Jessie

The 8-Shaded Rainbow -PaRt SeVeN
 

Trees, swaying ever-so-gracefully through the teasing wind blows.  A lone seagull, daringly- dancing mid air.  Skies, deep gray as if to best express gloom.  Airplanes roaring-invisibly, taking off and touching down, concealed underneath a thick sheet of rain cloud.  The calm downpour wraps everything into a blur of dew – the drizzle – if they were kisses, then, the bright green grass gets to taste the sweetest touch of romance in this young, beautiful morning. 

As soon as the sun shines its first rays, my heart leaped with the thought of setting afoot over the misty earth.  This is one of those moments when I would dream of becoming something else; something odd; somewhere else – like being that lone “knife” among a thousand spoons; like being that “fly” in that chardonnay; like the “ticket” itself on a free ride – something opposed but relatively connected to whatever that infamous song by Ms. Morissette is all about.

Today, I wanted to be a ghost in a gazelle-like motion.  I wanted to feel the rapture of emotions as I dance and run around invisibly; my heart and mind entirely conscious as the dampen dirt tickle my feet; the moist air chills my soaked skin – a splash sending my hair around as if in a play of tug;  A ghost – invisible but free.  

Amidst these thoughts, the haunting goes on.  The voice, tiny and gentle from long ago, abruptly turned into deafening screams.  I don’t want to listen.  I don’t want to hear anything.  I don’t want reconciliation.  Yet the voice is getting stubbornly-louder each time – so honest and upfront that there is barely time to either argue with or listen to it.  Now what do I do?

32 years.  Thirty and two years... Still, I have yet to capture the essence and completeness of my being.  The queen of cliché question:  Where am I headed for?  In the rarest and most difficult moments, I force myself to sit down and confront the yelling voice in my head.  To my despair, the conversation had never ever changed.  It is the same old bout against a stubborn, fierce and strong-willed image in my mirror – stone-cold and hard.  I know, as it does always, I would end up in the corner asking myself time and time again – how was it ever possible that a solitary face can make as much poor judgements in life? It was just a matter of left and right.  How could have I chosen one turn leading to a full, life-changing spin.

As the raindrops trickle through the windowsill, I wondered if they wanted to come through... Is that what they wanted to do but cannot?  Was it the rain cloud’s decision as to where exactly those raindrops should fall?  Suddenly, I wanted to be a raindrop.  From the thought of having my feet tickled by the dampness of the earth, I wonder how it is going to feel underneath those human feet.  As if I do not know yet.  Oh, silliness! 

If I am a raindrop, I should be somewhere I am best needed.  But will I belong?  Will I be able to serve my purpose?  Do I need to ask?  Or should I just figure it out?  Shall I wait and see?  Who shall agree?  Who will think otherwise? Who needs to listen?  Who Cares?

Jessie.  That’s me - the 8^th shade of the rainbow.  Quite eccentric, a little bit of this and that.  The emotional freak.   But the ladies took me in just the same.  Now whether I am the shade in between blood or sunshine, or between the ocean and the lush forest, I cannot quite tell.  Above were my thoughts before we started the trip to the Rockies.  That’s me. I tend to over think.  I am flowery, I am melodramatic but I love comedy.  I am a weirdo.  I wanted to dig stories out of bean sprouts.  I find joy making an image in my mind of a gigantic teardrop chasing a clown.  I would like to someday hear a story about the only frog in the world without a tongue.  Oh, I don’t know.

I still haven’t outgrown wishing upon a star.  I have too much baggage they say, that I still have so much of my past stuck to my skin like a leech.  I haven’t learned to let go after all these years.  I haven’t learned or maybe I don’t want to learn.  I still have nightmares about failures I have made. 

In the process of watching the lives of these ladies, I was able to see pieces of my dismantled self.  Maya’s “bitching around”; the “too-good-to-be-true” show I see through Grace; that “material girl” thing in Anne;  Angela’s “everything-I-do-I-do-it-for-you” drama;  Beatriz’s “crying a river over being dump for another girl”; Janelle’s “heavy-drama-tears-soaked-snot-glazed” story of practical choices; and, Rachel’s “bullshit” on being okay while alone.

A little bit of this and that. That’s me – the Chameleon.  It may sound rather negative and it’s up to you to decide as I see you here more and more.  See you.