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“Bless her Heart,” he says,
to a product of display
but to her dismay:
Silhouette behind
numbers and comments – many
of which carry her.
“Who,” – should cherish her,
could take care of her
would love her: profile.
He saw her display,
with another hundred men,
behind glass windows.
Seeing an outline,
shape with no response throughout,
still, completely still.
“Hello,” she said
tight-lipped as a hushed shadow
in the faint doorway.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Who
In the midst of a long summer night, inspiration seems to drift to our minds in forms of thoughtfulness, reminiscing of the day’s adventures, some vivid imagination, which sometimes even leading to new poems or prose written. Most commonly, a quiet night is one of crickets, fairy lights, blankets, summer breezes, and an exchange of “wise words” between the best of friends. Tonight’s wise words are those of anticipation of a long travel to her homeland: India. She quotes William Feather, “One way to get the most out of life is to look upon it as an adventure.” I respond, “Safe Travels,” and I know she will be, one of safe thoughts, people, and places – but of course not too safe for what’s the journey without surprises, and challenges within them.
In these “Wise Words” I questioned myself: “What is one adventure you’d like to experience? Why?” – “What does your heart flutter to when your mind wanders?” I ask her this, in our spawn of deep thoughts, and open reflection. In a slew of “wise words” we answer, these are mine:
My adventure is one of spontaneity.
Never expecting an adventure coming. Live chasing ambitions so vigorously, a love or friendship so powerful, a journey so great – so meaningful, so everlasting, so memorable that the grounds beneath our feet pile in our shoes by the build up of soil and pebbles building up in our shoes as we run in directions that are unknown to us. The memories from these adventures are timeless when it’s spontaneous. Never settling for what lands in our shoes, but running so that more is given, and more is returned.
These adventures – our lives – are scrambled, but always validated for they never happen alone, and when they do, it does not go unnoticed. All we say is “it’s time.” Holding up our watches to check the time, but nothing is ticking but the direction of where the hour hand points, and then the minute – and that is the direction we go. Our watches turn into compasses, guiding our adventures in confusion before a grin of contemplation, and schemes come into play.
Spontaneity sets in when a breeze whistles in our ear, and pulls our hair, assuming a start, outside infinitely, talking about nothing and everything until the temperature drops. Feelings are small but a wide spectrum of happiness, and some of unsure indifference to hindering moments. In the end, there is a tall tale that consume a memory of the ambience of the atmosphere; its touch, its finish, its smell, its aura so different, so special, so unique from any other adventure before.
When our adventures are also our dreams that we have been chasing our whole lives, and perhaps there are holes at the bottom of our shoes letting every build up of what we’ve learned again, there is chance that you are running too fast. Take a moment to mend your shoes, learn to reflect on the the experiences you’ve had. Spontaneously do this – frequently.
Live for an unsettling factor in your heart toward what is unknown. Find what is fueling your energy. Use the energy to try to touch the lives of others. Spread your love. Adventure spontaneously. Give your compass-watch, a tap, and start again.
Photographs done with one of my best friends, Meghana Kakarla, of the blog “Coffee Time with Meg”!
– Emilyn Nguyen, Wise Words: “One way to get the most out of life is to look upon it as an adventure.” – William Feather (Featuring Meghana Kakarla of MegKakarla.Com)
This is the first piece inspired by William Feather’s quote, “One way to get the most out of life is to look upon it as an adventure,” is written in a collaboration series:
Wise Words: A Series
This series is inspired by one of my best friends, Meghana Kakarla of the blog “Coffee Time with Meg”, and something I hope to share alongside her. For finding and then sharing our “Wise Words” at the end of the day has become one of my favorite pastimes, leaving me looking at many quotes to find one that sticks out among the others to share, already empowering myself with words of wisdom. In the evenings, when we say “talk to you tomorrow” we say it alongside a quote, phrase, or saying that inspired, empowered, or evoked us in some way in which we call “Wise Words” leaving us motivated for our ambitions of the days that follow.
