stories of Jai

It kills me to think that I almost didn't stop. 

That I almost was the same New Yorker everyone else was that day. 

That I almost let them tell me he was probably fully capable.

That I almost…

I should have asked his name. 

It kills me that I didn't ask his name.

I could have gone to visit him in the hospital.

and known he was okay.

.

.

Friday morning, I was walking out of yoga on 85th st.

It was 11:00 a.m. just about the peak of mid-morning bustle

around the franchised district of the Upper East. 

It would be more accurate to call this bustle the mad race to Panera.

I was walking out with a limp because my right hip 

had decided to rebel on me for the first time since my dancing days.

I was hobbling along trying to figure out whether a cab

was worth my money or not and feeling like I was going to cry,

not this again…

.

.

I only made it to the corner when I saw a man

barreling at me crossing the street.

(well, as much as you can barrel with a walker helping)

He was alternating between balancing himself on the walker

and holding his left hand up in the air to signal for me to stop.

He made it across the crosswalk and watching him

approach my direction I cannot lie that I had

at least a moment or two or three of,

"Oh no… not now. Just let me have my pity moment." 

I took a quick assessment of his walker. Then of him. 

And tried to prepare myself for what his story may be.

I didn't look down at first and only looked at his face

that was deeply troubled, confused,

worried, bewildered, defeated…

as he stumbled through an explanation and pieced together 

what was happening and what he needed,

all while anxiously fumbling through a large stack of 

crumpled hospital papers trying to figure out how to get me to believe...

It wasn't the type of stumbling that was making up a story

it was the type of stumbling that occurs when you are

so deeply disturbed by what is happening you can't 

sift through your brain properly to make it come out of your mouth.

.

.

He was pointing around showing me the geographic locations

of his story with his right hand

while he switched the papers to his left.

.

.

He lived on 86th street so he pointed over there. He needed to get

to the hospital and he pointed downtown helplessly. He had tried to

take the train back there but he threw up because he was in so much

pain. He only had ten dollars in his pocket and he pointed down.

He needed to take a cab and he pointed to the yellow blurs on Lexington Avenue. And he had Liposarcoma.

I didn't know exactly what

that was.

But I knew… it was cancer.

.

.

I looked at the man who was hunched over to about 4 feet tall,

hair untamed and light grey. I looked at his shoes that appeared 

to have been thrown on at a moments notice.

I looked at his clothes that reminded me of an emergency. 

The kind that you pick up whatever is on the floor when your child 

needs to be taken to the hospital ASAP and none of it makes sense. 

He began repeating parts of the story trying to make sense of the

situation himself and began to explain Liposarcoma, cancer of the liver,

in a very knowledgeable and dignified manner.

.

.

I looked at his healthy hand. His hand holding the hospital papers.

And his other hand caught my eye, just as he was going to explain

to me what his symptoms were. 

On his right hand was an open, bloody, leaking sore and the skin

looked as though a golfball were underneath it.

Thank goodness, I wanted to be an ER doctor in my last life.

I almost began to tear up in empathy pain, though my tears 

would have felt as though they were in vain compared to

what he must have been feeling.

I dug down in my purse and emptied my wallet of $6.73.

I wish there were more. I handed all of it to him and said

maybe if someone else had about $4 he could make it 

downtown to the hospital in Union Square.

What in the world was I thinking? 

There was no way that this man was going to get 

four more dollars by the time he needed to be in the

hospital to get that sore drained.

.

.

He thanked me earnestly and kept stumbling along

the sidewalk trying to get people to stop and listen to him.

I looked down at my phone and had a missed call from my

mom and hit redial while standing on the corner.

As the phone was ringing I glanced down the street at the man

helplessly trying to get someone to stop.

But no one would even look at him. 

I should have known better.

.

.

I hung up the phone before she could answer and

ran into the market on the corner and ran back to the

creepy ATM in the corner.

Got out a twenty dollar bill and ran out of the market

chasing after him as though he was going to be two blocks away.

He had only made it about thirty feet and was tearing up

looking down at the hospital papers.

.

.

"Let's hail you a cab."

He looked up at me confused, "But I don't have enough money."

"Yes you do. Here's twenty more, that will get you to Union Square. Come on, let's get you in a cab."

"Oh… Oh.." tears were welling up in his eyes.

I couldn't even look at him because I knew I would begin to cry. 

I helped him over to an empty space on

just off the sidewalk and put my hand up.

He looked up at me.

"Oh God, you're an angel. Oh God. Oh. An Angel."

I saw a cab with the light on two stoplights away and made sure he made eye contact with me to confirm he was stopping.

The man began to look at me and my yoga mat.

I had forgotten I was dripping sweat from being in the heated room.

"Gosh you look so healthy. I remember when I was that healthy.

I wish I could still do that."

"I have no doubt you can, if we just get you some help right now."

.

.

The cab driver pulled over and looked at us 

out of his window a bit suspicious of this pair. 

There was still a puddle at my feet from sweat 

and I realized it probably looked pretty gross… 

not to mention my friend here with 

the open sore standing on Lexington Avenue. 

We were probably attracting some judgmental stares.

We didn't care. I looked at him and got the

courage to look him in the eyes even if it

meant that I cried.

.

.

He insisted upon getting into the cab himself. 

I took his healthy arm and slid him into the back seat

while the cab driver folded his walker into the trunk.

He was still holding onto his stack of papers for dear life.

He looked up at me and said, "Angel, what is your name?"

Choking back tears, "My name is Chloe`."

"Chloe`? Ohhhhh, thats a movie star name! 

You're a movie star aren't you?"

Oh this five minutes of my life just keeps getting

more memorable.

"No sir, I'm not a movie star. Not that I know of at least?

But thank you."

"Well thank you Chloe`, God bless you."

He shut the door all on his own and I looked at the cab driver,

"Please take him to Beth Israel Hospital." 

