It wasn’t too long ago and yet I feel like there have been a couple of lifetimes shoved in between then and now.  Still, I remember being in high school, waking up with the sun and sitting on the back patio with my gigantic cup of coffee and journal and pen that I most often times wouldn’t even pick up.  I’d just sit there and stare into our somewhat-triangle-shaped backyard, adorned with red ginger plants and a malnourished willow tree.  Sitting here on my couch now, six, seven, eight years later and over 4,000 miles away from that wooden picnic table, I can still recall and almost feel the shifting chill of night to the warm tropical air.  It was almost like the warming of one’s heart when they hear of someone doing a thoughtful or heroic deed, or like the warming of my heart when I hear “Proud to be an American.”  It was almost like that but a heartwarming experience for the soul.

Fast forward to my junior year of college and my wooden picnic table is now my rooftop in México and my Kirkland brand coffee is now Nescafe Clasico Instant Coffee.  And with tacky Christmas mug in hand, I can remember sitting out there for every sunrise, watching the sky turn from midnight blue to purple to pink to orange to light like watercolors seamlessly swept over canvas.  A masterful oeuvre of one color scheme and yet each sunrise unique and positively breathtaking with every colorful transition.  I would sit out there and with the birds on the nearby telephone lines, we would watch from our front row seats the sensation that is the start of another day.

Throw a couple of monumental life events into the mix, and I find myself in the city that, according to the maxim, never sleeps.  In actuality, though, I know when it sleeps.  The delivery and coffee-and-bagel cart and graveyard shift MTA guys know too, and that is during my commute.  Now, it may seem early for most, but I happen to love the city in the wee hours of the morning.  It is so calm and peaceful and, yes, I’m still talking about New York.  Everyone is so much friendlier.  Perhaps it’s because they’re not fully awake or the stress of the day hasn’t gotten to them yet or because everyone is able to get a seat on the subway.  Or maybe it’s because we’re all secretly a part of an exclusive early bird club that gets to witness the city without its makeup on, not to mention jaywalk when and where we please.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Either way, I love the city in the mornings, and I don’t want to forget this feeling.

Because as the sun sets on this chapter of life and the “What are you going to do in the fall?” questions begin to turn up in bulk, I don’t have a lot of answers.  When do I ever?  After all, trying to determine what my next year will look like is like trying to predict the weather for the third week of August.  No clue.  Nevertheless, I know that I want sunrises to be in there.  So really, all these pretty recollections are actually reminders to me, to my future self, that morning times are imperative for my life. They are glorious and sacred and early, but they are necessary.  And I love them.

Malia, you love them.  More than your fluffy purple comforter.  More than your snooze button.  More than your lazy self.  You love waking up early.  The end.  And.  Or.  The beginning of another beautiful year of morning time mysteries and marvels.

There is not a cloud in the sky to be seen, not a trade wind in the air to be felt.  I stand on the sweltering hot sand with the sun beating down on my midnight black hair and the bottoms of my feet burning up.  It is hot today.  It is unbelievably and unbearably hot.  Still, here I remain on shore waiting for direction, waiting for a command, waiting for someone else to select the next move for me.

Waiting like a kid playing Simon Says and yet all I hear is a barely audible, “You’re free.”

“Free?” my mind begins to ponder.  “Oh, no, no, no.  This is when someone tells me what to do and where to go and what my enumerated list is for the next five years.  This is a really big ocean of options.  How am I supposed to know which path to take?”  Still, in spite of my doubts, “Free,” I whisper as my toes reach forward to high-five the tip of the incoming wave.  The water feels shocking and refreshing but looks intimidating.  The sand is so hot at this point, though; I have no choice.  “FREE,” I declare as I walk ankle-deep into the ocean and indulge in the relief of its invigorating temperature.

I walk farther out until I am waist-deep.  A tingly sensation begins to spread over and up my abdomen.  I freeze up, almost wishing for the misery of the burning hot shore.  I am tempted to look back, but I know that’s not where I am going.  Because of that, I continue to walk forward.  My flat feet have already become tiptoes and my tiptoes are now being forced to prepare for take off.  Chest.  Chin.  Mouth.  Everything is slowly going under; and in a split second of rash decision-making, I release my panic and relax my body, forfeiting it completely to the ocean’s grasp until every last strand of hair is inundated.

