The godmother

            Yesterday, I felt like I should have been sitting behind a large oak desk in a dark room surrounded by guards, while one person at a time was admitted to ask me their questions, and I sat in contemplation scratching the bottom of my chin. It was my godson's second birthday and because I didn't want to miss his birthday for a second time, I drove up from New York to Massachusetts the moment I got out of work the night before. He's growing so fast these days and my busy lifestyle shouldn't be an excuse to miss out on the more important things in life, The Family. Technically, he's not blood family, but when you're a Portuguese godparent, you might as well be blood family. There's a certain kind of pedigree for our sort, the blood of another kind bonds us. Like the Italian's, we are considered an extension of the child's parents and grandparents. If something were to happen to any of them, it's the godparents who are supposed to step in, take their place and be their guides. Jayden is actually one of four of my godchildren. I'm beginning to think I might have been offered all of these positions as godmother out of pity. Seems as though everyone thinks I might miss the mother boat and they want to share their kids with me. Thanks guys. I have my child size cat though. We're happy. However, they are the best kind of kids to have, because I can have fun playing with them then give them back to their parents at the end of the day. Unless, God forbid, something was to happen to their parents. Then I'd have an apartment full of children to raise and my life would take on a whole different kind of busy. I'd become the God-help-me-mother.

            In the afternoon I spent a few hours celebrating one godson's birthday with my, unofficial, eleven year old godson, Noah, as my date to the party. We came baring our arms full of gifts to my best friend's house for the celebration, the same house that still harbors many memories from our pubescent days of high school. Fatima and I met freshman year, when we were assigned to sit in the front row of Mr. Coute's first period history class. We had seen each other in passing for years before we actually met. However, I was shy to a crippling degree then and between that and her assumption that my shyness was actually due to my not liking anyone, she was reluctant to disturb my quiet disposition for fear that it would lead to a sudden smack down. So, we were never able to meet halfway and start the friendship, until we were forced into each other's proximity, thanks due to the way our names fell into the order of the alphabet. We bonded over spurts of giggles at Mr. Coute's jokes that only we seemed to think were funny. Every time he threw one of his jests out to the class, his only two fans in the front row would start their giggle fests then look at each other when we realized we were the only idiots who found him humorous, causing us to then burst into further fits of laughter at ourselves. I can't imagine what could have been so hilarious about history now, but apparently, it was funny then. We were inseparable after that. It helped that our backgrounds were very similar. We both grew up very sheltered by our parents and bound by a culture, where girls were not often allowed to play outside with the boys and we spent our time after school cooking and cleaning like our mothers, preparing for a lifetime of doing that for our husbands and children someday. Fatima grew up as an only child so she was more excited about the idea of starting a family of her own someday. Where I had three brothers, who I was very willing to share or give to her if she wanted them, so I wasn't so keen on starting that family so soon. We adopted each other into one another's family and became the sisters we always wanted. I called her parents mother and father and she with mine. Every celebration brought our families together and we felt complete in each other's company. Years later I started college and moved away. Fatima found her husband and had her two children. They were the kind of lives we dreamed we would have as children. We had plenty of bumps and roadblocks in between, of course, but we certainly got what we wanted in the end. I always loved going to Fatima's house when we were growing up. I called her backyard "little Portugal" because of all of the grapevines and fruit trees that her father had planted and so painstakingly cared for through the years. It reminded me of my Grandfather's land in Portugal, with the same fruits growing in his little orchard next to the house and its sweet smells mixing in the wind around us as my brothers and I played under the trees. Even the inside of the house had the same familiar scent of spices still lingering in the air from the meals that her mother would prepare on previous nights. It felt like my home away from home.