I waved through the window and the cab driver gave me 

one last perplexed, yet astounded glance.

.

. 

I stood there for a few moments and scolded myself

for not getting his name so that I could have checked up on him later.

Or maybe, I should just trust the doctors were going

to help him, insurance or not.

One thing I did know. My hip didn't hurt anymore.

Perspective hit me straight in the face and heart.

.

.

I don't know what it was that made him choose me.

I don't know why I looked like the one who could help.

but, maybe. maybe I should rather be honored that he asked

to help. maybe instead of why me? maybe I was chosen.

Maybe instead of judging the other, we should trust

that our gifts are truly needed. That they will be used

for good and not taken advantage of. Maybe we should 

trust that when we have more than enough, there are others

who have less than what they need. 

And what we have belongs to something bigger, not us.

I was only asked a question.

And I chose to respond. to answer

Next time destiny, the universe, God, the Divine

or whomever it may be for you asks you a question.

I dare you to be brave enough, still enough, courageous enough,

humble enough, still enough, compassionate enough to answer

i thought of you

in new york, i’m pretty used to getting “free” stuff.

eyebrow threading coupons, weird NYU gum, TD Bank chapstick, purple planned parenthood condoms, David’s tea cups, Bank chip clips… the list goes on and gets weirder. 

but when have I ever gotten something free because some one chose me with intention? me. yes, me? yes, you. 

i woke up this morning and threw on some sweatpants when i realized to my great despair that i didn’t have any cocoa left to make my special yogurt and nothing else was going to satisfy me this morning like that. suddenly, i felt like an irate, stubborn and a bit unapologetic menopausal woman. but we are not there yet, have mercy.

i went traipsing into gristede’s with my eyes half opened in my lime green hoodie and inside-out blue UVA sweatpants that i stubbornly refuse to wear right-side-out for the rest of my days because a) i secretly giggle when people tell me that i have a tag on my butt, which implies that they are indeed looking at my @#% and they are left realizing they are the ones caught-in-the-act and not me… my sweatpants are holy. b) they are cozy and soft that way, ok?

i stumbled over to the cocoa aisle without any tags-on-my-ass comments and went straight to the register only to wait in line at 7:30 a.m. behind a woman giving the poor, dear old manager a ruckus headache about what was in the eye drops at the counter. you could tell he was equally as “not in the mood” to be dealing with this before the chickens were up, but he was taking it so respectfully… and i stood behind her wanting so badly to give him a hug because i know he has no control over the eye drop content and he was taking the flame… oh, customer service, i know the feeling too well in the shape of a “flat white”… i-yae-yae-yae-yaeeeeee.

she was finally gone and i smiled:

chloe: good morning!

manager: good morning gorgeous how are you today?

chloe: good, good out early…

manager: ehhhh…. i hear ya. (his faces lights up) say, you do yoga don’t you?

chloe: yeah! i practice all the time! (wondering how he knew that and then figured out he’s probably seen a mat across my back quite a bit…)

manager: you know someone left a…ehhh… you know one of those rugs… (struggling for the word)

chloe: like a mat or something? 

manager: yes, yes! wait let me go in the back to see if it’s still there, wait right there… you know i was just thinking of you the other day.

… you were thinking of me? in this enormous neighborhood? … in all these people? you noticed?

i waited there for him to come back, my heart feeling like a few sparklers were dancing in my chest at such unexpected awakening.

manager: (comes back carrying a turquoise mat in a gristede’s bag) … yes, i knew i had it still. (shrugs and holds out his hands) so… here ya go!

chloe: wow… thank you so much, that is so sweet of you!

manager: here right here… it says, uhhh…. vitacoco? 

chloe: hahaha yes sir it does, i’m so surprised… thank you.

manager: you’re welcome you’re welcome. have a good day, see you soon.

i walked out of the store glowing and it wasn’t even 8 a.m. i’m assuming the mat was some free gift with purchase from the coconut water company, but heck if i care. that was the nicest thing a (past-stranger-now-friend) did for me on the fly in a awhile. i still don’t even know his name, and i’m shrugging inside because i should know… i want to know… because out of all these people that he sees everyday, he really does pay attention. a hard quality to come by in new york, but it takes you by delightful surprise when those people enter your life. you do matter and your face is not just one in the crowd. ask people’s name, accept yoga mats, smile at people, thank them for what they are doing and look up and notice… see, talk, connect, be someone’s neighbor.

hey, i dig this hood after all, i might just stick around folks.

i went looking for chocolate with inside-out sweatpants and came out with a yoga mat and a sweet neighbor.

“You know, I think everybody longs to be loved, and longs to know that he or she is lovable. And, consequently, the greatest thing that we can do is to help somebody know that they’re loved and capable of loving.” -Fred Rogers… won’t you be my neighbor?

behold, and thus, if anyone is looking to take up yoga and does not have a mat… you know the “neighbor” to call. she will be honored to pay it forward. 

.

jai,

nocturnal. march 5, 2013

.

at night I might

shed tears.

simply because.

at night I might

see wishes encompassed in my dreams.

hidden behind my eyes. yearning to unleash.

white, purity, intimacy.

at night I might

be chilled to the bone and quiver

in gratitude for a cloak, a protection

at night I might

sit in silence as the earth bustles

because somewhere my daughter is sleeping. shh, darling

at night I might

be hushed as you revel,

perhaps I am loud with emotion

at night I might

be at the fullest capacity for love

true

to hold

at night I might

curl up in a ball as a baby

to be born again at dawn

at night I might

be a faint, internal giggle

at night I might

not fear the street, the disorder

the stormy unknown

at night I might

see the true human

darkness and light penetrating through black skies

at night I might

crave rain to bring a new river

at night I might

be entirely as I should, as I was made

at night I might

delight in sure mystery.

at night I might

have the courage to face noiselessness.

