Was is it a broken mirror
Spilled from my careless hands
Broken into many bits,
into shards of unwanted reflection
Is that what determined this fate?
N-o-w reminds me of 2003, seven years ago, when I quit my job working the front desk at prAna's newly-established Vista headquarters and moved my stuff out of my parent's North County suburban home and into a quaint, little casita in Golden Hill - a hOMe I shared with a young man who could not accept his self and definitely not me, nor those moments, then.
Seven years it has been since I first became familiar with the city of San Diego - riding my bike and walking along these rolling hill, city streets, with the opaque dim of Tijuana laying to the south and the sweet-tooth inducing Mission, Pacific and Ocean beaches to the west.
Seven years it has been since I was first introduced to a vibrant, local culture that included Sushi Performance & Visual Art, Lower Left Performance Collective, Jean Isaacs Dance Theatre, San Diego DanceJam and so many others.
In 2003, I was a college graduate, a world traveler and an educator who reveled in story as the fabric of our existence. Unfortunately, I somehow mistakenly thought that mystory wasn't "complete" - that something was always missing, like the mirror of an intimate relationship, another degree or a job at a university. Some thing was necessary to cover up and mask the very real, human me.
So, i kept running. away. Escaping. or trying to. and thinking that I could hide
and elude.
that i could flee
from that which makes me human.