            Time and distance do make some small riffs in any relationship, due more because you begin to experience different things and change into different people because of those experiences. There are things that I cannot completely understand, in terms of what it's like to be a mother, and Fatima, in the same way, cannot understand what it's like to be on her own in a big city, constantly moving in various directions and exploring different avenues for some sort of meaning to life. We are different people now, but like everything else in your by gone days, you are the person that looks back at you in the mirror because of your past. I like to be reminded of that time when I can, and remember where I came from. However, whenever I tend to come back to my roots, I'm bombarded with the same questions about the life I live now, when I try to leave the city where I left it. I usually don't see Fatima's extended family but for maybe once a year, when she throws a birthday party for the kids. Then it's a series of rapid fire questions like..."Are you dating anyone?" "Times ticking you know? When are you planning to have kids of your own?" "Are you still living in the city?" " Is it as crazy as everyone say's it is?" "How do like living there?" "Seen anyone famous?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" "When are YOU going to tie the knot with someone?" Sheesh, I wonder often, if this is anything like what the Spanish Inquisition might have been like. All I can do is smile awkwardly and throw out the usual responses..."No, I'm not." "Yes, I am still there." "Yes, it is crazy." "No. I don't think I'M crazy." "Sometimes." "Oh, you know if it happens it happens. If not, I'm okay with that too." Or, "I don't need a man in my life. They're more trouble than they're worth." Or, depending on my mood, "I don't want anything to do with men. I like being single." However, whenever I say that one, the more honest answer, everyone looks at me like I've just stripped down to my underwear and stuck an ice cream cone on my head. I can almost see their hands twitching with the urge to bless themselves with the sign of the cross to ward the devil away from his influence. God forbid I don't get married and have kids. Weirdo. I'm perfectly okay with living vicariously through my friends and brothers with the children they have produced and bonded me to. Maybe someday the idea may sound more tempting to me, but I'll be happy to just be able to take care of myself for the time being.

            Halfway through the afternoon, a heavy downpour struck the party and most of the guests took it as their cue to head home for the night. I came all this way and had a hard time pulling myself away so soon, so I stuck around a little longer. It was nice to sit under the swelling grapes, sheltering us from the rain, as we rambled about life and I received a few more of those delightful questions that some of her relatives didn't get the memo to earlier. After they were answered and out of the way, we sat and listened to the rain as the sky began to grow darker.  Once the wind cooled and we started to get wet, I bid my little godson farewell then tore the other one from the clutches of the Internet inside the house and we head back home for the night.

            This afternoon I sent my brother, Nick, a message and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. But he did anyway. I guess my Don Corleone impersonation wasn't intimidating enough for him. I'll have to work on that. I was hoping he could come by after work with my youngest godchild, Nevaeh, so I could spend time cooing at her like a demented clown. However, he had to work late and start early again in the morning, so I'll have to wait until my next visit to see her. He's lucky he's my brother, or else... Then I thought of my oldest goddaughter, Lisa, and decided to send her a little shout out via Facebook. She lives in a time zone difference of four hours ahead of ours and was probably tucked away in her bed by then, dreaming of ravishing young island boys two thousand miles away. She lives on a little patch of land called Santa Maria, part of an archipelago off of the coast of mainland Portugal. She'll read the message in the morning, with a smile I can picture on her face, and know that I have been thinking of her too. I can't play favorites you know. What kind of godmother would I be if I didn't show the same love to all my godchildren? Sarei un Madrina crappy, as the Italians might say. We can't have that, now can we?

Just another day in the park

            Man, I'm in a mood today. This morning I rushed out of the apartment lugging two large bags full of everything I might need to get me through the day. God knows I won't have time to get back later to change, grab some food or rest in between plans, because it takes forever to go just five miles in any direction here. I've gotten so used to carting everything around in large bags, due to the snail like flow of the MTA, that I tend to do it when I visit my family in the burbs too. The same place where everyone drives just to go two blocks down the street for some milk. "What do you have to carry around that you need that big thing for?" is the usual question I get when I show up at someone's door back home. Everything. My life. You never know. Where all anyone really needs, outside of big cities where public transportation is not the only viable mode of transportation, are a wallet, keys and maybe some makeup for a few touch-ups later in the evening. Because you can just store everything else in your car or drive back home in minutes to grab what you didn't bring. I look like a backpacker touring the country for a month.