Meghana:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/meghanaak
Instagram: https://instagram.com/meghanaa37/
What do you see out of those deep dark brown — colorless to human sight, but so riveting in life — eyes? Can I ask you how you see the light, because when you smile, it seems like the sun is show from within them; happiness so clear that even I, can’t help but smile at the sight of it. I can see the shimmering beams of color in between your irises, radiating in all the colors that make dark brown eyes. Do you realize that when you glimpse at me, I can feel the corners of them on the side of my face, and though I am avoiding looking at them, the light never stops shining — not even through your dark brown hair. I feel them closing in on me, behind me, stroking at my neck. I know that you are there. I know. When you look at me, however, I hope you’re looking right through me. I don’t want you to see me through my face lines, and my eyes are so mundane, but there might be the chance that you’ll see the butterflies flying endlessly in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps when you look at me, I hope you see through me, so maybe you’ll see the words trapped at the back of my throat that I’m afraid to say. When you look at me, I hope you’re seeing right through me because instead of my appearance you’ll see what I have to offer inside my heart – or not, so you have a reason to change me. Tell me what do you see out of those deep dark brown eyes, tell me what you see when you look into mine.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Dark Brown Eyes
I once thought that
anything I could touch,
I could
change,
and yet
everything I could see,
I could have a
different perspective –
nothing more
but than like the
Sun.
You can be right:
anything you can touch,
you can change.
Whether the metaphorical,
the symbolic told you
that you could not transform,
you can transmit: light.
Sometimes, you may not be right,
But tonight your point is
everything you will see,
everything you concede,
all you have yet to do is
believe that you can
Shine.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Sun and Shine
Hellos are met at the front door with sincere waves and smiles. Notice the curvatures of their lips – their off-white teeth and cracked lips shining like moonlight towards an opening of one’s heart and letting someone in. The creak of the porch served as a stoic warning, but I entered. My awkward posture, fidgeting hands, and a discrete smile, I entered with such caution, and propriety; still feeling the uneasy step in to a white abyss: a new year. A blank space it was. In the depths of my persona, I was a pair of bright eyes, very little of a voice, and an overfilled brown leather journal. On the twenty-fourth page of it, I wrote:
“Twenty-Fourteen is about an evolution; a change in time with an entirely different meaning; an emerging voice; another side of fear; laughing endlessly; loving ceaselessly; running regularly; remembering the smallest moments; reading hundreds; writing even more; an exploration somewhere near, and somewhere far; an adventure; learning something new, and something old; freely living – infinitely, and fearlessly.”
Now, I think:
Changing. Perhaps.
Evolving. Entirely.
I finally found my voice, and it was no longer in the symbolism of neither my poetry, prose, nor strokes of my brushes, but the sound waves when I spoke. I didn’t believe my mother when she told me that “you’d grow into your voice. It’s okay to be shy,” but eventually I did. My anxiety when speaking eventually evaporated and my voice did emerge along with an obnoxious laugh, the way my mother says my father tilts his head back and squeals in silent laughter, and a contagious chuckle. I evolved. I was no longer just entering the front doors with sincere waves, and smiles, but I was letting people enter with a darling hello. I became observant of the smallest of memories in book characters, and new found friends. I was the greeter at the door by the end of Twenty-Fourteen.
