Waving Not Drowning

No one likes it when Lysa gets angry. Or quiet. She's normally the most congenial, warm hearted, celebratory person on the planet. Everyone counts on Lysa to be that way because without her positivity, they're up a creek. It's a dreary job, tied to a desk in connected open air cubicles punching numbers all day. Important in it's own chain of command, being a bureaucracy and all, but no one here's creating world peace or curing cancer. Hell, they barely accomplish their limited portfolios they're assigned; that's why everyone loves Lysa. She bakes, she makes crafts, she organizes goodbye parties and maternity cards, best wishes on your promotion pies and have a lovely honeymoon in Manitoba montages that play out with their own soundtrack. Single, petite, mid thirties although she'll never tell. Her co workers obsess over her ability to function so highly and remain preternaturally happy. All. The. Time. Some say she eats children and kills small animals o...

Sleep, that's all she needs. Turn off her brain and shut down her body. Virginia can't figure out how this became her routine. Up with the birds then run around frenetically accomplishing next to nothing until her feet are so sore it hurts to walk. And for what, that's the question. Clear as mud, to quote her mom. She picked the wrong fork in the woods way back when, that's obvious. Thanks for nothing Mr. Frost. Hours and hours of breaking her back trying to master her craft and for what? A life of constant struggle and suffering with little to no reward. These days, at least- that's the reality. Give give give. What about some taking, hmm? Ginny's ready to stop and smell the roses. Reap her just rewards. Throw her stupid alarm clock out the window and sleep in for a change and participate in activities and work that is actually fulfilling, creatively, spiritually, emotionally. Ten, fifteen years ago maybe this was a different story but what happened to respect ...

The sound of her best friend laughing, choking back snorts and hiccups because she's lost her breath, doubled over and weeping with hysteria. The goosebumps on her forearms when she feels the wind brush over her skin at dusk on a perfectly clear, cool late summer eve. The unexpected email from a stranger halfway around the world thanking her for being herself, sharing her story so that others may grow, understand and feel less alone in their struggles. Fresh organic berries with a cashew cream whip and iced Americano in the backyard hammock. Her sister, miles away, ever present in her heart and mind and all over the house draped in her artwork. Her parents in her. DNA, mannerisms, the tilt of her head while gesticulating with arms akimbo, leaning on her hip, as if to underline her point. Sunrise. Possibility. The last cookie at the cafe while bumping into old friends and impromptu catch up dates. Warm skin next to hers, arms wrapped loosely around her waist, head tucked into a ches...

Kerrie keeps an ancient empty bear-shaped glass peanut butter jar on her desk and fills it with bits of paper. Torn up scraps of old scripts and print outs, those free post it notes from charitable foundations that show up uninvited in the mail, a passive aggressive attempt to guilt her into a donation. Every day she writes down what she is grateful for, a good thing, a happy thing, something that makes her heart sing, and stuffs it into the jar. Kerrie then screws the cap back on tightly, capturing moments to prevent them from disappearing into the ether. A lightening bug lantern of ephemera, harnessing positive thinking. At first it was easy. Within a week her jar was overflowing with the minutiae of day to day occurrences: a long, low sunrise, happy dogs on the bike path, unexpected encounters with an old friend and spontaneous coffee catch ups. Clean sheets, dark chocolate, fresh dates with walnuts. Found coins on the sidewalk, an interesting article, great books,  a new haircu...