            By the time I get to the bus stop, hoping it would get me to the train faster than the twelve minute walk my legs and shoulders would have to endure, I was soaked in sweat. Thanks due to the relentless beams of the sun hovering directly above my head. I always regret waiting for this stupid bus. Of the few times that I've caught it, I'm usually on the brink of bursting with frustration because I could have walked to the train faster. I admit it's my own fault this time. I didn't make the decision to just keep walking, until it was borderline too late and made the wrong choice. Today, I was on the point of tears with anger. I was already on the verge of being late for a lecture with writer, Emily Griffin, at the Bryant Park Reading Room, but this darn bus was making it official. I've been looking forward to hearing Emily talk about her experiences as a writer for a week now, but at this rate I nearly walked myself back home and called it quits. However, I stuck it out another five minutes because I knew, even if I showed up late, it would be better than the regret of not going at all. Finally, the dang thing decided to show up and I surely jumped on, without a smile at the bus driver this time. I'm angry with you buddy. Drive.

            Ultimately, I got on the train but that too felt like going extra slow today. Once it decided to spit me out in front of Bryant Park, I heard Emily's booming voice over the loudspeakers before I could see her. Surrounded by hoards of aspiring writers and tourists who could barely speak English, sat Emily in all her flowing blonde hair in the center. It looked like she had just walked out of the back cover of one of her books. I was about fifteen minutes late but I managed to slide right into the only chair available. Then I realized why. It was sitting in the only spot that wasn't shaded by the massive trees overhead. I nearly yelped in the middle of rather engrossing discourse between Emily and a fellow writer, when my bare legs met the blistering heat of the metal chair beneath me. Muffling the cries of my intense pain, I managed to position myself so that only about two inches of my covered bottom rested on the edge of the chair then, relaxed enough to listen to the easy flow of Emily's dialogue. Apparently, I could have just watched the entire lecture in my pajamas over the Internet at home, because I noticed that there were several cameras recording the entire session. However, there's something very reassuring about seeing a writer in person. It's almost as if they don't really exist until you see them moving or interacting with other humans. And even television doesn't seem to give the full effect that face-to-face communication can bestow. Especially when you know how editing works. Typically, writers are considered to be introverted people, who shy away from the world and hole themselves up for hours at a time or days on end; prone to feel that they can only truly communicate, comfortably, through the mode of their literature. I consider agoraphobic Emily Dickenson as an example. I imagine sometimes that what they really look like is a version of the hunchback Quasimodo, or something toady with large warts protruding from their long greasy noses, ashamed to be seen among society; Especially, if they don't don the back cover of their books with a picture. What are you hiding you brilliant writing machine you? Emily Griffin does not seem like that at all, with her unnaturally good looks and the ever-flowing eloquence of her conversation. I cringe at the thought of ever having to do what she's doing right now, publically promoting the recent release of her newest novel, Where We Belong, in front of all of these people. Her words of admission are a comfort, however, and what I can tell from the faces of these other would be writers, they feel likewise. It can be a struggle to turn out something that not only satisfies your creative needs, but also, be able to tell a coherent story that people will want to read. I'm a fan of Emily's writing style. It's fun fiction that doesn't go over the top and nestles itself nicely in the form of reality. Forty years old and she is the successful writer of five best sellers, one that became a hit movie called Something Borrowed, and still looks like she's not a day over thirty. Good for her I say, so sad for me, I feel. I'm thirty-two years old and writing a blog--for free. I am grateful to at least have this avenue for self-expression. It does get me up in the morning some days, so my thanks to you blogger world. Maybe one day this too could become a book, or even a movie. We'll see.

