I Was Visited By A Woman.

Last night I was visited by a woman. She was draped in colors and fabric and she had the kind eyes, encircled with tight wrinkles, and they were the color of a stormy ocean in summer. Through sleepy eyes I saw her there, standing before me in the looking glass, and while I stood there quietly, her lips moved and shifted and murmured between those parenthetical lines alluding to a lifetime of laughter. This is what she said.
(At first she whispered.)

there's just so much in the spinning of leaves.
and notice the scars on strangers faces (their wrinkles too)--
the length of shadows made in mid-afternoon of autumn days.

(I was befuddled as this woman spoke in strings of words dripping with poetry. I blinked, and the warmth in her gaze was knowing. I understood.)

we will not remember computers and schedules and the content of tests and old habits.
 "Do you understand me?"

I was surprised as her muted whisper awoke and broke into an almost song-like voice, strong and without hesitation.
I nodded.

"Good. I hope you realize that real conversations are worth as much as poetry. It took me so long to pick up on that. Fuddling and struggling to find the right words is Gold compared to the perfection in tone and content you try and slur onto these men and women in your life." She looked at me like I was a child; I was offended, but I said nothing.

do you remember the faces of people you'll never see again?

She paused and played with her skirt, adjusting the layers and the ties around her waist, and smiled. I couldn't stay offended or mad, she was too welcoming. She deconstructed my barriers.

we don't remember the songs and street names of road trips. but the feeling stays with us.

we forget take off and landing--
oh how long that takes--
but the view of the world below--that is unforgettable.

I began to understand, and as I did, the vision of this woman began to flicker and fade like a fizzling electronic transmission. "Wait!" I said, and saw as her lips mirrored mine, her arms also raised in protest, the same wrinkle furrowed on her forehead... strikingly like my own, but weathered with memories both dreadful and lovely... story-worthy.

"Tell me what I must do." I probed.

I took a step towards the mirror and the woman took a step towards me, a blurry, misty wind billowing neath her skirts and layers, tickling her runners legs. She looked like my mother, but taller. She had my nose. My father's nose.

• Remember to make lists, she said.
• And climb trees!
• You always forget to climb trees. I never had that problem when I was 14, but you're so stubborn these days.
• Sing and swing and twirl and laugh
• No more camouflage--metaphorically or literally. Especially literally.
• Keep a journal
• take ten million photographs. (Remember that Ryan Bingham ends up sad and wrong at the end. So stop that.)
• Dance til the security guards come looking for you.
• Sing til they ask you to stop.
• Take everything personally, if you must, just don't start stopping feeling. That's so ugly.
• Mental illness, physical disability, disease, and illness don't change your worth.
• Talk to strangers. Your parents lied. Smiles at faces unfamiliar.
• try New.
• Break the silence.
• Get scarred. Jump off of things. Roller skate. Ice skate. Rock climb. Run.
• Paint all the time.
• Don't forget to make lists.
• Hug and touch and love on people like Candice Broyles.
• Read.
• Write.
• Remember.
• Eat.
• Drink.
• Be merry.
• Get married. Fall in love. one or the other or both--stop swallowing your fear.
• Make babies. or take care of some.
• Travel til you're broke, then start over again, and travel til you're broke again.
• Stop planning for that comfortable state of being of this invisible future self if you're uncomfortable now.
• Be happy now! "The present is the future you once hoped for," and all that.
• Get a little more sleep, but wake up earlier. Late nights on the internet aren't doing anything for anybody.
• Write thank you letters.
• Cry. Weep. Sob. Heave with sorrow. Shudder with joy.
• Feel. Dear God, never stop feeling.

and so I did. I began to weep, and through the blur of tear-filled eyes, just like that, she was gone.



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I would like to dedicate this piece to Kat Richards on this day celebrating her beautiful birth. How many incredible conversations we have shared, ideas we've tossed around, and concepts we've considered and reconsidered again and again. Darling on this day, I'd like you to ask yourself what your future self would say to you if she came to you in the mirror. Close your eyes and see her before you, the colors of the ink within her skin, the brightness in her eyes, the wrinkles and scars from adventures and depression-conquered-and-battled. Remember that we'll forget most of each day, and to challenge yourself then to make a memory out of the mundane.