…And it feels so good.  For I realize, I’m not drowning.  I’m dancing.  I’m finally free and  dancing underwater with immeasurably more grace and elegance than I ever had on land.  Pushing the water back and then forward with my hands and legs, I glory in the weightlessness of myself.  All pressure is taken off of me and all freedom afforded to me as I move in its infinite fluidity.

So here in the deep waters of unmerited favor and unrelenting approval and acceptance, I keep my ears well under the surface and out of earshot from the oppressive voices back on shore.  I come up for a bit, just long enough to catch my breath but not enough to hear out my past.  I am not sure which way I’m going, but it’s my ocean.  Not a swimming pool lap lane.  It’s a journey, I know, and I’m still learning.  But boy am I making big strides and bold moves, fatiguing a bit but continuing to swim–wild and free and, for the most part, forward.

“BRAYNK! BRAYNK!  BRAYNK!  BRAYNK!”

My alarm clock beeps incessantly from my windowsill, alerting me of a new year and waking me up to another age.  I quickly swing my legs out of bed and reach to silence the obnoxious ringing. Half asleep, I tuck my legs into Indian-style and sit on the edge of my bed while I begin to wake my body up.

I firstly scoot some wayward bangs from off my forehead and start to twist the bottom of my hair.  My hair, which I cut impulsively short last year, now stretches down my shoulder.  It snakes down and to the left in a long slender twisty braid and with its end twirled around my pointer finger, I think on the ups and downs it has been through this past year.  I think about the sun and the snow it has come up against and the different hats it has been under.  And though occurring at an eye-crossingly dull speed, I know that it has been and still is growing.

I then reach my fingers up toward the ceiling, stretching out my torso, and then drop my hands heavily into my lap.  My hands, which have been busy busy busy with work, now rest comfortably on my legs.  They are permanently red and embarrassingly rough from the hundreds of lattes I have steamed.  They’re not the most delicate pair in the world.  Still, they are skilled and useful and through, by, and because of the countless number of times they’ve been burned, they have learned to become resilient.

I then wiggle my toes underneath the blanket, and my feet begin to feel lively and awake.  My feet, which have had to re-learn everything from frappes to fendus to fuetes, now don their own set of all-natural dance shoes from being beaten into the ground all year.  The tips of my fingers brush up against the calloused things, and my first thought is, “How ugly!”  Nevertheless, it is this pair of feet I am often tempted to deride that have been the very things that have helped me to fly once again.  Thereby, in consideration of the exuberant joy of dancing barefooted, I have to say that all the pain it took to get them like such has been worth it.  With that, how can I call them anything but beautiful?

So it is with baby seeds and enduring endeavors of growth, resilience, and beauty that I usher in this new set of 365 days—not at all where I want to be but, most certainly, not where I was.  Thus with every minute passing, I say, “Thank you.”  With every hour of revelation, I continue to learn.  So that, with every year, I might become one notch closer to the woman I was made to be.

“Come on home, Malia.”

With that, my 100 mph NYC-life came to a screeching halt.

Less than 24 hours later, I now stare at her hands, those hands which took a gas mask to school every day during WWII; those hands which interlocked with Grandpa’s over the Charles’ River Bridge; those hands which cradled two sons and two daughters; those hands which cooked countless pots of look fun for her four grandkids and took them to karate practice every Saturday and had to break up fights on an embarrassingly regular schedule.  I continue to stare at her hands whilst I look inside myself for anything to feel and something to write about.  And I find nothing.  I feel nothing.  Not yet, at least.

Thus as my words fall short and inadequate and force themselves out with as much energy as her ailing 75 lb body under those many blankets made with love, my thoughts revisit the memories of past hospital rooms and memorial services, and I see a light.  Not that kind of light.  It’s not my time yet.  Anyway, I see this light vanquishing the pain and redeeming the sorrow; for in this reality, all is set right and hope is able to rise.  It is in this singular and infallible truth that I find comfort and letting go of my selfish inclinations, I declare– the best is yet to come.

The best is still yet to come, Grandma.

With that, take your time and enjoy eating as much custard pie as you want for breakfast.  I am not at all trying to rush you along.

Still while you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, do not be afraid, for He is with you.  In fact, take heart!  Be excited!  And see that you are going to dwell in the house of the Lord, with the Lord forever!  Thereupon when you hear your name called from that celestial roster, put the pie down and go on ahead.  He is so much better than all of this.