at night I might

at day I may

yearn for the might of the night

oh if you knew the night

oh if you knew you at night

oh if you knew me at night

i'll find you in the night, if you're brave.

february 24, 2013

.

there is a quiet place inside

no.

a silent place within that is so scary,

we can’t even face that it exists.

so forgotten that we don’t know

it begs our friendship.

it begs our acknowledgement

just a moment,

just a minute turned into hours and hours.

you’re scared because you know it holds truth

you’re scared for it to tell you something

you’ve always known and don’t want to hear.

you’re scared because you know its your soul,

asking you… begging you to return from the world,

the glitter, the fame, the stars, the pride,

the brightness of day

into the shocking woo, the mystifying night

of the silence of your soul.

beloved come back, remember me?

before you entered the pretty world

before your body knew to dance

before you ears were distracted by provocative tunes,

before you filled your mind with that garbage,

before you forgot where your home was,

before you tucked me away and hid the gospel I

sang to you at night.

in the silence, when you were two,

when you were four… those lullabies

you can’t hear anymore, because you forgot to listen.

somewhere, you forgot.

when you believed those people.

those people that say this and that

those people that say the world is right.

those people that won’t let me breathe,

that world that will eventually take your breath.

but I,

I know you.

I’m in the silence and wait.

you’re scared to listen to what I might ask,

where I might take you…

what I might teach you about yourself.

about the world,

oh if you only knew.

about the other world I know.

the truth.

and so you hide from me

in lights, in hours,

in dancing moments, in intoxicated trances,

in “I’m busy”, in what you call slumber,

in your own snobbish dreams,

in your vanity’s reflection,

in your tiny little room you call home.

I am not leaving.

But I fear you never will invite me along, my love.

to walk with you, to sing lullabies to you again.

because I fear you chose them.

you chose their games, you chose their truths.

you keep talking and talking and guessing and guessing.

you will never find it, lovely.

not like this.

don’t do this.

come back,

I’m singing, come back.

it’s not worth the glitter.

come back.

if you sit here in silence,

if you sit here in soul,

I’ll take you home.

just imagine…

I’ll take you home.

I’m waiting.

  -the quiet place.

I am looking at my comforter.

I should be vacuuming remnants of mimi naps 

off of my magenta bedding,

just in case anyone stops by.

but I'm not.

I'm going to sit here and look at it.

I move on to thinking I should be doing laundry.

I should be sending those 5 emails that have delayed

my forward thinking for a month.

I should go buy cat food.

I should write 3 "thinking of you" letters.

I could clean out my refrigerator. 

I am in need of groceries. But it's snowing

and I just want to sit.

I woke up to sleepover hair

and a middle school baggy shirt.

I grabbed yoga tights and a hoodie to see my guests

out.

I haven't left the yoga tights and hoodie.

Oh dear.

I rode the subway to an appointment which I was running late to

because I am … well, a mess.

I look down: black, grey, black, black, black shoes.

I have no color.

what is happening to me?

thank God for my bright green bookbag.

Hello Monday, hot mess doesn't even come

close to my being.

I'm in a damn inferno.

I'm never a mess.

what is this feeling?

I shouldn't be a mess.

I should be cleaning. I should be presentable.

I shouldn't be drab.

I should have coffee in my house.

I should vacuum. I should open my planner.

I should write something brilliant.

I should go to the bank.

I should be thinking about starting school.

I should be working on my online class.

I should be cleaning out my closet. I should 

not be a mess.

I cannot be a mess.

I should be neat, I should not be distracted.

I should be...

I shouldn't be.

I should be going...

I shouldn't be thinking…

I shouldn't be confessing...

I should be perfect...

I shouldn't be sloppy.

I shouldn't be a mess...

I shouldn't be unshowered at 2 p.m.

I shouldn't be telling you this.

but, toobadforyou,

I.

AM.

Because I am… I am… I am a mess.

I'm messy.

I can be dirty.

I can be cluttered.

I like baggy clothes.

I can sit with cat hair on my bed.

I can admit it to you,

I want to be messy.

I crave sleeping in past the alarm.

I wander through fantasy's

of day dreaming through laundry.

of distracting my mind from

cleaning

from should

from neatness

from order

I lust after saying no.

saying no when I should...

when I should...

when I should… say yes to...

No? No.

I crave pajamas all day.

No makeup to work.

what if you looked in the mirror, just out of bed.

hair tousled in illegal directions and thought

you look stunning doll, change nothing. don't brush.

forget your wallet every once and awhile.

don't apologize for taking up space.

be late if you want. be on time if you prefer.

you don't have to.

don't be sorry for making noise.

singing too loud.

being in bed by 10.

caring nothing of television.

or the midnight scene.

bon't be ashamed of your infatuation with

welcoming the sun to your window

or listening to gershwin

while the cool kids from last night are just stumbling in.

take the last piece of chocolate.

don't apologize for drowning in poetry

or moving with every melody. beat. because you are unstoppable.

don't be safe like those other girls,

turn around. go against the current.

be messy. 

be your messy.

live in the inferno.

redefine hot mess.

refuse perfection. 

be a ragamuffin.

don't vacuum when you should,

don't fix your hair,

or your heart.

They wanna be a disaster,

Live in the combustion of confetti, of dust.

The disaster of life, the fury of love.

The mess of radiant laughter, the explosion of tears.

fall into shambles, ragamuffin.

my mother: beautiful. photo by: my dad.

.

I apologize for the recent vacation.

Wait, no I don't. I'm working on that.

Start again:

I have been on a bit of a vacation.

I have had to take some time away from bustling

about and running into stories non-stop.

Which has left this blog a bit bare and abandoned.

Don't worry, I shall return.

In the meantime, I have been replacing bustle,

with a time of discovering and working through 

my own story. whoa. am I allowed to do that?

yes.

.

many discussions during this time have ventured into the

cosmic : terrifying : inescapable : infinite : hurricane

of beauty.

beautiful.

beautiful?

