An Experiment in Poetry

I don't write poetry. I read it, but I don't write it.
However, a recent assignment forced my prose-dedicated brain to experiment in that fantastical world of poetry. And apparently, it was well received by my professor. Any followers of my blog will recognize the subject and location as I have previously written a post dedicated to my happy past. Hopefully, you will enjoy the same idea in a different format.


It existed once. My childhood
Fairyland, where I climbed the trees and rode upon Thunder and Lightning,
My red and yellow horses.
I suppose it still exists:
The few trees still standing are the shadows of what once was.
There was a pond surrounded by willows with drooping branches
And slender leaves that I would pluck off and drop in the water
And watch the water ripple.

Often I journey back to that place
In my mind.
Because in my mind, it is still real.

The horses would lie under the trees, snuggled up to the grass.
Only to emerge at dusk and walk theri now black silhouettes into the
Golden setting sky, because
The barn was in the West.
And there the would stand and sleep, and rest after their long day
Of standing and sleeping.
And now I stand, wishing I could sleep,
And dream of my childhood fairyland.

City of Lights

In an effort to keep up with my “expressive” writing, allow me to share a night in Paris.This summer I traveled to Montenegro and the surrounding Balkans with my family to visit our family friends. After a wonderful two week stay, we boarded our plane and unwillingly flew west towards home. After a layover in Serbia, we continued onto Paris where our flight itinerary dictated we must stay the night. No one protested. Taking advantage of our 24 hour jaunt in the Parisian capital, we immediately boarded the subway and made our way into the City of Lights. We exited the train at the stop “Hotel de Ville” and began our exploration of the city. While all of the buildings were beautiful, le Musee du Louvre wore a particular golden crown of perfection that night. The sun was finishing its long summer day and approaching the western horizon as I walked under an archway into the Cour Carrée, a large courtyard showcasing Pierre Lescot’s Renaissance façade. Unseen, an old man was playing a violin under one of the entryway arches and the music echoed across the nearly empty courtyard. The setting sun splashed golden rays onto the exterior of the Louvre turning the stone into a golden masterpiece and the center fountain began splashing liquid gold. I made way across the courtyard towards the west and after exiting through another arch, I came into view of the Cour Napoléon and I.M Pei’s great pyramid. Before descending the stairs to the pyramid’s level, I stopped at the closest window. Standing on my tipsiest tippy toes, I caught a glance of the gold gilded ceilings of the interior. Surrounded by a golden palace, housing golden ceilings, I looked towards the pyramid and marveled at the architects of past and present. The truth is, what I love more than anything is art history—and standing next to the world’s greatest museum basked in such glorious colors proved to be magical night. Just for me.

The Hollow

I grew up in a magical place. Magical and perfect. My childhood home sat in front of 40 acres, complete with towering trees to climb, a small river and pond to splash in, and mazes of bushes and shrubs so large, I never explored them all. The area was known as “The Hollow,” due to its location in what I'll call, a ravine. There were many hills to trek up, and although none were very large, I felt like a conqueror each time I crested the top. Many hills climbed above the ravine and had spectacular views of the surrounding mountains; I would sit at the top for hours, soaking up the beauty around me.
Now, the Hollow is a housing development and a tattered, depressed shadow of what was once my paradise on Earth. Often, I like to think when I die, my spirit will revisit that happy place as it used to be, perfect and intact. I’ll hop over the fence near my house and joyfully walk across the grassy plain to the pond, shaded by large willows and filled with stinky moss. I’ll trot down the hill adjacent to the pond and climb aboard the rope swing—a dangerously old, insecurely hung, fraying piece of rope with a sharp-ended stick loosely knotted at the bottom to serve as a seat. Apparently saftey was never my concern as a kid. I’ll climb up to a platform on the tree and jump into flight. I’ll lean my head back to let my hair swish about my head and I’ll peer up through the dark green, intertwined leaves where I’ll see patches of perfect blue. I’ll swing back and forth through the dancing light, swirling and swimming between earth and sky, green and blue—smelling the fermented rot of old leaves against the new buds of growth; and listening to the splish-splash of the river over little rocks and large pebbles until my worries and frustrations have no choice but to give in to the serenity of this peaceful place.
Maybe it will be fall time and the crisp air will match the crisp leaves crunching under my feet as I walk through tunnels of pumpkin orange, cinnamon-candle red, and hard candy lemon yellow. The air will smell like frozen sagebrush and frozen dirt—and all will be wonderful. Or maybe it will be winter with the sounds of happy children sledding down the hills. Or Spring time when the purple flowers grow and the cotton trees release fuzzy white snow onto the freshly green grass. Or maybe it will be the lazy summer, when all is hot, muggy, and still. Regardless, all will be happy, all will be joyous.

I miss the Hollow. I wish I were still there. I am hopeful, however, that one day, in some form, in some way, I will return to partake in its perfectness. Thank you, God, for giving me the perfect childhood hollow to grow and to learn through. Thank you for keeping it alive and sacred in my heart. It will always be my favorite place.

