In Flux

Name: Casey Marie O’Brien, Yes, spelled with an e, not an a, Yes, a C, not a K.

Age: 18 years old, nearly 19, not nearly grown up.

Height: 5’5”, just a hair’s breadth above average.

Dress size: 6, approximately.

Hair color: Brown, a healthy hint of red.

Eye color: Brown, “chocolate” if you’re trying to flatter me.

Identity: shifting

Identity:

Reshaped by

Playing truth or dare at 2 am,

Always picking truth because

Vulnerability is exhilarating,

And I am drunk on the open air against my own bared heart.

Reshaped by

Books read by window filtered sunlight

Ideas hand delivered by black ink stamp letters.

Idenity:

Reshaped by

Opening night jitters

Closing night tears

A bouquet of flowers, a card with love inside

Reshaped by

Goodnight kisses

Fingers curled in my hair.  

Goodmorning hugs

Legs touching beneath the table.

Reshaped by

Ripples of laughter like waves in the ocean        

Lastly,

Importantly.

Identity: Reshaped by

Friends who finish my sentences

Friends who hold me up when I didn’t even know I was falling.

Friends who lift me higher than I knew we could go.

Casey Marie O’Brien

Identity: Shifting.

Where I Was Born

Where I was born fog welcomes new babies like  a swaddling blanket

And the Redwoods stand over their sleeping forms like grandparents.

The ocean sings newborns lullabies

And the tall golden grass on the hills dances for them.

Where I was born a tall mountain stands tall and lonely above us all

There’s an Indian legend that says there’s a princess tucked in that mountain, its green curves her own, and I always liked to think

She watched over me,

slightly amused smile playing across her deep emerald silhouette

Where I was born deer stand startled in the front yard, surprised to see me.

Where I was born hawks wheel in the sky like acrobats

Their endless spirals begging the question

Why ever go straight.

If I walk down the street from my childhood home ,about four blocks, turning left    at the new yellow house that hasn’t been new in years,  I  find  myself in a forest of trees more ancient and more patient than I will ever be.

These trees taught  me to stand tall and to provide a place

for leaning.

They taught me to be proud and

stoic

but always to

let my roots tangle.

I find sometimes I prefer their quiet company

to the radio chatter of spoken conversation. .

When I was born  the redwoods lent me the deep chocolate color of their trunks for my hair

And the sea foam lent me its splash for the sparkle in my eyes

I’m built of this and more

I’m built to be

Wind swept

Seaworthy

Boulder strong

and no matter where I go,

As my feet skitter across states, countries, continents

I carry in my heart

A land of ocean and wild fields,

A land of misty valleys and wise beings

I carry

Where I was born.

Equilibrium

Hello all,
This post is about writing but what it's really about is passion. We all have something that we cannot live without (if not several things). I love to do a lot of things, but  my relationship to this craft is bigger than that.

My life without words would be empty---writing sustains me and has made me who I am today. This is more than loving something. This is being made of something. This is surviving because of something. I hope sincerely that all of you feel this way about whatever it is that you do, and I hope you do it all the time.

Without further ado...Enjoy!

Equilibrium

Somebody asked me yesterday,

“So you write for fun?”

No.

I write the way you breathe.

It's involuntary.

It’s a bodily response to stimuli, stimuli being

Sunset

Rainy day

Teacup

Curve of a shoulder

Delicate secret tuck of hip.

But so much more than that too

Isn’t it?

Because

Because

I hear God in a pen’s scratch

And  find love

In the

perfect

order

of

 lined paper.

I wish I could  explain that sometimes I think I would die without this

Without words

I am afraid, so afraid of who I would be without a pen in my hand, without my fingers

 tiptapping

on a keyboard to tell me where I belong

To say

Here

Here

Here you are.

I recognize myself in my words

That’s me,  there she is, I found her.

Because sometimes I wake up in the morning and my reflection in the mirror looks unfamiliar

My hair parts to the right at night, while I sleep

Moved I guess by unconscious dream fingers

And then in the morning my symmetry is reversed and the world feels flipped on its head,

Like standing up too fast.

And the only way it ever looks right again is

To write it all down.

 So  I guess

You could say I write for

Balance

I write for

Equilibirum

This is my stasis.

Aristotle wrote about the idea of final cause.

He believed that all things had a purpose and a place and we would get there, somehow.

This is my final cause.

Midnight on a Thursday,

Listening to the whirr of the fan and the soft beat of my own heart telling me I exist, yes

I think therefore I am,

I write.
I write, therefore

Therefore

I must be

Yes, yes.

I am.

Lap Swimming

 Hi Everyone, I arrived for my college orientation just a little over three weeks ago, and already, my life feels immeasurably different. This post is about change, growth, and new beginnings.  Enjoy!