Go on Home, Grandma.

We’ll be okay over here.  We’ll be fine.  We’ll take care of Mom and won’t eat too much meat or drink too much soda.  We’ll continue to get together for Thanksgiving and go to Aunty Nora’s Christmas party, and I’ll keep my eyes open for a nice Chinese boy (though I can’t guarantee anything).

Jokes aside.  Sorrow aside.  And HOPE, here and in full force–

I love you, Grandma.  I will miss you a lot but will see you soon.  After all, this is not goodbye.

There was that one time she moved away from home.  Then there were those other times she liked a boy and lived in another country and bought her first car.  And as might be expected, like all worthwhile exploits, she began to feel new things, exciting things, thrilling, terrifying, difficult, and painful things.  Everything felt so much deeper and more intense. And as these new sensations stirred within, she knew she was growing up.

Her dad knew it too.  Part of him wanted to stop it or at least slow it down, though the better half knew that true love would and could only help it along.  And he loved her.  With all of his heart and listening ear and encouraging words, he loved her in unspeakable ways and depths.

Now on this particular afternoon after a difficult week of teary goodbyes and a funeral, the dad drove his not-so-little girl to the airport.  However, this time upon arrival at the departures area, he turned into the parking garage instead of the drop-off zone like he usually did.  There was just something about this day.  He wanted to, no, he had to walk her inside and all the way to the gate if only security had let him and, boy, did he try.  He tried hard and many times over with the TSA and then the ticket agent and then the airline rep and then the TSA again.  He wanted to be with her for as long as possible.

Flushed with embarrassment, the girl stood there in disbelief at her dad’s relentlessness.  She had taken several planes before and he had dropped her off several times without a scene.  So, why this time?  What did he know that she didn’t?  What did he feel that she couldn’t?

Inquisitive thoughts aside, the ordeal ended with a resounding NO.  That being the case, the father turned back to his daughter and hugged her and every last bit of twenty-something-year old smugness out of her.  She was his Sweet. And nestled securely within in his arms, the girl’s feelings of embarrassment quickly turned to pride and pleasure and joy in the verity that she was loved. 

Then as the moment ended, far too quickly as most do, she proceeded on through the line and the metal detector and to the other side of security and turning around,

I waved back to my dad.

The little girl loved to act.  She loved to play pretend with any and every household prop she could get her hands on.  She loved to use her imagination.  Playing house, school, church, grocery store, and Area 51 were amongst some of her favorites.  And as her Dad would watch her frolic about as mom to secret agent and everything in between, He would smile.  On His face and in His heart, He would smile.

On one fine afternoon after all of the lunch dishes were cleared and cleaned, the Dad beckoned His little girl to follow Him upstairs.

“I have something to show you…” He said as the two of them hiked up the stairs and then up more stairs and into the attic the little girl had only heard about but had never seen.

“Whoooooa, it’s just like the movies,” she thought to herself.

“Over here, My love,” the Dad said as He pointed with His eyes to the wooden antique.

“Whoooooa, it’s definitely just like the movies,” the little girl’s mind repeated as she walked over to the treasure chest.  Lifting up the heavy lid, the little girl’s eyes grew enormous as did her sense of curiosity.  There was so much inside.  She didn’t know where to begin!  She looked at her Dad and then back at the trunk, at her Dad and then back at the trunk.

“What do you see, My dear?” He asked.

“It’s just a bunch of random stuff,” she replied, fanning the remaining dust particles that floated about.

“Look harder.  Dig deeper.  Explore a bit, my dear.  Now, what do you see?”  He asked again, this time following it up with a sip of His coffee.

“I told you, it’s just a bunch of random stuff.  What am I supposed to do with this if I don’t know what half of it is?”

“Well, you could ask Me,” He replied ever so calmly.

A lethal mix of confusion and frustration began to build.  “So You look through this and play by Yourself then,” the almost-always loving little girl retorted as she crossed her arms.

“Oh, My love.  I didn’t bring you up here so that I could play by Myself.  The beauty is in the pair of us, and the memories are made in us playing together.  Now perhaps you don’t think your imagination is big enough for this adventure, but that’s why I am here.  So, tell Me, what do you see?”