Airports and Flying

I love airports. They’re busy and crowded and usually smell weird; but the airport is the gateway to adventure—the paterfamilias of travel if you will. It’s also a place where essentially everyone is angry. Something about the stress of travel releases the monsters inside us and we unleash our airport woes on innocent victims at the check-in counters, the gate, or the nearby Cinnabun stand. I like to think I’m a good sport when it comes to travel. I’m a trooper. However, I understand how the strain might cause some people to snap. For instance, I’m currently flying on an airplane the size of a soda can—and based on the rattled interior, I’d say it’s time to be recycled. As far as the overhead bins go, they are small enough to hold a small purse, but if you need to store anything practical—like luggage—forget about it, that goes below. Furthermore, when I received my seat assignment for this particular flight I felt encouraged when I read seat 19a—that’s practically at the front of the plane! Umm, not on this plane. Here, seat number 19a is the very last row which means my seat doesn’t recline, there’s no head room, and I don’t have a window; but on the bright side the bathroom is only two feet away.
I’m tempted to let a small amount of irritation corrupt my mood but honestly, I have no right to complain. I’m traveling 900 miles in less than two hours—a distance that took my ancestors 3 months to walk. I can understand how people might become frustrated, but I personally think everyone needs to take a chill pill, or some xanax depending on your own personal preferences, and relax. Or should you need even more comfort, just ask the flight attendant for one of those airline wing pins—they’ve brought peace to thousands of children throughout the past decades, maybe a piece of nostalgic aluminum will brighten up your day as well.
In the end just remember not to bring more than 3 ounces of liquid on the plane, wear easily removable shoes, leave your knitting needles at home, and as I learned today, no peanut butter is allowed on board. Keep a smile on your face and appreciate those airport personnel making your flight a possibility—they deserve some recognition.

What are your dreams?

At times it seems we view the world desensitized—desensitized to other places and other people. Luckily, if we seek new experiences we may be presented with an opportunity to re-sensitize ourselves to the world we live in, and the life we lead. This process is as if someone rips out your inexperienced eyes and replaces them with a newer, wiser pair.
I received my first pair of new eyes from a young girl in Zambia, Africa. While visiting a village I found myself surrounded by a number of young girls and we began a conversation. While amongst my new friends a girl standing next to me asked a simple question: What are your dreams Juel? I opened my mouth to respond but to my surprise, I stood there with my mouth open wondering what I was supposed to say. I looked up and saw her bright eyes looking into mine—deep black mirrors reflecting my own stunned expression. What did she mean? Did she want my career aspirations, life goals, or my future family plans? I stood there looking at her and stupidly repeated the words ‘um’ and ‘uhh’ over and over again; I wanted to take off into the brush and join the wildebeest for how confused I sounded. And yet, here I stood, surrounded by anxious girls waiting to hear what I had dreamed. I suppose I am used to reciting the quick 5 second version I’ve had memorized since I was 8: Graduate high school, go to college, start a career, get married, have a family, blah, blah, blah. That’s what everyone else says and does, that’s what I’m going to say and do—so standing in a barren field I told the girls my barren plan.

Even before I finished my one sentence future I realized it didn’t count and the group’s saddened eyes reflected my own disappointment. Here were girls who grew up wanting the lives of pilots, doctors, lawyers, professional cooks, architects, etc—so what life did I want? What are my dreams? It’s a simple question. And not only is it simple but it should be the very foundation of my life. My dreams should be written on my bathroom mirror, engraved in the dashboard of my car, doodled in all of my notebooks, and etched into determined lines on my face. Dreams should be the motivation to wake up in the morning, the sunshine when life gets dark, etc. When life becomes dreary your dreams should be the one thing giving you the courage to carry on. So, I realized…..I’m in trouble.

How many of us truly have dreams? Do the education and career goals we all have qualify as true dreams? Or is college and a real job just the next instruction in our project of life? What is it we truly want deep down inside? What makes fighting for the future worthwhile?
After some thought I realized I do have dreams—and I’m excited to fulfill them. I want a graduate degree from an Ivy League. I want a pilot’s license. I want a black Thoroughbred gelding and a chocolate Labrador Retriever named Pilgrim, or a blue Great Dane named Pax. I want to travel the world and learn its languages, meet its people, and write their stories—and along the same lines of writing comes one of the most important: I want to write something people remember. But finally, I want to receive so many sets of new eyes that one day, I’ll be able to give someone else a new pair.

As the psychologist Csikszentmihalyi said "For better or worse, our future will be determined in large part by our dreams and by the struggle to make them real." Happy Dreaming everybody.

Weakness

I have discovered my true weakness.

Milk Duds.

~

Something Cathartic

I need something cathartic. Some way to purge. Maybe sitting here looking at this now empty word document will help—maybe the process of writing the following sentences, the process of filling the empty white space of my double-spaced, Times New Roman document will somehow release the burning thoughts in my head, somehow cleanse the burning pain in my heart.
I’m not sure what’s driving this madness trapped in my overall sane body. I thought maybe I was channeling the manic-depressive Spring weather, but it’s warm and sunny now so it must be something else. Maybe some sick part of me misses school—even though I scored excellent marks on my finals, I left campus after their completion not feeling glorified or empowered, but rather empty and disappointed. Maybe this is how the Greek founder of the marathon Pheidippides felt—he ran 26 miles only to die at the end. Shouldn’t an accomplishment of excellent grades earn an A in personal satisfaction? Maybe it’s that friend moving away or my sister’s imminent departure back home. It might be too much work and not enough riding. Maybe I spend too much time inside and not enough outside enjoying the sun and tree blossoms. I haven’t been on a plane for awhile—maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s time for a new adventure and the freedom only travel can bring; a good trip is a regular antidote to the dullness of everyday life and a quick fix to the deepest of ruts.
However I doubt my angst is a plane ticket away from recovery and a decision to stay from my sister or a cut back in hours at work probably won’t help either. I think these things are natural and maybe they’re even good for you. Deep down inside I secretly love the troughs in my waves of emotions—even depression has a bright side. I become more grateful for what I have and enlightened to things I would otherwise gloss over and miss. It’s a painful price for increased awareness but just like you can’t drive a nail without a hammer, maybe you can’t fully appreciate the good without the bad.
In the end this is life—a series of emotional roller coasters we all ride. Some coasters are fun, other’s make you sick. Some are long, some are short. But regardless, buckle up and hold on for the ride ahead.