.

one particular powwow, I found myself

listening and not talking, which was unusual for this type of conversation,

I noticed a fiery passionate… what was that… anger,

rising up in my stomach.

It felt dangerous, jarring and stunningly brilliant.

I knew it was out of my control.

I could not hold it down.

It came bursting out of my gut and through my mouth before I 

could process the meaning.

As though I was in my high school calculus class:

The limit does not exist.

what did you just say Chloé?

The limit.

does not.

exist.

.

I was becoming enraged because we were talking about

a definition that does not exist

a concept that does not exist

a word in the english dictionary,

that could never possibly have an answer agreed upon by all.

we are wrong. 

we are blaming the wrong people for a false definition

and we are adoring the wrong people for a true definition.

we are responsible for our definition.

the blame… is ours. 

yes, you. yours.

.

dare I blame you?

yes, I dare.

I blame me, too.

.

I realized, on that odd day, the reason something came

boiling up inside of me is because

we were discussing, criticizing and contemplating

entirely different topics.

we were all speaking from "our" beauty.

but no, "our" beauty of which

we blame magazines,

we blame television,

we blame cat calls,

we blame the girl-in-our-high-school-biology-

class-with-the-pin-straight-blonde-hair,

we blame vogue,

we blame america's next top model,

we blame advertisements,

we blame sexed-up commercials,

we blame "health" articles,

we blame scales, 

we blame lethal fad diets,

we blame men's comments,

we could name them all.

but we should blame ourselves.

all of these things we can choose.

we can choose to surround ourselves with all of that empty,

meaningless, fleeting... nonesense

that will consciously or (of even more danger) subconsciously

feed us the definition of beautiful,

or what "society thinks is beautiful".

putting society in front of it doesn't get us off the hook,

no.

we still have the choice.

we have control over what we see. 

we have control over what we surround ourselves with.

we have control over what lies and truth seep in.

we have control over beautiful.

yet, we blame them?

beauty?

and it's time we decide to take the ownership back.

.

It can be done. I can prove it. 

Last year, I embarked on an experiement

I have rather come to live happily within since.

I refused to buy any magazine for a year,

with the exception of Yoga Journal

(and the Katy Perry ELLE, arrest me, go ahead, why don't you?)

to challenge the effects of leisure visual pleasure I claimed to be "separate from".

I don't watch television and reject any offers to engage in

talk about reality t.v. "stars". I have my own stars.

I don't read "health" articles, because most of them don't

know what health really is. And "health" is ambiguous

and unique, anyway.

I deleted the majority of my Facebook news feed, so I won't be encouraged

to follow the treacherous picture clicking rabbit hole and wind up on that

blonde-girl-in-my-biology-class's sorority pictures

two months ago that mean nothing to me in anyway.

and never will.

I now laugh at catcalls and pretend they are

yelling at the grandma across the street.

I am worth more than a hoot, holler, yell or whistle.

I am worth gold. beyond gold.

and sir… might I remind you I'm in my pajamas walking down 2nd avenue? ok. thanks.

I don't own a scale and never will.

I don't turn an eye to companies demeaning women in advertisements.

I don't buy into your beauty,

I don't even give myself the option.

I took back ownership, and I'm keeping it.

I dare you, try it.

.

Now, sitting in this "beauty" conversation

the heat blazing within my stomach was my beautiful.

I honored it. I gave it a name, welcomed its fire within me.

My long-fought-for beauty.

Something that can be created, against society.

No more blaming them, no more blaming at all.

I have the right to own it.

My definition, that is always true, through-and-through,

without fail… because I taught myself what beauty was

and didn't let "beauty" tell me what it was.

be careful… it's sneaky… and dreadfully toxic.

but this I created, this is

beautiful:

pictures of blazing hearts and precious sisters fill the walls of my room,

mantras are painted on my planners, scrap paper, canvases.

candles burn with delicious fire all over my tables.

powerful, ignited women sing on my radio.

cuddling with a warm kitty substitutes dwelling...

obsessing in front of the mirror.

journals and novels replace my magazines, once vogue and elle,

writing fills my free time, not "creeping" or watching someone

I have a faint memory of from the past.

silence is a melody I have come to uncomfortably adore

yoga pants are worn all day when I feel them calling, "Chloé!!!"

skype or "coffee" (yes, its a recreational activity) with friends

in euphoric laughter or tearful intimacy trumps spending time

with a celebrity who will never tell me what is beautiful.

this is all beautiful.

beauty.

I found my beautiful.

the limit does not exist.

beauty is what you spend time with

beauty is who you are surrounded by

beauty is what you choose to watch

beauty is what your heart loves

beauty is what your soul sees before your eyes

beauty is what you allow your eyes to wander toward

beauty is without rule

without limit.

you are beautiful.

you own your beautiful.

live like that, honey.

live beautiful.

.

jai,

the B5 experts, c & l, 2012.

.

I am a firm believer that nothing in life is ever predictable,

by-the-book or entirely obvious.

However, I do carry a few formulas around in my pocket

that I have picked up from personal experiences.

One day, I will solidify these forumulas and compile them 

all together in a track to hand out on the subway,

but until I am that official… I will just continue

to get tickled to death sharing my "life" scientific theories

and mathematical equations when an individual

arises that may benefit from a little dose of chloe-ism medicine. 

.

Yesterday afternoon, I was riding on the subway listening to

"Firework" by Katy Perry.

What else would I be listening to?

And I looked up at the young woman standing next to me.

She had a look on her face that I could pick out of a 

crowd from 5 miles away. I know that look.