            At the end of the lecture, a line forms in front of Emily that quickly swirls in and out of the rows of chairs halfway down the north side of the park. I have one of her books with me but I just watch everyone else file up for her signature. I always found it awkward to ask for an autograph or try to have a conversation with someone you know more about than you should but have never met personally. What do you say/ask them that they haven't already heard or you don't already know? So I sit there for a little while, taking in the park and the people around me.

            Historically, the Bryant Park Reading Room began back in the mid 1930's, during the Great Depression. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, due to the lack of jobs in New York City in that time, the Public Library opened the "open air" library where businessmen and intellectuals could go where they didn't have to spend money, require identification or a valid address to borrow literature. Nearly a decade later, shortly after America joined WWII, the reading room was closed due to the job market increase. In the early 90's a non-profit corporation was formed to restore the park and the reading room was reopened in the same style in which it began nearly half a century ago.

            The park itself is a great place to retreat to when you need a little nature and you're stuck between the concrete and steel of midtown. It's not nearly as big as Central Park, by any means, but it is a good stretch of green lawn surrounded by tall trees shading dozens of cafe tables and chairs. The free Wi-Fi attracts the computer savvy and starved writers who need time away from roommates or can't afford the service themselves. Not to mention some intense Ping-Ponging tournaments that take place during the warm weather months. I can sit there and watch these competitions all day. If you thought Forest Gump was good, get a load of some of the guys that play there. It almost looks as if the tiny ball, bouncing rhythmically from their paddles and off the table, is actually attached by a clear rubber band between them, having no choice but to find it's way back to the contestants. During the early afternoon, tourists find rest from the heat under the shade of the trees, dodging falling pigeon poop from cascading on their sweaty heads while corporate tycoons take their lunch breaks away from the confines of their offices. I'm about to go to work in a few minutes so I stay in the park as long as I can before I have to head out, stuffing my face with a makeshift sandwich I had just enough time to put together before I ran out of the apartment this morning. I'm at one with the world again. My qualm with New York transportation has subsided and balance has been restored. I wonder if this is how Louis Armstrong felt when he wrote his hit song, "What a Wonderful World." In this moment, it kind of is.

A call to the wild

            There it is again...Machu Picchu. This ancient place that once harbored a lost civilization in the middle of Peru seems to be calling me from 33,000 miles away. I had never even heard of Machu Picchu before eight months ago, but suddenly I was seeing and hearing it everywhere. The first time was when I was at an Internet cafe by my apartment in Queens. I was there to use a printer after I ran out of ink at home. While I was waiting for the machine to finish spitting out paper, I looked up and noticed this beautiful picture of the cafe owner with his wife. In the frame the two of them stood proudly in the foreground while magnificent rolling green mountains surrounded neat little rows of Inca pueblos splayed across a small valley and carved into the downward sloping walls along the base of a ridge in the background. I was amazed by this place and it certainly intrigued my curiosity. I asked the owner where he took this picture and he told me it was Machu Picchu. I forgot the place's strange name just as quickly as he told me, but I managed to hold on to the fact that it was located somewhere in South America.

            The second time I came across something concerning Machu Picchu was in a book. It came to me on the page, printed in my most recent required book club reads, The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield. As I sat lazily on my couch, listening to the hum of the air conditioner struggling to blow cool air on me while I read the book, there it was again! The hero of the story was bound for Machu Picchu to locate a lost manuscript he believed would be found there. Still, I didn't realize that this was the same place I saw in the picture at the Internet cafe eight months prior. I couldn't remember the name of it off of the top of my head but I would have recognized it had I seen a picture, but having seen the spelling of name, I now had a proper visual of the name imprinted in my memory.

            The third time I came across Machu Picchu was back in the beginning of June when I was researching the Seven Wonders of the World I hoped to visit. There it is! The picture I saw in the Internet cafe! Machu Picchu. Smacking my forehead, that's the name of it! The name I read in the last book too! I instantly typed in that destination on my list of places I had to visit, and there it was–the final four wonders I still had to visit staring back at me with longing.