Lap Swimming

Free lap swim until six o'clock

Pink painted toes curl against white tile

Hesitant to leave solid ground.

But I take a deep breath and spring forward

My feet splash through the cool clear blue

And I’m on my  way.

My heart is beating to the rhythm of a breaststroke

And there’s nothing left to think about,

Just legs propelling, arms pulling, lungs breathing

Progress.

I’m beginning to wonder if college is a little like lap swimming

Because no matter how prepared you are,

Towel and flipflops and Speedo,

Eventually, you just have to jump in

And when you do,  no matter how ready you are, you’ll still sputter when you swallow chlorine.

Your arms will get tired and by the end of fifteen laps you wonder how is this only halfway

Your legs will want to rest and you’ll be sick of holding your breath.

But then.

Then you’re at sixteen, eighteen, twenty

And you’re strong and lean and deliciously refreshed

When you get out the sun’s  on your back

And you know you’ll come back and do it all again.

I’ve only just leaped in to this new adventure

And I’m still only on my first lap

Trying to remember where my anthropology class is

And what day they come for the recycling.

Just trying not to miss Sunday afternoons in the wine country

Trying to laugh even when I’m tired

And the joke isn’t funny.

But I’m getting there.

I’m stronger already

I’m past wishing I could put my feet down

And I’ve started to kick.

I’ve started to

Stay up late

Accept compliments

Relish long hugs.

I’ve started

To swim. 

Finding Treasure

The natural world is always nearby in CR,  wildness reaching its fingers always into civilization, as if trying to take it back. Reclaim it. The jungle sings all night. Rain falls on my jacket in sheets,  the tendrils of hair that escaped my hood soaked and sticking to my face. In the pool a massive toad sits, enjoying  a night time swim. He is displeased when we disturb him to get in ourselves. Within the rainforest, life exists more vigorously, more intensely, than anywhere else on earth. Every square inch is carpeted with layer upon layer of organic material, living and dead. Leaves, bugs, butterflies, birds and mammals and strange lizards, hibiscus so big they could be worn like hats, heliconia flowers and birds of paradise in bright candyshop colors.

Walking back to my hotel room one afternoon, I see dark shapes in one of the trees. Climbing silhouettes. I ask the handyman if they are monkeys and he smiles at me, a gaptoothed grin that cracks his leathery face in two, eyes twinkling.

Si, claro. Monos. Yes, of course! Monkeys. As if this is the most ordinary thing on earth. They jump and swing with a strange sort of grace. I stand there in my bikini watching them, and the handyman chuckles and heads off to finish his work, amused by the American girl transfixed on the lawn.

Not just monkeys, in fact, but howler monkeys. They call to one another loudly, dolefully, and their noise is the most savage and bizarre thing I have ever heard. The Costa Ricans are unfazed, because to Ticos, nature’s glory is part of the everyday. They take great care in protecting it, respecting it. There is no place the monkeys are not allowed to howl. A few days before the end of my trip, I saw a young man not much older than me, maybe twenty, in faux gangster clothes (beanie, long gold chain) take off his flip flop, put a land stranded puffer fish in his sandal and hand deliver it to the ocean--fully clothed.

The result of this stewardship is a country filled with tropical wonders, amazing discoveries hidden behind each bend of their rocky unpaved roads. IIn two weeks in CR,  I  walked on a suspension bridge above the rainforest canopy and saw thirty shades of green beneath me. Swam in a thermal river, warmed by forces beneath the earth so that the water is as hot as any jacuzzi. The water was colored by jewel toned algaes, torqiouse and emerald.  I  rubbed  thick gray mud on my skin, and when I washed it away,  felt my face  smooth and soft,  made new. I   hiked to the top of a mountain and saw before me not one but two volcanoes, distinguished and strong. I flew over the jungle on a zipline 700 feet in the air, and  felt what the birds must feel. I have swum in the clear Pacific, watched the palms sway and the children play in the sand, bathed in sunsets painted in red, gold, lavender.  Every day, I found something new in Costa Rica, that little country endowed with so much to share. I became rich with memories, and each night I fell asleep to the sounds of the cicadas in the dark, and I dreamt of the beautiful things that little paradiso had to show me.

Little Gringa in the Inca Heartland

Nosotros no nacido a ser triste. We are not born to be sad. I heard a Peruvian priest  recite this to children in a Cathedral in the country's bustling capitol, Lima, and have since regarded it as a prime example of the Peruvian attitude---a sort of determination, dogged and unrelenting, to make joy, make happiness. They are not bubbly people, per se. They are not like, for example, Brazilians, whose dispositions, in my experience, have always been sunny. No. They work at happiness, and they do not allow it to sip them by. They are polite and friendly.  I, the little gringa with the skin white as a cloudy day and a digital camera hanging from my wrist, I watch them and learn from them and their country. I have found a new piece of myself in their beautiful spanish and their quick smiles and the Inca legacy they hold.