I let people freely enter my life. I welcomed them. I met people that loved me, changed me, cared for me, but also love, and cherish in return. I met people for days a time, only a week, to grow as sisters – still growing, still evolving. I met people that laughed and loved me for one bad joke and an obscure giggle. I met people that understand me, and that don’t; people that were distinctively at the opposite end of the pole of where I was, but those were where the adventures were best. For once, I was content with not being able to understand content with having neither an explanation nor reason for all that I do in my lifetime. I can love science while loving religion as an old blanket; I can be creative while being innovative…
“With a mind like yours, stay true to what you believe…”
I was blessed with adventures, small and large with these people. Explorations with them, I found pieces of myself in each place I found myself wandering in, the good and the bad: my plan to start anew. I was met face to face with my fears and my failures, and this alone was a blessing. Through my books, my long strolls, running reminiscing in the rain, spinning in summer dresses, getting lost in old libraries, biking in the woods, I was no longer afraid to let go, be wild, be free, and be misunderstood. Twenty-Fourteen loved me, made me, broke me, and changed me. Until now, I realize that I’m surrounded by such energy in this life, of both love and such fearlessness, I am no longer afraid to wander alone into a welcoming white abyss: this New Year.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Twenty-Fourteen
Currently Listening To: Your Song By Elton John
Collection of Memories of Twenty-Fourteen:
(Opening My Memory Jar)
There is no future without the present day.
There is no present without an idea of the future.
Perhaps this is where our problems begin.
I wish I could be able to live more in the present,
but my head is always dreaming about a future.
I forget that I have to get there first.
I don’t have a future yet –
it has yet to only exist in my dreams.
So I lay my head down walking on clouds, as a dreamer.
I do not know what will happen –
Nothing is for certain, but for the sake of shame,
I admit it is the only thing that I have control over.
Now – Day by Day for and to a Future Anew.
I’ll admit that I carry a fear of the future,
its aura of mysterious vines and suspenseful drapes.
In my dreams , I am able to a push them aside,
Now – Dreaming of the Present,
What I must do for a New Future.
Finally, something we can agree on.
– Emilyn Nguyen, The Present & Future
I always had an admiration for doors as you did. The doors were the springs in simplicity that kept me grounded all these years – never to leave the house after six and before six without telling him. You tried throwing away the trinkets she left behind, but still, you loved her like you loved the front door she made aside you. Left open, you exchanged the screen doors for glass because one day, you believed that she would be staring through it again, clear through glass rather than distorted. You didn’t want to admit you loved the light but hated the evening winds – you believed they blew her away. The doors reminded you of hope as they do in uncertainty but in your reprimanding depth, I said they were reminders of hope to create the frames of uncertainty; shall I leave it open or closed, summer sun or in springs rain, glass or screen. No one can discover what lies behind their hinges with a quick glance. If she will return with her eyes of apology or in hope of shelter. Yet, I still loved doors. For every one held its own adventure, its own journey, its own story – fate of love or hate – but see, you began to hate doors. Your mind as hysterical as mine when you began to forget my name. You decided you would rather close them – the doors. You always liked to tear things down instead of build them up. You made me replace the glass with the screen, so you could feel the winds. Now that you’re relapsing into Alzheimer’s superiority, you’ve forgotten about mom, no longer waiting for her to return at the door. Yet, I waited for you to return. When I trusted you to open my doors and you slammed it right in my face, but I knew it wasn’t you, Dad, your conscience slowly deteriorating. You crushed my insecurities in the small cracks I let hope try to shine through. The door we made together, sanded together began to rust into dust. You splintered my heart on the wooded frames I gave to you to protect. I painted you with the brightest, loveliest colors of yellow, invested in every brush stroke I made because even when you wanted it closed, I knew somewhere you wanted the light again. You hated doors and I hate that I trusted you enough to open mine, so I did, and once you saw mom, I had knew that in my uncertainty, you had found hope – only leaving me to mine.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Doors
It was the adrenaline of being tangled, swinging many feet from the ground, with you, holding the rope, anchoring me, keeping a hold of me even when I was levitating miles above. From the top, my arms were cramping up, and my legs were shaking – my fear unbearable – but I quickly close my eyes and climb further up looking down when my heart was speeding at its brink and – there you are.
You look like the boy who kept his desk too clean in Elementary School. The boy who rose his hand to answer all the questions in Middle School, moving on to High School as Valedictorian. You look like the boy who grew up denying everything, as if you were any less than a common man – you are not a common man. You remind me of myself, with your glasses always standing firm at the bridge of your nose. Securely they stand, reflecting the light when you turn your head from side to side, glancing at the rock wall; glancing at me. You seem like one to savor the rain, and the humidity of an exotic forest; one to capture every moment in a picture even if the droplets are pelting into our skins. Your hair is short but long enough for me to notice the curls above your ears. They collect sunflower pollen, and you don’t notice, but the curls above your ears constantly dancing to the light shown in.
