…Stars to fill my dream…

I remember being little, and the world looking so different.  Falling images, one after another.  A confusing sequence of colors and space.  Even as a small child I recognized the quality of light.  Shadows and sunlight.  Perhaps, even then, I knew what was to come.

I think some people are just born to be scrappy.  I came into this world defiant.  I was early and everything was a struggle; to breathe, to make my heart beat, to cry.  And yet I thrived. Those with defiant hearts tend to grow well under harsh conditions.  We are the dandelions in sidewalk-cracks.  I think my first lesson in being tough came at the tender age of 3.  I came home from nursery school with bites and bruises.  My father knelt on the ground before me and asked me how I had received these injuries.  I explained that the other kids picked on me because I was so small.  My good father proceeded to show his 3 year old girl the rudimentary skills of boxing.  I held one tiny fist over a blue eye and held the other out ready to attack.  Soon thereafter I got to put this to good use.

My father took me to nursery school.  I cannot remember why, only that he ran inside to speak with a teacher and that we weren’t staying long.  He set me down in the muddy play yard with his briefcase and gave me explicit instructions to safeguard it.  It was leather with gleaming clasps, treasure to small children.  It didn’t take long to attract my tormentors.  The two boys decided to rush me at the same time.  The first boy ran in and tried to kick me.  I grabbed his foot and raised it high into the air until he fell into the mud.  The second little boy got a swift punch in the nose and a sharp kick in the leg.  By the time my father and the teacher arrived on the scene, the two boys were balled up on the ground crying.  The teacher looked down at me, white blond hair and defiant blue eyes and asked why I had done it.

“My Daddy told me to watch his briefcase”.  I don’t think my father has ever smiled bigger.  And me?  I don’t think Athena herself could have looked more fierce than my tiny child-self.

I learned early that you couldn’t be afraid to stand up for yourself.  That even small blond, blue-eyed imps have power.  It wasn’t so much that I was stronger than those two boys, it was that I believed I was.  I think this is the one thing that has held me together over the years, the power of believing.  I have awoken in the night, cold sweats, with a sick feeling of fear in my stomach.  “You can’t do this.  It’s crazy.  You’ll fail.”  And I pushed through the fear.  I have traveled to far away lands alone, rendezvous with strangers and have explored my artistic sensual side.  I’m sure I could be labeled a sinner, whore and worse, but there are no regrets here.  I have pushed the boundaries of my being to find out who the real me is.  And I can happily say, I still only half know.  My primary self is the same girl I was at 18, but on top of this is a thousand delicate tissue paper layers, a collage of desires and unfulfilled dreamings.

I have recently gone away and come back again.  It was an important few days away.  A chance to heal over half closed wounds of my own making.  I feel strong again.  My dreams are stirring behind closed eyelids.  I have no idea where in the world I will be next, or the next lover that I shall take to bed, or what fit of whimsical fancy shall erupt into a new adventure.  But I am musing…a new place to explore…the brush of lips and tongue on my shoulder blade…something….something…a star to fill my dream.

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