Tinker Toy Traumas

My time here in Massachusetts is coming to a close. This Saturday I’ll jet south to where palms sway, the sun restores, and little dogs dance around my ankles. I’m a bit in denial — trying to slow down time, for although I can’t wait to get home, this Worcester girl is a bit reluctant to leave.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a roller coaster visit click clicking me to the apex of heightened suspension — pausing just long enough for a quick-eyed glance around, and then hurling me into a tummy-tossing drop — but still, I’m back in line for more. There’s something about the thrill of the plunge, the blurred faces zipping by that connects me to where I’ve been and where I want to go.

I’ll board my plane, but I will never really leave this place of grainy footage and R-less accents, and as the HD version flickers against my contemporary soul — adult Leah, has discovered that everything remains somewhat the same, although modified by time and the generous distance that I’ve allowed myself. I know that leaving was necessary for it offered me a panoramic view, and now I’m able to see that Worcester is not only benign, but an endearing part of who I have become — my tribal home.

I’ve come to understand that Paris or grotto, Mordor or Shangri-La, it makes no difference where we come from, for the most frightening places are within our own minds, where tinker toy traumas torment our lives and spawn crippling fears; stunting our ability to reach beyond ourselves.

Worcester, I publicly apologize for placing the blame of the culpable on your pretty little head. And even though this visit has been squally and raw, I know that neither sun nor rain comes in judgment, but rather by natural course — and that all things, both dreary and bright, were, and are, just as they should be.

A Vital Mission

I’m heading up to MA for a spell. I have a vital mission—a delicate assignment appointed to me by the angels and I’m certain that all of heaven will be watching and cheering. And that’s how it should be—packed stands of roaring fans, cheering on brave souls with holes in their shoes.

I grew up in MA, and each time I return I feel I’m on an archeological dig, searching for familial clues, finding bits and pieces of evidence scattered like chalky bones throughout the city. Home. Worcester MA, where I toddled the gritty sidewalks in my size twos, holding Ma’s hand, the church bells pealing out the years, stopping me mid-play to ponder life’s secrets: Will the world end in my lifetime? Can God see everything I do? Am I late for dinner? I was as deep as midnight—as awake as noon, my eyes always watching as the potter’s blade cut into the clay.

I’m not a pessimist or a realist; I’m a wakeful dreamer with both feet on the ground and a good eye for detail. I see the danger, the blood on the wall, but I also see the light. The irony. The humor. The Love.

From a distance life seems so simple, like theories placed in cotton-lined boxes, carried by cautious couriers—unbreakable. But reality chews holes in your theories, rarely offering you the consideration of a cotton-lined box. No. Life is nitroglycerin carried in your own trembling hands. The great experiment whose outcome is yet to be determined. And tremble we do. But is that so terrible? For our trembling bears witness to our desperate need for something greater than our frailties, and accompanies us as we surrender to the vastness within, where we are linked like DNA to our one true love.

Angels, I am honored to accept this assignment. Humbled actually. Ma, I’ll be there soon.