You seem to be the equivalent to my white bedroom walls, holding my secrets to the brown wooden frames capturing my success. I believe that they are bound with the ties to my God. My religion forbids suffering, but my desire persists. I admit that there is dust collecting on my bookshelves and perhaps this is a sin to my desires. Scarcely, I am heard, with my mind that creates the words: I am ready.
The vines I have started growing up these walls, and I know that the time has come. I tuck my hair behind my ears, and let my eyes wander to analyze your face, only when you aren’t looking. I see your eyes in my peripheral vision, so blue, and clear to me, as you tie the ropes to my waist.
My reflexes – even for my eyes – are fast, but it is hard when I am with you. Your eyes keep meeting mine, as you tie the robe to my harness, the rope gliding against my skin, and around my waist precisely. When our fingers touch I wonder if the butterflies that flooded me reached and carried throughout you.
My fingers trace the rocky walls – rough, and I analyze the heights I will climb, and I close my eyes, as I feel your hands bend the rope into an infinity sign – twice. Despite my angst of heights, my fear seems to be approaching its death. I tuck my discomposure away behind my eyes, and this time, I hide from my anxiety, from these thoughts. I glimpse down at the ropes last knot, and lastly at your eyes, and I know that: I am ready.
You tell me that once you reach the top yell at the top of your lungs that you’ve made it, because “you are capable of everything” and your worlds ring inside of me. Your hands are worldly to a fortune teller. You were everything you aspired to be – everything I aspire to be. Climbing became your hobby, for you were afraid of shallow living only aiming to heights. With this in mind, I realize: I’ve made it.
I looked down at my palms, lines and creases, blended alike. You are worldly. Your hands are worldly to me. Eight times again – Infinitely.
– Emilyn Nguyen, The Eight Figure Knot
Illusions are where we were bound – Indelible.
I fell for the artist, as a writer, embedding his love into black ink.
He painted the words I could no longer write:
Ask the priest down the street about the heart you wish to possess;
how you want to relapse the emotion you once had after widowed.
You merely questioned how one’s pure beating chest,
wasn’t contracted with a light headed soul as yours
– now that you’ve seen her face,
the skin between your fingers tingled with an emptiness of a brush.
In a year, your scintillations glows a bit more gold than these blue ink pens,
a locale of open fields and color-blocked mountains use as a barricade.
Paths painted inset – layered beneath and below the certainty of years,
all of this useless chaos swirling in about these empty distractions, and feeble
pretense –
as you paint her; sculpt her colors.
Enfold our inevitable surrender,
sculpting faces in 100 Celsius; sloughing yellowed paper to Mache her skin.
Pressing your face against the damasked canvas to remember,
her neck of a turquoise necklace, on your rosewood table
as you paint a familiar face.
Saved a memory in the clot in your forehead,
that you’ve strayed into sickle shapes and fickle pieces.
Cautiously you paint her ashes red of your pain, her eyes emerald green and blue:
Spring has come, and you remember her face as you sit here…
Plucking flowers from her grave.
We were the notch in the naïf; complete tessellations in a slew of opals.
He blew past me, subtle in strength, silent in the hymns of prayers;
transfixing beauty to the encounter of the wind
gentle as breeze lifts seeds off dandelion manes, spiraling, winding.
An echo in his heart conjures up a colorful time torn beneath his feet.
He was the color endowed in me, painting flowers on my grave.
Loving him was the fortunate occurrence of serendipity in each page I wrote
like the scintillating sun follows, brightest as we become a climatic whole.
– Emilyn Nguyen, Falling in Love with an Artist
↠ Emilyn's Journey ↞ 