I like to watch the women and the children. I think babies and mothers are often the key to a culture, the essence of it distilled. The women here are small and often delicate, but still they carry their babies tied to their fronts in slings of colorful cloths, the children looking oversized against thier chests. They dress them in thick, warm footed suits, better suited to the arctic than Lima's moody white fog. This seems to me a message to their infants: I will prepare you and protect you against all weathers, and with me, you will be warm, safe and perhaps a lite smothered. I will not let the cold winds f the world touch you even if it means you stride out into the day looking like a misplaced Eskimo.  The babies are beautiful, dark eyed, smooth skinned, chubby cheeked. They cry very little, because there are always aunties and mothers and papas and siblings surrounding them, ready to soothe their fears and worries before they even know they are there. They are precious.

Peruanos do not consider old age to be a sad thing, like we do in the States. It just means they have had more time to do the work that needs doing. They are an active and busy people and well into their golden years the women still dance the salsa, knit alpaca wool sweaters, hawk their wares to tourists in the Inca capitol, Cusco. Their long black braids knock against their backs and tall bowler hats sit on thier heads. They stuff their round old lady feet into alpaca stockings and practical brown loafers. They seem to live forever.

Peru is not a wealthy country and poverty is always on the edge of the tourists’ photos, grubby children holding out cheap hats and mate candies, calling, Senorita, Senorita. When I tell them no, their eyes go liquid and sweet  and they ask me, “Porque no?” I find it hard then to resist buying their silly souvenirs or their pineapple or their chewing gum, whatever it is.

The past is everywhere here,  the  ancient Incas as much a presence as the living Peruvians. The streets of cusco are lined with their canals; one of its largest cathedrals once housed the Inca spiritual center, the most important temple in their vast empire. Walls of it still remain, and tourists come to see both.  One famous set of ruins, a citadel on a hill outside the city, sits opposite a huge, open armed statue of Christ.  Children slide irrevrently down one smooth, curved wall in the fortress, laughing, slipping, tumbling down, playing on the bones of the past. The Peruvians do not mind the ghosts of the Incas lurking in every corner. They welcome them. They are proud of them.  This is one of many things I admire about them.

They have much to be proud of.Upon seeing Macchu Picchu I felt an awe so deep it made my heart leap to my throat. It is so beautiful it beggars belief. It is also brilliantly designed, like so much the Incas did. In Inca architecture and culture, patterns are everywhere. The whole world is full of hidden wisdoms if you view it through their lens.  Everything has a  purpose,  a reason, a story. It is a remarkable way to live.

This country has inspired me. It has made me realize yet again that I must always travel, always see the world. It has also made me see that my soul is fed by the Latin world, that the sounds of Spanish being spoken around me and the sight of corn vendors on the street and colonial cathedrals in the sun make me feel joy rush through my body like a drug. I am a different version of myself.   I am Maria. You see, my name makes no sense in Spanish. Casey doesn’t translate--at best, it sounds like a mash up of que, meaning what, and si, which means yes. At worst, spanish speakers cannot even pronounce it at all. For this reason, my mother suggested I use my middle name, Marie, here, and go by Maria. I like this idea. I need a spanish name, because I have realized that my soul just might be Latina. In my heart there is warm bread, cobblestone streets, plazas and green jungle and tall Andean peaks. In my heart I am Maria.

We are Young Today

The wind blows my hair

And my bare feet cling to the rock

And I gaze out at a view so breathtaking, so expansive, it is almost unimaginable.

The waves crashing  gently against the shore far below, the birds wheeling, the sun sinking

Beauty incarnate.

But what interests me more is

His smile, winning, boyish, quick.

Her hand, warm and dry against my own

Or watching her look at things, the quiet way she observes

 Or the sweet welcome in her eyes.

He laughs and shows off his muscles, teasing, impressing

his audience of girls,

Girls with easy laughter

And we give it freely.  

We nest like sleeping birds

And one strokes my hair

I am calm and safe and happy

I am light like a child, my heart rising like  bubbles in a soda can.

Love is like a rope

It holds together and it binds and it carries

And with someone behind it, it pulls.

And I feel ours pulling me towards the future

A future filled with moments like this

Until they begin to feel almost ordinary.

Almost.

Until second glance.

The way their faces glow,

The music of their voices floating high into the air.

And then those moments will  feel anything but.

We are young today and the night and the rest of our lives  stretch before us

A winding, snaking path

A path that for now,
we walk together.