I cannot describe this look in any other manner than the:

oh-no-he-just-didn't-try-to-go-there-after-we-just-

broke-up-and-I-do-not-care-about-his-great-new-promotion-

after-I-just-told-him-goodbye-and-he-knows-sure-as-h&^%-

he-is-just-tryin-to-get-me-back-but-no-siree-I-am-not-going-

there-wit-chu-so-back-yo-self-up-and-see-what-happens-if-

you-text-me-some-of-your-"good"-"news"-one-more-time-because-

I-don't-care-and-we-are-not-friends-and-you-know-you-

just-want-me-back-MOVE-ON...

look.

that was the look.

oh, honey. you need the B5

B5 ? : 

Beyoncé

Bob

Belly-button piercing

"Baby"

&

Black nails

I couldn't help myself.

This calls for the B5 regiment.

I turned to her. 

C: I have a feeling you could use the 5 Bs.

Girl: laughs nervously breaking the look I will refrain from describing again… The what?

C: The 5 Bs. The B to the fifth power formula. Okay, I made it up, but it works, I swear.

Girl: … okay, tell me. starts to smile.

C: The five Bs are: Beyoncé, Bob, Belly-button piercing, "Baby" and Black nails.

Girl: begins to laugh hysterically… and immediately I knew, I was spot on with my assumption from her facial expression and mannerisms... Those sound like they work.

C: Oh… THEY DO! 

I went on to explain that the B5 equation should be treated

much like a brownie-from-the-box recipe.

All the ingredients provided are vital, but it really doesn't

matter in what order you throw them together.

Just get all the B's in the mix and you're cookin' honey!

.

However, from experience, I think I am almost ready to refine my formula

to a specific method and order for utmost effectiveness and well… fun.

So... first, I would go get your hair cut into a bob. You will never go back to your old ways. Seeing inches of meaningless fiber drop to the ground is the most liberating thing you will have done in years. I bet you he liked your long hair? Yep, honey. Cut. It. OFF. Then, you are now, set to feel like hott stuff while fiddling through the rest of the formula whisking your new do back and forth like you are a 1920s flapper in a speakeasy.

By all means do NOT, go get your belly-button pierced before you sit in the salon chair to get your hair cut. First of all, you're probably going to be a bit nervous to kiss all your hair goodbye, which may cause even more blood to come spewing out of your stomach. Sorry for the graphic reference, but it's true. That sucker bleeds! You don't want to be worrying about ruining your shirt while you are liberating yourself from your girlish hair and transforming yourself into… well, a fiesty gal. Secondly, your belly is going to sting for a few hours and you really don't want to be sitting down, especially while wearing jeans and having the button grazing your little rebel diamond proudly perched under your shirt. Therefore, AFTER you cut your locks, go and stamp a hole through your navel. You will never be so delighted to have been poked with a needle in your life as you will looking in the mirror at some trashy, classy little treasure hanging from your belly that no one has to know about but you… your little secret sorcerer stone.

Give yourself a few hours to enjoy your new innocent, yet dangerously fierce, mien while your stomach is still stinging and avoid laying down for well… as long as you don't want bloody sheets (my best friend Laura can attest to this unfortunate truth).

Then, TURN ON BEYONCÉ. Have a mini dance party while your sparkle dangle hole is drying… best thing is, you can do this step absolutely anywhere. In the street or at home, just turn on Beyoncé and GO. Personally, I would recommend "Best Thing I Never Had", but going old school with "Survivor" will do the trick. Once you are all danced out and you make it home to put on yoga pants to ensure that your jeans will not rub your ring, grab the black nail polish. There is nothing more I-AM-WOMAN-SO-TAKE-THAT than twenty, deep, dark, black nails. Go all out, hands and feet. Maybe four coats just to seal that sucker on for good.

Once you are rebeled out and so fierce you could turn into a tiger, calm it down with "Baby"… "Dirty Dancing" of course. NOBODY PUTS YOU IN A CORNER. Amen, Hallelujah? Feel it girl, no one.

By the time I had this girl thinking I was a 

prophet of the B's. She had to get off on her stop.

Still laughing...

C: You do the B5 formula and you are going to be feeling so liberated by Monday you may even have to change your name to start with a B.

Girl: I am pretty sure you are right, I am gonna take your word for it girl. Thank you. still giggling

C: Don't mention it.

My work here is done.

Now the take-away of the day is:

Out of all those B's, 

nowhere in there does "bar" have a place.

Nope, stay away from that B.

You don't need that stuff, girl.

You need Beyoncé.

You need a belly-button ring.

You need a bob.

You need black nails and toes.

You need BABY.

You need YOU, honey.

Oh baby,

Those B's are a sure deal... 100% satisfaction guarantee.

.

Dang, I need a hotline.

jai,

From The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

At that moment, it seemed to him time stood still and the Soul of the World surged within him. When he looked into her dark eyes and saw her lips were poised between a laugh and silence, he heard the most important part of the language that all the world spoke - the language that everyone on earth was capable of understanding in their heart. It was love. Something older than humanity, more ancient than the desert. Something that exerted the same force whenever two pair of eyes met, as had their here at the well. She smiled…

It was the pure Language of the World. It requires no explanation, just as the universe needs one as it travels through endless time. What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in the presence of the only woman in his life that, with no need for words, she recognized the same thing. He was more certain of it than of anything in the world. He had been told by his parents and grandparents that he must fall in love and really know a person before becoming committed. But maybe people who felt that way had never learned the universal language. Because when you know that language it's easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you, whether it's in the middle of a desert or in some great city. And when two people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that evokes love, and creates a twin soul for every person in the world. Without such love, one's dreams would have no meaning.

do your dreams have meaning.

what makes it so.

by one hand only, hold onto that truth.

when the past and future become unimportant.

jai,

dear you.

dear new year.

jai,

return from Zambia embrace, 2008. mom and I. 

.

I am not a hugger.

Even growing up in the south where hand shakes

are a foreign language and largely an insult,

I was never one of those instinctive "girl huggers"

… arguably some could be called girl suffocaters

(you know the ones I'm talking about!)

gotta love 'em

.

I will now declare this in writing.

by the power invested in me, I am now a hugger.

Ironically, it took me moving north to fully embrace this

art?

craft? skill? language?

Language, that's it.

.

Let's talk hugging.

research studies have been conducted on the 

language of hugging

and concluded that:

4 hugs per day are needed to survive

8 hugs per day are needed to maintain

12 hugs per day are needed to experience growth

basically, this means that you should just stop everyone in line behind you

at the grocery store and/or coffee shop every day 

and hold up traffic by going down the line hugging

every person behind you before paying for your items.

If anyone tries this in Manhattan, please… do tell how this goes.

who knows, maybe we could start a movement.

a hugging-the-line movement.

If researchers are correct, we would all be growing emotionally

faster than kudzu in West Virginia.

Yes. We would be late to our engagements due

the epidemic of line-huggers.

but heck we would be happy huggin' fools.

.

I'm not writing about hugging tonight just

because I was thinking of what it would be like

to create a ruckus in Gristede's at rush hour with a hugging train.

There is of course a story.

I was running to yoga (literally) this evening

half because I was frozen to the core,

thus the only way to keep my legs moving was to create a little heat,

and half because I was… late.

I hate being a late-to-yoga yogi.

I was briskly moving along and I passed a grandma-like woman

carrying three grocery bags in her arms.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a glove drop from her arms. 

For a split second I considered keepin' on truckin' along 

because I didn't want to lose momentum.

.

But thank goodness that egregious thought

lasted only a split second,

because of course I realized that I was only going to

ignore it because I was late to yoga. 

ignoring a need that I was presently aware of

and one that would benefit another person 

would pretty much demagnetize my soul from any

grace I was about to inhale in class, yes the class I was late to.

and it would NOT be very yogi of me to ignore this.

Oh Chloe` you're such a sucker for conscience.

I stopped.

"Ma'am! Ma'am! You dropped your glove!!!"

I picked it up and ran it back and placed it in her arms

and continued to shuffle in the direction of yoga.

(though glad that I stopped because it was a rather fancy leather glove)

.

about thirty feet beyond my continuation in the proper direction

towards yoga another black dot caught my eye

Lord have mercy, if that isn't the exact same glove I just picked up.

I bet she dropped the other one too.

There was no turning back now, I was commited

to keeping that woman's hands warm.

and consequently to being late.

I heaved and bent down. I picked up the other glove and

sprinted back in the direction of the woman chasing after her.

C: Ma'am! MA'AM! Your other glove! You dropped the other one too!

Ma'am: Oh my! Thank you! I have just lost everything, haven't I?

C: No problem!

Ma'am: pauses. You're a doll, just a doll!

before I could turn to run even faster

to shave off as many late seconds as I could,

she reached out her very-full-bag arms towards me 

and I couldn't mistake that cue for anything

she wanted to give me a hug.

I stopped and smiled,

honored that this stranger wanted to give me a hug.

I squeezed her as tight as I would my sweet grandma,

and thanked her for the hug.

.

you could have guessed,

I was late to yoga.

but, I was not late for my hug.

That came just in time and I was just on time to where I needed to be.

Now it's 11:00 p.m. and I'm in my pajamas

and I need as least 7 more hugs… possibly 11.

shucks.

I have not met my neighbors yet...

I wonder if they would like a hug?

.

stop.

hug a stranger.

I dare you.

jai,

within home.

12.26.12

.

I'm homesick

and I don't know where home is

I think it's someplace far from where I am

and far from where i'm going

not sanddunes

not nightless rhythm

it's a residence without name

where breath does not need the

moment of indescribable tautness

between deep inhale 

and long exhale

it happens as a heartbeat

unfaltering

instinctual

where I belong

where it just is

where I just am

where we are 

maybe we will meet at home

at my home

at your home

at our home

maybe one day we will all call

our very soul's desire home.

when we listen.

shhhhh. listen.

.

I'll find you at home and rest

when we all find the space

and heart's capacity for one another there

outside of ourselves

outside of city

outside of doing

anything.

inside us,

see you at home, darling.

see you at home.

.

now doesn't,

doesn't that sound golden?

.

in the South, we start church early folks.

8:30 a.m. we are already sangin’

shew.

nothing like being in Carolina to hear my dad, Dr. Wright,

(a.k.a. Pastah G by my standards)

bring the word.

and man, I wish I could have recorded the whole sermon to

post as a story. There would have been no need for my nonsense.

anyway, the premise was:

can we have enough faith to think that a baby is enough?

can we pay attention to a little baby

and believe He is the Savior

in a world where the same gun that was used to kill

20 people in our own country is still flying off the shelves

at gun stores all over America this very day?

and , in a world where

we can drive by the gravestones of two innocent

cyclists on a sunday morning that were killed

by a driver, high on marijuana by 8 a.m.

can we believe a baby enough? what does it take to not forget?

what does it take to live like we believe He has come to save?

I was amen-in’ my little white girl self all over the place.

Dad came home after the second service and through tears

told mom and I to listen to this text sent by a church member:

“Don’t know if you’ll get this for late service or not. Caleb loves guns. Military family, hunting family or just testosterone. But he said “momma, I was drawing a gun today while pastor Gordon was talking. I crossed it out, turned the page and drew a stable.”

Now I have tears in my eyes.

Praise God that a rising generation hears.

If only we all listened and responded like a child.

I pray this holiday season that we begin bringing

our Savior’s presence back into a broken world.

A baby is enough.

The baby is enough.

We just have to believe He is.

We have to live like He has been and is to come.

and not turn to other idols that will never be enough.

and that’s my Sunday story.

jai,

4:30 a.m.: alarm goes off.

I was feeling thrifty again and was thinking I could

stand to sub/bus combo over to LGA.

I look outside and it is raining like the Amazon.

Oh hell no.

I'm cabbing.



I laid back in bed for 30 minutes with Mimi licking my face, sniffing my eyes, laying on my head, purring in my ear... doing anything she could to get me to put the suitcase on the floor away. She knew mom was leaving and she was going to pester me to the very last minute.



5:00 a.m. : second alarm goes off, I roll over for real.

and begin preparations.



6:00 a.m. : two large tote bags on either side of me,

yet another broken umbrella above my head and starbucks coffee

in hand (this is where my bad karma came from, I WAS OUT OF COFFEE OKAY?)

... I stood out on 2nd ave trying to wave down a cab without

winding up looking like I had just jumped in a swimming pool

in the 5 minutes I had been outside in Victoria Falls.

got one.

he rolled down his window

Chloe: Going to LGA, give me 2 seconds.

I asked him to pull around the corner,

my suitcase was still dry and inside the door of my building.

"yeah, yeah, okay go get it. where ya goin?" typical new york cab response.

with my, you know, three arms I grabbed my suitcase, two totes, coffee and umbrella and dragged my belongings out to the cab. he got out and acted as though he was going to put my suitcase in the trunk for me but we both just ended up standing there staring at one another. 

1, 2, 3… um, would you like me to use my fourth arm to

wave over my escort to throw this 45-pound suitcase in the trunk?

Oh, oh I have a sports injury…. can you help me?

really? really sir?

Before he knew it I used my magical powers with everything still in hand and

reached down with my right hand and slung that whole darn suitcase

into the trunk with one aggressive thrust.

He took the time to look stunned in the rain and I paid him no mind.

He slammed the trunk closed and I was already working on

cramming my shoulder treasures and all of myself into the back seat.

Taxi Mike: So, North or South?

Chloe: LaGuardia airport.

Taxi Mike: No… North or South Carolina?

busted… 

C: North Carolina… how did you know?

I'm going to guess he either thought that I slung that suitcase like a haystack as though I'd been doing it all my life while Yankee women would probably stand there and argue with him about doing it … or, I said "goin" lazily because I was tired and that little drawl snuck in there without me knowin' it. Heavens to Betsy…

M: I could just tell you were one of those sweet southern belles when you got in.

C: Oh… well, yep, I guess you could say that?

M: It's nice to have you up here, we need more of the southern girls' polite character up here in this city.

C: Well… glad to be here… what's your name?

M: Mike. And yours?

C: Chloe`, nice to meet you.

M: WHA??? I'm hard of hearing!

C: CHLOE!!!

M: Oh! Oh okay! 

yeah right, I know he still didn't hear me, but I can't yell any louder before 8 a.m.

C: Where did you come from Mike?

M: (looking at me through the rearview mirror) I'll give ya one guess.

C: I'm gonna pretty confidently guess New York.

M: BORN AND RAISED!

(for visual representation purposes only. this is NOT mike.)

Mike was a chatterbox. A very Yankee chatterbox.

Somehow… and I wish I remember how… we got talking

about his career as a professional bodybuilder.

Clearly, something I would know all about?

But man, I could give you a 10 page report on it now.

Driving through East Harlem, he was taking me through

every decade in the history of bodybuilding

and how he still stays in shape today… and then:

Mike: uhhhh…. does that say 123rd or 124th street… I can't see.

Chloe: $*%^#&%&$*#&…. YOU CAN'T SEE???

M: I need my glasses.

you have GOT to be kidding me.

C: 124th.

The fact that Mike could not see and we were driving through

a monsoon before dawn did not stop him from continuing his

history lesson and detailed biography of his life.

Which was quite interesting… but after admitting that he could not see

I really didn't care about his education 40 years ago,

I CARE ABOUT MAKING IT TO THE AIRPORT ALIVE, or he won't

be telling stories any more and I won't be telling his story anymore.

Ten minutes later we are still alive and are approaching all of the

switchbacks and wacky, winding turn-offs surrounding LGA.

He is still chatting away and I am sweating in the back seat

trying to nod and smile and keep my cool because

he really was a rather kind Yankee.

M: Okay, since I can't see you're gonna have to help me get to the terminal.

C: $^%&$*#^#%$$&#*….. Okay, I'll help.

M: Okay, tell me which way to turn to get to terminal C.

C: Veer right... left here… another right… uhhh...

M: OH S*%&! I'm headed out of the airport!

C: WHAT!

M: There's a median right there.

C: all of the Carolina southern sweet stuff that was there 20 minutes ago had been drained out of my body… WELL CAN YOU JUMP THE MEDIAN?

M: The meter's off the meter's off! It'll be like 5 or 10 minutes tops. The meter's off the meter's off! We just need to get back in there. The meter's off the meter's off! 

C: I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE D$%* METER! 

M: What time is your flight?

my mother had already given me the 15 minute lecture about how I was traveling on the busiest travel day of the year and that I had better get there an hour before my flight boarded instead of my… yanno… 15 minutes. I was  never going to hear the end of it if I missed my flight.

C: 8, and I HAVE to be on that plane.

M: Okay, we can do this… you just have to tell me how to get back in there.

C: We? WE?!? 

We waited in the traffic exiting the airport and weaved back into the airport traffic once again… right here… left here… not that far right… get in this lane… DO NOT TURN HERE… left here… okay, it's US Air… see that orange car? park behind that.

Mike: You're a real nice southern girl, thank you for your help. 

Chloe: Nice to meet ya Mike!

please remember your glasses tomorrow.

I RAN.

and here I sit.

Made it to North Carolina.

and now I know all about bodybuilding.

and about Mike.

Without Mike,

my morning would have been dreadfully boring.

jai,

just a reminder:

there are other people out there. 

not just you.

across the street and across oceans.

beautiful, impassioned, poignant, electric, horrific and true.

jai,

There is a man (I will call Popeye)

who hangs out on the corner right outside of my yoga studio.

I think we should become labeled as friends by now

because let's face it, I see him approximately 4 times per week

every week,

and he's been a very loyal constant.

So, my friend Popeye… why Popeye you ask?

Well, because he is insanely tall and lanky.

He stands hunched backwards with his chin poked out and slightly to the left

with his bottom lip curling over his top lip as though he was eating it for a snack.

His hips are jutted out to the front and his shoulders are leaned so far back

it makes his entire head look like it is disjointed from his body.

He looks like an African-American version of:

However a very chipper version, if you can get that image.

Yes. Have you figured out yet that observing humans

excites me and I (might) have a photographic memory?

.

The "story" of my friend Popeye happened a few months back,

however I have certainly not forgotten the impression he made on me

and seeing him this past Saturday standing on the corner reminded me that

I owed Popeye a proper story.

Usually, he is perched right outside the "Chirping Chicken" 

(don't laugh North Carolinians, this is the darn truth.

It's a restaurant, at least to the best of my knowledge)

with his back leaned up against the glass window just gazing

onto traffic and occasionally waving to friends

(being me, and only me. I am very selfish.)

I have never ever seen him ask anyone for money, 

or even any food.

But my intuition rarely lies and I know in my soul that he is homeless.

and, by day, he lives outside the "Chirping Chicken".

The most fascinating and dynamic characteristic of Popeye is:

his bookbags.

If I were a little 5th grade tot, I would be so envious of this man's bookbags!

He always seems to have a different one and they have 

consisted of anything from pink sparkles to easter eggs to crocidiles.

I just can't figure it out. I may never know where the bookbags come from

and how he has such a colorful, vast variety of knapsacks.

Hey, if the woman walking right beside him can have 

five different Coach bags to choose from during a week,

I am glad he has options and don't really care where he gets them. He has them.

Either the Episcopal Church down the road gets really stellar donations,

or there is at least one little UES grade-school girl per day

missing her math homework for some "odd reason".

Either way, I think it's charming.

.

I passed by Popeye weekly when I first moved to the city

and he really caught my attention because he was always

standing there leaning against the glass smiling from ear-to-ear

and not askin for a dime or a chicken or nuthin'.

One saturday morning, I was coming out of yoga

and I decided that maybe he did need something even though

he wasn't asking for anything.

Because, deep down, we always have needs. Some we are not aware

of until someone pointedly asks us.

So, I walked over to Popeye who was grinning with all his teeth

and styling a ridiculously precious kitten bookbag.

And the story goes:

Chloe`: Hi, I was just coming down from yoga and I'm walking right around this corner.

Popeye: Oh, oh thats nice.

C: There's a Dunkin' Donuts right there, do you want to come stand in line with me and I'll get you something? Have you had breakfast yet?

He just smiled and smiled and shook his head. He reached in his right pocket and pulled out a fistful of goodies. I am assuming these goodies were coins because he would not let me see what was in his hand, probably because he didn't know me and didn't want me stealing his money! I would hide my loot too, my friend Popeye.

Popeye: No, no, no, no….shaking his head vigorously…. Imma savin' up to get me summa them pancakes at McDonald's! 

points in the direction of 3rd Avenue

…. Imma get me summa those pancakes!

C: thinking… wait… does McDonald's seriously have pancakes? How did I miss this? And what cooky man denies a donut? Are you an American male?

Then I came to my senses.

Silly me, he was just as human as I was, living arrangement aside,

social class, gender, age and background aside.

He was still allowed to save up all he had to get his

favorite pancakes from McDonald's whether that

was going to happen in two days or seven.

He wasn't going to ruin that treat with a donut… come on now Chloe`!

C: smiling… Of course, here you go. I hope you get those pancakes!

Popeye: Thank you miss, thank you miss… and he goes right back on grinnin'

You know I really respect Popeye,

not only because he picks out all the bookbags

that were on the backs of all the kids I envied in elementary school,

but because he didn't even ask me to take him

over there to McDonald's. He wanted to do it.

And he didn't ask for anything either. He was holding out

for what he truly wanted, no matter what it took..

And how many times do we settle for cheap, instant satisfaction

when the desire of our heart may be a little out of our reach at the time?

I don't care if McDonalds really has pancakes of not,

I know he found some pancakes and he did not regret 

waiting one bit.

.

What is it that is worth waiting for?

Have you found it or are you still waiting?

If you have, was it worth the wait?

Are you giving your heart to the richness your soul desires?

Are you saving up for pancakes or settling for Dunkin?

run baby. run for the pancakes.

jai,

Fort Fisher, Wilmington, North Carolina 2008

Photo by: Laura Guidry

Dancer: Chloe` Wright

I have only one rule today:

live until it hurts.

then breathe.

jai,

this story, I cannot yet tell.

there will come a time.

but through this story,

through my story,

today,

I have felt it whisper in my bones and quiver in my heart:

Vulnerability.

Vulnerability is more powerful than defenses, than strong walls.

Vulnerability is saying you are weak

and knowing you are weak

and rejoicing you are weak

because from a point of weakness,

you have room to stand up.

without armor. without fear.

without weapons. 

unclothed.

as you were.

vulnerable.

as you were.

scarred.

as you were.

strong.

as you were.

quivering with fear,

but standing up slowly.

breathing in the new air of altitude.

it's a funny feeling.

yes, a feeling.

From The Book of Bright Ideas by Sandra Kring: 

"…I realized that I wasn't standing at the magic tree anymore. I was standing at the place they call "bittersweet". That place that, if you could find it on a map, would be the mountain that sits between happy and sad. And I thought bout how when you stand on that mountain, you can almost feel God's hand on your head and you just know, deep down inside, that even if you don't understand everything that happened to cause those mixed feelings, you still know there was a good reason for them happening.

…then I smiled and reminded [Aunt Verdella] of what she and Winnalee had both once told me. That you have to go on believing anything's possible, or else, what's the point?"

jai,