Update 10/28/13

I’m not as tired as I should be.  At 4:30 this morning I awoke in halves. One half wanting to pee and excited for the day. The second half, annoyed and leafing through her dreams for the bookmark.

The first half won.  I got dressed in my new favorite outfit — a black hoodie, camo pants, and red shoes — and went to The Commons for breakfast.  No one else was awake and so I had the place to myself.  Though I love my commune (it’s not a commune) mates, it’s nice to have a space to yourself no matter how occasionally.

I pulled up the draft for my play, Sala Kakuhle, Mama and started to type.  I played music from some of my favorite artists and began to sing.  I wrote verses, monologues, and felt the rhythm of my story deep inside my chest.  It was nice.  I wasn’t stopped up by hunger, stress, or whatever else sits at my feet on occasion.

Hours passed and eventually I fed myself, joked with my neighbors, played with dogs, took a  walk, exercised, went for a run, and watched tv on Hulu.  I had an impromptu meeting with my boss and he offered me the job I thought I was going to have to interview hardcore for.  This job is so perfect for me right now because it matches my love of food — preparing it for the masses — with my love of the outdoors. Gives me the autonomy I’ve always desired as well as the responsibility.  I have a place to live on the ranch, for free, year-round.  I’ll work 8 months a year. That’s it.  I get time off to do work for Earthseed, and to just play.  Or, I could guide for the summer.

This is good for me.  I’m nervous because that’s my go-to emotion when awesomeness happens. I know. I know.

So, I’m moving to Tucson for 8 months out of the year, and then I’ll be living in Seattle for the other 4.  What makes me happiest, is that those four months align perfectly with Seattle’s beautiful summers.  I’m lucky. I’m happy.

the danger of a single story

There is something caught in me. Caught like a kernel in the throat of a stranger only smoother.  Less prevalent.  I don’t think I’m supposed to know it’s there and it’s trying to hide.

Today is my 29th birthday.  “I am 29.”  My conversations from now on will contain just that, perhaps more than anything else. “I am 29.” To many I am still a baby.  To others I am too old. To myself, I am stuck in the middle of something I can’t figure out.

Last night, as a gift to myself, I bought a ticket to see Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speak at Benaroya Hall because a few months ago friend forwarded me her a link to her TED Talk:

Her speech/presentation/talk was interesting.  It left me feeling, plain.  She was normal. In another world we could be friends. Conversations about shopping and men, society would cram themselves into our skulls wanting to be shared. We could be girlfriends sharing our darkest depths without shame or filter. I was surprised at just how good of girlfriends we could be.

During the question and answer session they asked questions from the audience. I submitted this one, “Do you have any advice for an American young woman of color writer who is afraid her story has already been told?”  Her response was simple, ” Every story has already been told.  There are what, probably 5 stories? I would ask her to please, please, please write her story.”

I wonder if it’s my story lodged in my throat hiding from the air.