            Apparently, just writing down the name and making a mental point to visit this ancient place in the world wasn't enough. Because, I was visited by a fourth sign, if you wish, in yet another random book, a book I happened to own for quite some time but hadn't come around to reading until recently. I came upon it one day earlier this spring as I was perusing the shelves of the Strand for something I could escape into from the pressures of daily life. I didn't know where the setting of the book took place when I bought it. I just grabbed it aimlessly, committing the sin of judging a book by its cover, or rather, its title. It was called, The Good Girl's Guide to Getting Lost by Rachel Friedman. I had never heard of the author nor the book, but it called out to me at a time when I was itching to travel and couldn't. So, I thought I would live vicariously through someone else's journey to exotic places that I couldn't go to just yet. When I say exotic, I mean–anywhere that I was not in that moment. When I got home, however, I shelved the book to read when I had more time, but it sat there collecting dust until a few weeks ago when the urge to travel hit me again. Half way through the book I realized that not only was the author about to head to South America but her final destination was Machu Picchu. What the... I slammed the book closed and threw it across the floor like it was possessed. What do you want from me Machu Picchu? I was beginning to think the universe was trying to tell me something. Although I had put it in my head to hopefully visit this place within the next ten months, something was telling me that Machu Picchu should be bumped up to the front of the list. I wasn't going to wait for another sign this time.

            Over the last three days I've been going back and forth with my travel agent in California, trying to work out an itinerary while acquiring permits to enter the site in a time slot that works for everyone. After doing some research and talking to a friend of mine who grew up in Peru, I learned that the best time to travel there, it was decided, would have to be either in October, before their summer starts and the heavy rains begin, or at the end of spring when the land dries over again. The spring might be too late for me, and I had plans for April and May, so October it was. In fact, the only dates that worked, fell on the same week as Halloween this year–during a full moon. Once I realized this, my imagination began to take on a life of its own. I pictured crazy Peruvian's hiding around corners wanting to throw unsuspecting American's off of mountain cliffs, werewolves howling at the moon and the dead spirits of the Inca tribes looking for a long awaited sacrifice. However, something stronger than my fears were pulling at me and so I listened to the call. After agreeing on the six day visit, two of them in Cusco and four of them trekking through the Andes mountains on the ancient Inca trail to Machu Picchu, I slapped down a small fortune and the trip was booked. Machu Picchu...here I come. Now will you stop tormenting me?

Black Angels of New York CIty

            Sometimes New York seems like any other place. It may run at a slightly faster pace than in the suburbs because it takes so much longer to get from point A to B, in a crowd of over 8 million people and all of the traffic that it produces. Still, when you go through the motions long enough, you tend to forget where you really are. Like anywhere else, it's a daily grind of going to work, running errands, feeding the cat and doing laundry when you're down to your last pair of stinky socks. Then the weekend comes and you remember...oh, yeah, I'm here, in the city that never sleeps. And they don't call it that for nothing. There's always a place open for late night and early morning diners and bars that haven't had a key turn in their doors for years.

            Once I left the strains of work behind me this afternoon and joined the herd in the bustling streets of midtown, I was suddenly struck by the possibilities. It's Saturday night and I can do just about anything here. Fortunately, my friend Dina had weeded out all of the overwhelming options with free admission to a theatrical production through knowing a few of the star players. Although, to be honest, I could have just bee-lined to my bed and hibernated through the weekend. But as a reminder, this year, I'm trying not to let a day go by that I can't remember. So, I decided to take Dina up on her offer to attend the performance. Dina is not someone I can easily say no to either. This five foot one woman is, first of all, fifty percent Jewish, one part Italian, one part Puerto Rican and one hundred percent sass. She can talk just about anyone into doing anything, whether they want to or not, with either the use of the twists and turns of her witty jumble on words, guilt, or sheer force if she has to. My long frame can suddenly look very small next to that little force of nature. I can't help but be drawn to it though. In some way, she brings out the sleeping dragon within me that tends to be very passive and shy most of the time, and often reminds me, that there is no time like now to do anything, and there is no feat too big that cannot be reached if you really want it badly enough. Most of the time, she is my biggest fan and strongest supporter. 

