Playa Christmas

Spent Christmas in Playa del Carmen, and it made me mourn my wanderlust.

It all started with our waiter at Christmas dinner.  He told us he was from Mission Viejo, California, but he’d come to Playa a year ago, fell in love with it, and never left. I felt a pang. He is living my vacation.

on the playa

Then on the beach a day or two later, I overheard a young woman telling someone that she was from the United States but currently living in Argentina. Another pang.  What is she doing in Argentina?  Hot Argentinian lover? In how many ways is her life cooler than mine?

Ironic and perhaps self-indulgent, I’ll admit, to have these pangs while spending a week at an ocean-front resort on the Caribbean Sea. I get that. But we all have these things that tug us, that remind us of the people we once were and the people we thought we would be.

Not that I actually want to move to Playa del Carmen or Argentina. It isn’t that specific. But there was a time in my life when I traveled easily and often.  And I thought that time had just begun. I was sure I would fill passports and have several exotic addresses.

But as it goes, one choice after the next, and things shifted. We all mourn for the other side sometimes.

Mourning on la playa

In the shift, I chose to make a family with someone, and simply put, it didn’t turn out as I had hoped.  But I am tethered to it nonetheless, simultaneously bound and free. I have many of the obligations of a family, without the actual family as I thought it would be. It is a new edge to walk, and I’m still finding the borders, though the steps are the same as they often are.  Let go of what never was and create something new, wherever that may take you.

Typical holiday/new year stuff.

–Insert your favorite inspirational meme here– 


An Open Letter to November

Dear November,

I know things haven’t always been great between us, but I think it’s time we make amends.  I forgive you, November, and I can finally admit that I was wrong too.

I’m sorry I bad-mouthed you for so many years, calling you the most depressing month of them all.  That wasn’t cool.  And it wasn’t you, it was me.

I was the girl resigned to feel nameless on the frozen streets of Chicago, believing she belonged to someone else.  The girl who cooked pots of food and then made herself too sick to eat, until the bones were outlined on her chest.  That was all me, and I shouldn’t have dumped it on you.

It was me who dwelled, who stagnated, who saw loneliness in the cracks of love.  I was the one who focused on the pain in my family, instead of the healing.  There was a lot I didn’t understand yet, about family, and I’m still learning, but I no longer blame you for the way those lessons sting sometimes.

But you have to own part of this too. You did bring the death of two of my grandparents.  That can’t be unwritten.  And my heart was broken in you, November.  These things are not easy to get over.

And then there’s the cold of you.  And the early nightfall and the empty branches.  It’s a lot to deal with, ok?  Work with me here.

But, I know, you brought the birthday of a grandparent too.  And many other births and anniversaries and occasions to commemorate.  And you brought me love once too.  I won’t ever forget that.

So, I think it’s time, after all, to squash the beef.  I’m ready to let go of past injury and move on together. We both deserve another chance.  And I’m ready to celebrate the best in you, November.  Your gumbo, your football, your pumpkin pie.  And running through it all, your message of gratitude.

That’s what you’ve been trying to teach me all this time, isn’t it?  I get that now, but we’ve had some dark times together, and it was hard for me to hear you.

So let’s meet each other halfway, November.  Let’s wipe the calendar of memory clean and write a new story for ourselves.  One we can both agree on.

Love, Molly

open letter to November

 nothin’ lasts forever, even cold November rain…

From the Desk of

Cleaned out some old files at work and found these random scraps from last year. Apparently I was distracted and/or actively avoiding work at least twice during the spring semester.

pizza and sex

from the desk ofAnd I photographed my keyboard.

From the Desk of


Church for the First Time

I went to church for the first time recently. Not the first time I’d ever been inside a church, obviously, but it was the first time I’d ever actually taken myself to church. No wedding or funeral or quinceañera.  No family or friends.  Just me.  Going to church.

angel on the wall

I wanted to hear the choir.

Of course, there was a little more to it than that, as there usually is. A conversation, a choice, a circumstance, but when the pieces fell, I really just wanted to hear the choir.

My parents rarely took me to church as a child, but they did take me to the gospel tent at the New Orleans Jazz Festival.  And the music in that tent would fill me.  It would give me this feeling I have no name for, this resonance in my bones.

I wanted that feeling.  So I decided I should take myself to church in search of a choir that could make me feel it.  I asked around and ended up at a Baptist church in a historically black neighborhood.

And for a moment, from my pew in the back, I sensed it, that feeling.  Unfortunately, on this particular Sunday the resident choir was cut short, as there was a guest artist who performed, and I’ll suffice it to say that his brand of praise music was not my thing.  But I did experience a moment, and it was a moment of joy, and that is all I can ask for these days.

And though it wasn’t what I went for, I did appreciate the sermon as well, on forgiveness, loving thy enemy, and praying for those who have wronged you.  We’ve all been wronged. We all have something to hear in that.

The pastor was out of town, so the sermon was delivered by a guest reverend.  In speaking about forgiveness, she brought up the lure of revenge and how Hollywood loves a revenge story.  One example she used was the movie Waiting to Exhale.  From the congregation’s immediate response upon hearing the title, it was clear that many had seen this movie and were familiar with the plot-line of a woman whose husband is leaving her for someone else.

The reverend elaborated. Not only does she find out that her husband…of eleven years!…is leaving her for another woman…but he is leaving her for a WHITE woman!… To which the crowd responded with several more calls of affirmation.  People were feeling this example.

I was the only white person in the room.  The aforementioned white woman. I could feel eyes all on me, real or imagined, and I did my best to keep a poker face, figuring that any of my potential responses could be construed as inappropriate.

The reverend backpedaled.  Now, I don’t know why that made it worse, but somehow in the movie, that made her feel worse…

I’m curious if the reverend would have included this disclaimer had I not been present that Sunday, but of course I’ll never know, and ultimately it’s not important.

Either way, her words did not deter the young man sitting next to me from slipping me his number while we held hands during the closing prayer.

Really, I was just there to hear the choir.

Though really, I shouldn’t have to explain why I was there, or what brought me to that particular church on that particular Sunday, or why I love live gospel music, or any of it. I shouldn’t have to, and in fact, I don’t have to, and I know that, at least on some base level.

But over the last several months, I have felt judged for both not going and going to church.  I’ve felt I had to defend myself on both ends.  And that, in a word, sucks, though it is neither new nor surprising.  Part of it is that perhaps I care more about what other people think than I thought I did.  I’d like to pretend I’m over it, when the truth is, I’m still knee-deep.

And I have just begun my Jesus year, as some say, which I find both more amusing and more appropriate now then I would have ever before.  It’s possible I could use a resurrection metaphor right about now.

However, I’m not anticipating enlightenment or a rise to the messiah this year.  But I can still aim for more of that feeling.  Resonance.  And joy.  Whether it comes from a gospel choir, or finally forgiving, or the weight of my own exhale.

Not a Newspaper Blackout Poem

This is not a newspaper blackout poem, as obviously, there was no newspaper, just a journal entry from a couple weeks ago, but that was my inspiration.  And I liked it.

newspaper blackout poem
not a newspaper blackout
Not a newspaper blackout poem
Not a newspaper blackout poem