 1998.   Fire scorched, black ashes, and drooping trees feel like fresh wounds as I enter the park.   Skeletons of the earth are laid bare like fallen giants, the forest’s bones exposed.   I am traveling alone.   Having conquered yet another battle with my lungs, I am celebrating my freedom from hospital beds, high doses of prednisone and nebulizers.   I set up tent in time to head out and explore before dark.   Driving down winding roads to the ancient cliff dwellings, a splash of color catches my eye. I pull over to take in a stunning patch of wildflowers.   Beauty in resilience.   Life returning, a reminder of the endless cycle of re...

I remember reading in college about a Native American belief about the raw and the cooked as I sat in a lecture hall that held 300 wide eyed students.  My professor said babies were often not named until they were considered fully “cooked.”  Before that moment their soul was not thought ready for this world, not yet fully embodied.  Walking around Oaxaca I am definitely a raw soul.  My white skin glows in a sea of golden brown.  I am still an infant here: malleable, untried and shamelessly exposed.  “ ¡ Güera!  Compre unos recuerdos aquí. ”  I will forever be seen as una turista no matter how long we stay.  I pay 10 pesos for a bag of tortillas from the woman on the corner while my indigenous husband pays only 5.  Of course, I feel ridiculous voicing my frustration with the blatant discrimination, even in my head.  Por favor …  Poor little white girl, things not going your way today?  Pobrecita .  Like I could e...