            I didn't even know the title of the show she was dragging me to until we got to the refurbished, Jewish synagogue. It was just a few blocks from work so I figured I'd keep her company and watch the two and a half hour theatrical production of a WWII story (she tells me when it's too late to turn around and go home). The last time I saw a production of a war story was the four hour Russian opera, War and Peace when my friend Mark was in the ensemble and I felt I needed to support him in his debut at the Metropolitan Opera. Although Mark was amazing and it filled me with great pride to see him on that famed stage, the story was much too long and it was all sung in a language I could not understand a word of. It took everything I had to stay awake that last hour and I was afraid I was doomed to go through the same thing tonight. Well, if anything, I could catch up on some sleep if it was that bad.

            When we reached the theater, Dina and I took our seats and she brought me up to speed on the cast, the background of the story and its production members. The play was called Black Angels over Tuskegee and the incredibly talented and handsome Layon Gray was not only one of the actors, but also the writer, director and founder of the company that produced the show. The story was based on a collection of war stories from the first Tuskegee airmen, a fleet of the first African-American military aviators who fought in the United States Army Air Forces in WWII, under the Jim Crow laws. The same laws which mandated racial segregation in all Southern states of the former Confederacy. In the story, five men volunteered and were selected to take a very difficult exam just to grant them entrance into the Army's Air Force for further training. Despite their varied backgrounds and differences of opinion and temperament, these soldiers eventually bound together in the face of war–in and out of their homeland.

            I've always been intrigued by the history of WWII and the horrors I hope that human kind never face again, but I learned a thing or two from this story that I thought had been laid to rest since that time. I'd like to say that it's not like that anymore but sadly, I think I would be lying. A few months ago, during a cold spell at the end of winter, I was downtown standing at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change. While I was there, I observed three African-American men standing a few feet away from me, trying to hail a cab. One by one, half a dozen empty cabs drove right past them without a second glance. The poor guys looked tired, frustrated and on the verge of kicking the next empty cab that drove past them, when one of them noticed me standing beside him. He looked younger than the other two and approached me rather shyly, "Can I ask you a favor?" he said. I just looked at him warily because people generally don't talk to you here unless they want to sell you something, ask you for money or pick you up; and I was not in the mood to give anyone the time of day that night. Because he was beside me and I wasn't going to be able to move for the next forty seconds to a minute because of that light, I couldn't just ignore the guy.

"What's up?" I said.

"Well, I was wondering if you could hail us a cab. We've been trying for a couple of minutes but no one is stopping."

At this point, the other two guys turned towards me, having heard the conversation, and the three of them looked to me with heartbreak in their eyes at the indignity of the entire situation. In the back of my head I thought, there's no way that those cabs are not stopping because of the color of their skin. This is New York City for Christ's sake. I didn't say this of course. I just smiled at the guys and said, "Sure, no problem." I was secretly hoping that no one would stop for me just so that I could put their mind's at ease and mine as well, for that matter. But the second my hand flew up to hail a cab the first one coming around the corner flew right past them and skid to a halt directly in front of me. The guys who were standing a little further away from me at the time, to give me my space, or rather, disassociate themselves from me, then came running over in hurt and disbelief. I opened the cab door for them as they slid into the back seat.

"I'm sorry that just happened,” I told them in a whisper.

"Thank you for your help," the youngest one told me.

And the very confused cab driver pulled away after I closed the door and I stepped back, leaving him with three very annoyed African-American men to drive all the way home.

