The Tree of Life (1909) – Gustav Klimt



I’ve been in this cocoon state for awhile now. I’ve acknowledged that I have been otiose at my writing, and I’ve used excuses over and over again about how there are experiences in life that have yet to be experienced. Yet, there is real estate in my mind reserved for the continuous concoction of plot lines, organizational structure of the narrative arch, characters, and the “roll out plan” for my writing. I’ve been ignoring that section of my mind lately, and in its place has been, as of the last 237 days straight, the religious devotion of heading into the gym where the mind doesn’t require a lot of exercise–you just have to breathe for the duration of physical torture. 

However, even in that torturous 60-minute state, I’ve begun to ask questions:

Is it really that love for our fellow neighbors will get society through all this crap that we, as humanity, have been experiencing?

Why is gluten bad for our body? Or is it just American gluten? Is European gluten manufactured and harvested differently?

What was it about graduate school that made me feel ready to take on the world with my writing while also making me feel inadequate compared to my fellow creative writers? I mean, why didn’t I speak up at the time when we discussed “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed about how I truly felt that a white woman hiking through nature is a privilege taken only by white women who were compelled to find themselves, while the rest of us non-white women have had to hike through life and fight for survival everyday? No offense to the Cheryl Strayed fans–but, I never truly got it. And, one last thing about grad school–just because one is white and writes about the struggle of his/her life doesn’t mean the same struggle is felt by someone who is not white. One more last thing about graduate school–Maxine Hong Kingston isn’t the only Asian American literary greats. Please pick from a variety.  

I digress.

Is there really such a thing of chocolate chip ratio in a cookie? Speaking of ratio: is it really true there is a coca cola to ice ratio? One of my friends have argued this theory for years, but I’ve always thought the side effects of drinking coke has finally manifested. Coke as in coca cola. 

But really, am I good enough to become a writer for life?

Do I fear that I am not, or do I fear that I could be, or that I am?

The answer is always: yes. 


To transform is a bit exhausting, but one doesn’t recognize as it occurs within the self. There’s an acknowledgement “evolvere” is happening, but one gives it a nod for hello and one keeps going on with life anyway. 

We all have this sense that when we do have control over the transformation, we often did not have control over the situation that put ourselves in that space to begin with.  For example, why is it that we recognize the change in a woman when she divorces her husband of 30 years? All of sudden, her hair and skin glows differently, her manner of speech or her voice has changed–providing her opinions all of the sudden, her smile actually reflects her eyes demonstrating a joy or bliss that’s never been there before–and most importantly, there is a gracefulness and happiness in the way she carries herself.  She’s evolved. And it’s a beautiful sight to behold. 

I believe that we are all continually evolving because it’s part of being a student in life. 

I get a sense of sadness for those who don’t recognize such evolution though. I always wonder if I should bake them a batch of cookies. But, now that I’ve written this–anyone that I bake a batch of cookies for–will think I’m sad for them. Let this be known, I baked you a batch of cookies just because–that’s all

Late Bloomers

Many of us are late bloomers. There are those of us whose timeline in life are structured, planned, always on time in their accomplishments and always in line with society’s standards of where one’s life should be. If we think about it, we are molded to follow a path based on our age–and many of us may feel as though we are coming up short on such expectations. 

There are those of us who continue to abide by these standards and expectations, and in fact–are quite successful in their own way. 

The rest of us, however, marches to our own drum beat. The only truth and advice that I remember from my high school graduation many moons ago was the quote that had been included in the announcement invitation card. The quote was from Thoreau, “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” I say that this was the only truth that I can recall because as well all know the next decade was filled with historical moments (911, terrorism, wars, internet boom and crash, etc). 

We all hear a different drummer–one who drums a beat designed to who we are, and to me this beat, this music continues to change according to how we are changing within. 


I don’t know what state I’d be in once this cocoon phase has concluded. I have faith that whoever she may be, she is a compilation of all that has been and continues to become in this life. She may not be as wise as hoped for, may still have a bit of sarcasm, may not be as sarcastic, she may have gained some for patience, but she may not, and she may just not give a f*ck–or she might continue to curse like a truck driver (that’s going to continue forever, accept it). 

Whoever she may turn out to be, I already know that I have a deep sense of unconditional love for her. 

I know this because I have the same unconditional love for all my sisters that I’ve been fortunate enough to meet in this lifetime. 

The Three Ages of Woman (1905)- Gustav Klimt

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