The Dad’s voice was so kind and soothing.  The little girl blushed in embarrassment as her disgruntlement dissipated.  She uncrossed her arms and reluctantly started to rummage through the chest, listing off the things she saw.

“I see frayed heart strings and waning vision.  I see a jack-of-all-trades in here but not a master of any.  There are also a lot of non-preferable jobs and deflated bank accounts and shallow conversations, oh, and question marks.  Indeed, there are a lot of question marks.  Not to mention, everything is covered in a thick layer of readjustment.”

“Good, good, let’s begin with those.”

“These?” she asked, unable to mask her mistrust.

“You heard Me.  Now bring them over here and lay them out in front of Me and watch what we can make of them together.”

So she listened and obeyed, and with that and with those, they began to play real life.  They played house, dance studio, church, coffee shop, and New York.  And the whole time the Dad played with His little girl, He smiled.  On His face and in His heart, He smiled.

And in the still and quiet moments of real life when the little girl stopped long enough to see her Dad smile, she’d smile too, knowing that no matter how much of a mess and mystery her treasure chest was, her Dad would make it work.

Remember the first time we were introduced to each other twenty years ago?  Twenty wild and crazy years ago.  My mom asked if I wanted to meet you.  I said, “No,” but she went ahead with it anyway.  Gosh, I was so young, still I have the most vivid memories of being immensely intimidated and awkward, memories which include tripping, slipping, and falling on my butt on our first date.

Of course, no one thought that we would make it, though here we are two decades and a million and one laughs, tears, and heartaches later.  That said, you have led me into my highest highs and held my hand and healed me in my lowest lows.  I have become so much more with you than I ever could have become by myself.  You have, undeniably, been the most beautifully volatile element to my story.  Your mark on my life, my dear, is untouchable.  Nevertheless, you are fiercely untamable…and I can’t do this anymore.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love you, I really do, but lately there has been an uneasiness I can’t seem to shake.  I hear the footsteps of change approaching, and I shudder with each thud knowing that the odds of us changing for the better are just as probable as the odds of us changing for the worse.  I desperately desire that our situation would change, though if that would mean being separated from you, I’d rather keep swaying in your illusory embrace to the song of mediocrity for just a bit longer.  Still as the footsteps get louder, I know that I can’t make you want to stay.  I’m done with that.  For though I have listened to you, followed after you, changed for you, planned around you, worked hard for you, spent all of my money on you, sweat for you, bled for you, and cried because of you for so long, I don’t want to have to make you want me.

So tell me the truth, my love, is it me?  Is it you?  Is it our timing?  Is it us and just not meant to be?  Is this finally the year you will commit to me or, at the very least, commit to leaving?  Or shall we forever remain slow dancing in this burning room–swaying, 1, 2, fighting, 3, 4, hurting, 5, 6, tarrying, 7, 8?

Thus in what may very well be our final moments together, I resign all expectations of you.  You are free to go as much as you are welcome to stay.  All the same, for as long as we shall continue to move in step, I will dance a little closer and cling to you a little tighter, not because I will never let you go but because if I had to, if you wanted me to, I would let you leave. I would let you walk away and hurt me, again.

And so the choice is yours, my love, my pain, and terpsichorean mistress.

What will it be?

My beloved, My daughter, if only you could see

How deeply and how extensively you often times hurt Me.

Like just the other day, when I gave you that glass vase

“Thanks,” you managed to mutter, though I read the truth on your face.

Well, what you don’t know is emptiness is not the full gift.

It’s the lifetime of flowers I intend to shower you with.

But I need somewhere to put them, something that can hold;

Thus that thing you see as empty, I see as ready-to-go.

Now it’s taken twenty-three years to get it like this

To mold, polish, and refine this customized gift you dismissed. 

So take it out of the rubbish and be proud of it.

Expect big and beautiful things though they may come bit by bit.

And now come and sit with Me and watch our bouquet grow

And see that My abundance and your emptiness make quite the duo.

My eyes want to close and my body hankers to curl up, to shut out the world and indulge on ignorance.  My heart begins to raise its drawbridge.  My mind lowers its gate.  Everything within me screams, “Keep out!”

Yet in my seemingly fortified castle, there remains something inside, Someone that won’t shut up.  He goes about blaring obnoxious trumpets and declaring promises of faith and expectancy throughout my devastated corridors.  His words pierce me.  I tense up.  Come on, security.  Toughen up.