            I was so moved by the story of Black Angels over Tuskegee, that by the middle of the second act, I had to remind myself where I was so that I could stop myself from heaving through my sobs. By the end of the show, my eyes were such a puffy red mess that it looked like I had just walked out of a funeral and the top half of my shirt was nearly soaked through from the downpour of my salty tears. Thank God I wasn't alone. I looked over at Dina, her friend Rene, who had joined us just before the show had started, and the woman sitting on the other side of me, and they were likewise wiping their dewy faces and the snot running down their noses too. After the standing ovation the three of us filed out with the rest of the crowd to shake the hands of the actors by the entrance of the theater. I don't know what came over me, but apparently, a mere handshake would not do. I gave a big bear hug to each and every member of that cast like they were my long lost relatives. The fact that they were some of the most attractive African-American men I had ever come across certainly didn't hurt my bold act of admiration either. They were so humble and sweet to me in my pitiful state that I was nearly on the verge of tears again before I left the theater.

           After gushing her words of reverence to the guys, she brought out, or dragged, her friend Thaddeus Daniels to introduce to us. Thaddeus was one of the actors in the show I had missed at the front entrance and also a reoccurring character on one of my favorite television shows from the past, Law & Order.  Like the rest of the men, he was humble and as sweet as pie with ice cream on top. He had plans to go out with the rest of the cast for drinks at a local hot spot when they were done making their rounds in the theater and invited us to come along with them. After the life altering experience I just had watching the show, continuing the night in the same fashion was music to my ears.

            The girls and I had gone ahead of the men and parked ourselves at the long table reserved for us at Bourbon Street, a great little spot that faired Cajun cuisine and great happy hour specials. Just as we made ourselves comfortable and had our drinks plopped down in front of us, a line of tall, dark and hansom men came filing through the doors and made their way to our table. Half of the patrons there turned in unison like in a montage of a movie, where the crowd takes notice of a band of bad asses coming forward in slow motion, broad chests out and faces wearing a serious, "this means business" look on their way to fight an impossible battle. I nearly swooned with the effect they had in the room and felt a bit giddy when they joined us at our table. Their serious faces suddenly gave way and seemed to melt into creamy white smiles when they sat down in front of us. After the reintroductions and more hugs I couldn't help giving, we laughed and got to know each other over the next few hours. I was excited for their journey and hoped that these fine men get to do something great with this story and the ones they plan to tell in the future. As surreal as the night started out, in the end, it was like catching up with old friends. I walked away with an experience that I could have easily missed out on if I just let myself go home and fall asleep on my couch, like I did most days after work. But today, I stayed awake.

Upon a midnight dreary

            Last night I woke up in the middle of the night vexed by a dream that I couldn't quite understand. It's been some time since something like this has happened. I've been so tired lately that as soon as my head hits the pillow I go instantly into REM sleep, then wake up a few hours later with nothing I can remember or reflect on from the night before. But this dream had me grabbing a pen and paper so that I could remember every detail for later analysis when I was completely awake, hopefully, a few more hours later. I managed to squeeze another two hours of sleep before my alarm had me jarring my eyelids back. I didn't have to look at what I wrote down earlier, because it was still all very clearly imprinted in my memory when I woke up.

