if only my feet were this pretty...
Every day I wait.
Last week I saw a beautiful green caterpillar crawling on the scorching pavement of the Oakwood parking lot. He inched along as I watched. I picked him up and took him to a patch of green grass and set him down gently– because I knew he’d take too long on his own and fry on the way, or worse. Watching and knowing what could happen to him was just too much. I was nervous about picking him up, but he looked harmless and didn’t have scary black spikes coming out of him. So I took a chance. I didn’t wait. Lucky for him, I didn’t wait.
I am often astounded by the intensely powerful feelings I can have over something that seems so small. But no life is insignificant.
Every time I login to email I hope I’ll see something from The Moth. About my pitch. Asking me for more of my story. But so far there’s nothing. Nothing to do but wait.
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I imagine months from now after exhausting but exhilarating preparation
My feet will climb steps onto a stage, somewhere, some city–it doesn’t matter where
There will be silence but a few coughs, sneezes, throats being cleared and maybe some whispering
Inside me, a storm brewing.
Invisible.
My insides whirling, reeling and teetering, but I’m strong.
My story, the one I yearn to tell, will come out.
I’ll hold a microphone. I will not look at the floor.
I’ll have the chance to tell my story.
Waiting has impacted me. All because of silence (mine and others’), ignorance (others’), and the silly notion of waiting for the “right” time.
There is no “right” time. The time is now. For the little things. For the big things. For the in-between things. Do it now. Don’t wait.
In the meantime, my story bucks and swells, wanting out.
It needs more than this blog. It needs my voice to give it life. It needs a breathless audience. It cannot wait.
I will stand there and talk about that day, the day my dad came out of the closet. I will talk about how it molded me into who I am today. I will talk about the ebb and flow of my anger and fierce love and loyalty. I will talk about being ripped apart and sewn together again. I will talk about the ugly things.
Because often beauty is born of ugly things. And just like the caterpillar, I need a little help reaching the grass.
Pick me.
Choose me.
Dare to hand over that mike and see what I can do.
If you don’t save me, I might burn up on the sidewalk.
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