Everything I did was viewed through the lens
of some sophisticated world traveler.
You really critiqued me, from how I got on the bus,
your eyes checking my intuition of how to stand while it moved,
seeing how I engaged in conversation with strangers,
scanning the clothes I've curated,
and gladly noting how "little I seemed to care about them",
chalking everything up to "american ignorance",
to scoping my bookshelf for your overrated preferences,
you are prying into my music taste,
my palette,
my body.

Meanwhile,
I get on the bus per usual,
wide stance to balance the stop-and-go motions,
I tell people have a nice day and make small talk about most everything!
especially the weather,
my collection of clothes is a museum themselves,
I care and tend to each piece carefully,
I think American's are happy-go-lucky double edged swords,
My bookshelves,
music taste,
pallet,
and body
are all full of volumes
unreachable by those who try to see me through
their narrow monocular.

California
thank you for my birth  
never did revisit you  
except disneyland

Washington
thanks for being home  
the heart of a mountain stands  
lungs like evergreens  

Oregon
washington's tumor  
your coastlines are far superb  
please stay a secret  

Nevada
my ****** noses  
homeschooling and snowboarding  
miss your tumbleweeds  

Ohio
all I remember  
three legged cat in forest  
hillside four-wheeling  

North Carolina
the blue ridge mountains  
guitar hero and hopscotch  
made up for the snakes  

Florida
fondest memories  
most important, my first kiss  
beach had a nice view  

Wisconsin
how did I survive  
must have been warmth from others  
also my parka  

Texas
aunt's arms welcome me  
summer wraps me in her heat  
stars shine Texas-big

Idaho
chance brought me here first  
mountain peaks stole my whole heart  
now roots grow like sage

In my journal I wrote a little while waiting in the hospital lobby during my grandmother's appointment.
I observed others. Some elderly women looked tired, and a bit irritated with their paperwork tasks. They seem full of pain and impatience.
There was this one woman I noticed - she was raised up in an electric wheelchair, smiling out of squinted eyes with wrinkles like memory foam from decades of laughter.
She reminded me of the transition from summer to autumn.
Those first couple days of crisp weather and that restorative feeling you get and thought you forgot during the peak intensity of the heat.
Her face was full of youth and acceptance.
She knows everything will be alright.
And I find inspiration in her countenance and stop biting my fingernails.

My therapist recently asked me "have you ever tried mindfulness?"
I laughed a bit, remembering of the week-long mindfulness camp (sugarcoated for in-patient psychiatric care) I attended for troubled teens. I went to this twice.
This peaceful brain training was designed to give us a retreat when the world is too loud. During group therapy, most teens shared their experiences with domestic violence, yelling, S.A., running away, abuse. Endless. We were all numb, but there was so much comfort in being locked away with others who needed the respite as much as I did.
We would eat skittles and describe their flavor and textures. We would focus on our breaths. Make beaded art. Tell collaborative stories. Follow guided meditations laying on unfamiliar gym floors, giggling a bit as we "soared through clouds".
I jumped back into the talk session, remembering my dedication to mindfulness years ago. My anxiety followed me into adulthood. I think mindfulness can be out of reach, stupid.
And yet, I looked out of her dusty, sun filled window decorated with three vases of dry arrangements. My mind started to posture into how warm and antique this image felt. I felt hot, quiet tears building up from feeling that peace again.

"There are two types of people in the world," he laughed after a heavy swig. I laughed and anticipated a mindless reply.
"Those who are pens, and those who are pencils".
An eye-roll dismissed the statement but a curious brow stayed in place.
"All I'm saying is that some folks have a certainty about them. Everything glides off their tongue like cursive dipped in black ink".
I thought of where I might fall on the spectrum.

If I had enough wits to fly,
I'd like to escape the sky,
I'd leave in mid-June,
wave bye to the moon
whilst riding a huge firefly.

The still, soft morning
A sun ray illuminates
The joy of being.