We live each day Still devoted to our ideology that we are free that we live in the Land of Justice, of Liberty, that we are better, stronger, and informed … Continue reading In the Desert Still?
I have two hands Of my very own Both are strong Able to lift and squeeze And both are weak Too soft to do all That they need. Yet they … Continue reading My Two Hands
When we were children My mother had a garden wild as we Full of bachelor’s buttons heron’s bill, vining twists of morning glory field madder and daisies Sunflowers, snapdragons, poppies, … Continue reading My Mother’s Weeds
I’ve been pondering the way our personal narratives and sense of identity shape our actions and our inactions. Most of us have an idea in our heads and hearts of … Continue reading On the Importance of Questioning Our Personal Narratives
I have to start this post with an apology. I truly try to keep politics out of my writing and blogging, but I feel the need to break my silence … Continue reading Earn Our Vote
Pacing the floor To soothe That neurotic itch To get a few steps more For the FitBit lift But the floor is a maze A Labyrinth worth pacing A veritable … Continue reading The Maze of a Modern Mom
And from the deepest shadows of her mind That dark beast rises, gnawing, ravenous, It searches, searches, until it finds That little girl, all wrapped inside Her little globe, her … Continue reading Self-Doubt
Okay, so I put this out there in my post on being a med student’s wife, but something that I didn’t mention about the hardship of being a med student’s … Continue reading On Showing Up
I once was (and, in all honesty, still am to some degree) a creature of expectation. Perhaps it was part of being a dreamer – I spent so much of my time with my head in the clouds or in a wistful future, I wove intricate little plans for myself of what may be, would be, and could be. I hoped and dreamed up a world of wonders for myself and my family, a world away from the hurt I had grown accustomed to, and I wove into that world a certain degree of expectations about who I am.
So my hopes became tinged with an expectation for disappointment and sadness. An expectation that I would always be Rachael the Unloved. That when someone forgot something trivial, perhaps it meant I was still the Unloved. The Unimportant.
So, here’s my final version of my poem on Expectations. You may have seen earlier drafts, but I decided they sucked – er, um, what I mean to say, is – I decided that they were a little too rough around the edges. So, I may be deleting them. If you read and preferred a previous draft, feel free to let me know and I can send it to you.
Otherwise, here it is: