Jennifer A. Chin (cswallow) wrote,
Jennifer A. Chin

This month's write

Already we are a week into May of this year. There's a warmth that creeps into the air, drifting in the wake of light spring rains.

There are a hundred strands floating around my head tonight. I select one, give it a pull, and it comes toward me grudgingly, tangled and knotted. I inspect it, it is about calculus, and work, and time creeping over me. So I pick another, and this one comes easier. It's about choices and loving duty, and what we do with our dreams when they waver. I pull, it floats forward.

My choice tonight, is to postpone the things that call me loudly with responsibility and urgency, the things that are frustrating and make me question my own capabilities, that push me in all the ways that I think are "good for me," but never make me happy. Instead, I have these words drifting into dark spaces, sliding forward like a ship easing toward port.

Tonight I'm thinking about what path I'm on. I am thinking of what I want to leave in this world, and what I want to make of this life. I am thinking of my own shortcomings, and how some choices are easier to make when I choose to not make one, and how some choices seem easier than they ought to be. Like my choice, for so long, to stay here in California for so long. That, is a choice to not go anywhere. And some choices, ones that direct my early life, like staying with the company that I am at. I am thinking about decisions of faith - with what we keep and with what we leave.

When I sit in this house where I grew up, surrounded as I am by my loving parents, I think about how much we mean to each other. And I think about their loving acceptance of my leaving when I finally move out.

I realize then: the greatest question is whether, when I am crooked and frail, I will accept my own choices. i look back on years past, and in my memory, the question becomes unfamiliar. Have I grown so old then, that I am already fearful and hesitant? These words, slip and disperse, they coil about like some twisted Ouroboros. I've reached the end of this second strand, only to find the first at its end.

So then, a third, for some finality in the evening. And this one is rough, rope-like, it sits heavy in my thoughts. It says: honor above all the ones whose love is real, and in that happiness, you will find your own heart satisfied. These are the words of someone else, but I wrap them around me nonetheless. I shall say nothing of dreams.
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