            The dream was not very long and it started as if I happened to walk in on a movie midway through. In the scene, my friendship with this beautiful blue butterfly had already been established and we were in a bright room together where it was happily sitting on my arm. The next thing I know there was a soft breeze wafting in from an open window that I didn't notice, and the butterfly took flight around the room as though it were riding a wave, trying to land back onto my arm. When the little creature came closer, this time, one of its wings had gone missing. Only the crusted remains of the outer framing of the front and rear wing on one side were still attached, like broken shards of glass still attached to the frame of a window. Fluttering desperately to land on me like I was a helipad, it finally made its landing but just as quickly the wind pushed the feather light creature right off of me and once again the poor thing fluttered desperately to find a way to land safely back in my refuge. When I caught sight of it again the only remains of the still moving, but weak creature, was its mid-section and the bare frame of both of its wings. With the air in the room picking up speed from the open window, I lost sight of my sad little friend again when I looked away for a moment to locate the source of the swirling wind. Moving on all fours to the floor I looked up at the open window blazing with light. With my head down low on the ground so I could have a better chance of seeing its slight frame silhouetted against the light of the window, I looked desperately for a moving speck like Horton with his Who. But with an open door that I had to close so that it wouldn't get sucked out of the room and lost forever, I still couldn't see it. Anxious, I feared I was too late with the door or that I might have stepped on it with my gargantuan body when I moved to take my position on the floor. I wanted so desperately to help this crippled creature but I couldn't even see it any more. The last look I had of the creature, imprinted in my memory, was its skeletal figure before it was swept away by the wind, fighting for its life. And then, I woke up.

            Through dreams, I believe, is the only way that my subconscious has a chance to scream at me and I have no choice but to listen. Most of the time it feels like a warning that I usually push aside and ignore by muffling its voice with mindless work and pointless distractions. But at night, when it's just the two of us, my inner voice has the upper hand. What is the problem now? What am I doing wrong this time? I can't even remember the last time I saw a butterfly in real life. What on earth would have me dreaming about them now? With broken wings no less. So I sat down on my computer to do a little research on this. My dream interpretation dictionary was of no use to me, whatsoever, so I turned to my good friend, Google.

            Apparently, I'm not the only one who has had this sort of dream before. There are many people (women mostly) that have had similar dreams of butterflies and they almost always involve strong winds swirling around them. Many of them with broken wings but none trying hopelessly to fly with both wings missing! What I found about butterflies, which is the usual interpretation, is that they are a symbol of transformation. What I could understand from the many translations, saying the same thing, is that dreaming about butterflies may mark the beginning of a transformation in your waking life. Being born from a species that crawls on the land then transforms itself into something that can take flight can be a metaphor for freedom and leaving the material cares of the world behind to live a higher more meaningful existence. I like this. I'll take that. In some way, I'm sure everyone would love to live this kind of existence. This is very true about myself. There has to be more to life than just working, breathing and having more stuff to weigh you down. This year, I have embarked on a journey of self-discovery and to experience everything life has to offer in the means that I have available to me. I would love to literally take flight more often than I do, but I tend to weigh myself down with obligations, things that that I have started, and material things that I've collected through the years, but feel like tossing out the window sometimes. Is this what is meant by those broken wings? The urge to constantly want to take flight but, by my own doing, I have weighed myself down by things that are not important anymore? I wonder.

            The last time I had a dream like this. My subconscious, or whatever was speaking to me, was a little more specific. It had a person in mind. It was someone I was far away from at the time and on a subconscious level, was reaching out for some kind of relief from his pain that I must have picked up on. It was my brother Jason. One night about a year ago, I woke up crying in the wee hours of the morning because of a dream I had that my brother was being tortured by military officials who had him under investigation for something he didn't do. I was in the interrogation room with my brother when he was taken in for questioning and when they were torturing him. However, I was invisible. Not a person in the room could see me but I saw everything. He was accidently murdered in the dream and the story was covered up with lies of a mishap during a drill or whatnot. I tried to scream the truth at the people around me, to vindicate my brother, but no one could hear my cries. I woke up in the same desperation I felt in the dream, called my brother immediately and left a message. About an hour later I heard back from him and things in the home front were not going well for him. His marriage was in crumbles and he was desperate with pain. When he told me this news I had to hug myself to keep my broken heart from spilling out of my chest for him, and worse still, that I could do nothing to take his pain away.

            Since that day, I started to take the voice in my dreams very seriously. It may just be a sad little butterfly to one person, but it could also mean something very important I need to consider about myself, or someone I care for that I need to be more receptive about. Or maybe, I'm just crazy and need some more sleep. I don't know. Time will tell I suppose.