Still, this voice, I have come to both love and hate, sure knows how to get to the core of me.  As a result, I return to my hideout frustrated and intrigued, “What is this?  Who is this ravishing Intruder?  And why does He make me feel so utterly defenseless even in my attempt to lock everything down?”  Especially in my attempt to shut everything out, He remains in me like a thorn in my flesh…or perhaps, could it more accurately be like an intravenous needle in the flesh of my arm, providing me with vital fluids and medications and keeping me alive and going?

After all, He distributes food to my household, and all I can think about is how He is disrupting my peace.  He works for the sustainability of my fortification, and all I can think about is is why He would even bother.  What is His agenda?  What does He want with me?  Why won’t He just leave me and my castle alone?  And yet amidst the gossip of my doubting mind, this Renegade appears again.  He walks forward boldly.  He is cool and collected and speaks with decisive authority, delivering a message that silences all other thoughts.

“Malia, you have been missing the everyday miracle that is another day with Me.”

The miracle that through, by, and with Him, I am being built up for something great though I insist on hiding in my high tower and praying for things outside to calm down.

The truth is is that I’ve been tired of the same old words and the same old worries.  I am tired of hiding behind my dilapidated words of hope that my situation and circumstances will calm down or at least begin to make sense, and I lay them down to rest.  And stripped and bare, vulnerable and exposed, and the most honest and open I’ve been in a long time, I surrender to the Good Trespasser…the One to whom, I now remember, I actually gave the keys to a long, long time ago.

“There is an Uptown train approaching the station.”

If you’ve ever lived or spent any significant amount of time in New York, you know what I am talking about.  You know the announcer’s voice.  You also know then the relief of slipping through the turnstile, running to the platform, pressing up against a stranger, and then having to tussle your bag from the clutches of the dinging doors.  You know the feeling of your lungs crying out for oxygen while you carefully monitor your inhaling and exhaling as you pretend to not be out of breath and shape.  Oh, you know.

On the other hand, if that’s true, then you likewise know the frustration of hearing the rumble down below, barreling down the station steps, running to the turnstile, and getting knocked in the abdomen with a “Please Swipe Again” flashing up at you.  You know the irritation of pressing up against the dinging doors.  Only this time, you’re on the outside of them.  Looking right and left for the conductor, you make eye contact with him as he hangs his head out of the window.  “Please, sir,” your eyes beg.

“Too bad,” his eyes reply.  Up goes his window and out of sight goes the train.

This past week, another occurrence happened to me.  I missed the train…that was right in front of me.  I wasn’t late, not at all.  There were just too many people already packed inside.  I sashayed from one car to the next to the next to the next.  Every door was still open, but every entrance was impossible to enter.  “Too bad,” the people’s eyes seemed to tauntingly reply.  They all looked so cramped and miserable.  Still, I wanted to be on that train so badly.

The doors soon closed, and just like before and always, up went the conductor’s window and out of sight went the sardine can of a train.

There on the platform, I remained. However, before I had time to even sigh at the prospect of being late, my ears and spirit perked up at the delightful announcement, “There is an Uptown train approaching the station.”  

I let out a sigh, but this one was one of relief.  Sure enough, the next train came whizzing on by.  This one, though, was empty.  Empty!  EMP-TY.  Opening its doors with a heavenly fluorescent glow, I stepped into the subway car with an ample number of seats to choose from.  My bag even got a seat.  I eventually got off a couple stops down to transfer, and the very same thing happened to me again!  The first ridiculously crowded train sped off without me, but the second one welcomed me with open arms and empty seats.

Now, I don’t know what the voice of God sounds like.  I don’t have crazy dreams and there is certainly no divine writing on my apartment walls.  All the same, it’s in the little things, the easily looked over things of my seemingly nonsensical life, in which I am increasingly finding peace and promptings.  It’s in the little things like missing trains I thought I wanted to be on where the Good Conductor looks upon me with the hard but true kind of love.  No words come from his mouth, still I hear Him say, “I am closing these doors because this is not your train.  I am closing these doors because there is something better on its way.  I am closing these doors because I love you.”  

And so with that, I close my eyes.  I breathe deeply and oscillate between offertory I trust you’s and I want to trust you’s and standing on the platform of December 2012, I continue to wait for my train.