Homework for the Overactive Brain

Today's Quote--"Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday to me..."

Tuesday, February 25, 2003

 

I want to write. A story. About a girl who looked around, and instead of being overwhelmed, she took a step forward, saying, "I'm going to change this. I'm going to fix it. I'm going to make it all better."

(And then my daughter came up to me and said, "Mommy, what did you do in college?")

About a girl, who looked around, and put her hands to her head and screamed at the insanity of it all. The suffering of every individual piercing her heart until there was nothing left. But there was still something there, something that cared, and something, that despite all the pain, found a path, found a way. The girl stepped forward, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, held her chin up, ignoring the tears, and said, "All right. I'll do it. I'll change it."

("I crocheted. Read lots of books, some good, some bad. Ate lots of food. Met people from all over the world. Learned some things, lost others.")

About a girl, who looked around, sat down and cried. The corner was cold and wet, the rain hard and persistant. The people moving by didn't even realize the pain they were in, the pain they were causing, the pain of everyone else. She was soaking wet, a puddle of humanity, watching the river flow by. Slowly, she got to her feet, looked around again and sighed. No one else knew, no one else saw. She sniffed back the approaching cold, gazed at the tall buildings around her, and said, "They'll never know, but if I don't do something, nothing will ever happen. I have no choice. I will do it. I will change this."

(She smiled and nodded, then grinned at me like a little mischeif maker, "But what about becoming a global citizen? I thought that was what your college was all about.")

About a girl, who refused to look around, knowing what she'd see. Her eyes were pasted to the pavement, afraid of everything but her own shoes, though even those gave her shudders. The garbage floating by in the gutter was gut wrenching, the cars splashing dirty rain water, heart squeezing. The people were too far away, too close, too much more for her strained senses. But there was no where to run, no where to hide from mass of suffering surrounding her. Her heart broke into 12,000 tiny pieces, but she held it together with industrial strength duct tape. Finally, she looked up, trying to ignore the pain that tensed every muscle in her body. What could she do? She turned the corner, walked down the street, and said, "I don't know. I'm cold, wet, and afraid. But there are others out there with less, with more, and I can't leave things like this. I have to do something, but I feel like I don't have the strength to do it. I don't even know what I can do, what I should do. But, I can't leave it like this. I have to do something. I have to change it."

(I smiled knowingly at her. Turning to a bookshelf, I take down a story I once wrote, about a girl, a girl who looked around in spite of herself. I hand it to my daughter, wishing she could understand, but knowing that this space is purely my own and no one can share this bubble with me. "The answer, the truth, your mother, is in here.")

She looked around, examining the world anew. Her mother had tried to make change, as had her mother, and her mother before her. It was then she realized that the world will always change, but only she could change it to the vision she had, the way it could be, should be. Would Be.

GL 11:04 PM