Diana Kurniawan

The River Gorge rushed wild with high waters flowing over to my raft as I paddled to the capsized friend. He reached for my hand and I pushed his shoulders into the water as he bounced towards me and I pulled him inside. Two foster children in the water lost their guides far from the creek they were to stay in. One child held on to a rock and slipped his grip and his body floated into the wild waters downstream. I paddled and yelled, "swim downstream and just let the waters float you to the edge, just swim. I'll catch you there." The boy swimmer couldn't go far and I was worried for his drowning because his life jacket could only do so much.

 

A little girl, not much from five, with a life jacket wailed down the current, and my friend I rescued earlier told me, "I can swim to her!" The sound of the water masked his voice, and I heard, "I can reach her," and so I gave him my oar that I kept back from the cabin before the trip and told him, "Strech this out to her when we get close," and I kept paddling and rushed down digging my paddle deep and sweeping the waters behind me to move upstream. Rafting against the current was dangerous because the waves goes under the raft and pushed it up with more chances to capsize, but the little girl deserved her second chance in life. The sound of her cries cracked the silenced years in my ears, from the loss of prospects for children and the loss of finding true love. Her cries was my saving grace.

 

It took all of my stamina to paddle upstream to her to push against the surfing currents as she held on to a large branch over her head with both hands stretched with her body being pulled away from the wild rivers. My friend, let's call him Joe, stretched the oar and put it in between her arms just over her head and she grabbed it. Joe pulled her close and I kept surfing against the stream.

 

"What's your name?" I asked her, as she held on to the oar and Joe pulled her inside our raft. "Kayla," she said, in tears of tremors. She shivered from the cold waters, but the orange sun from the wild fires nearby was high above us and we all knew she would dry off. "Hang on tight in the raft, we have another friend downstream." We paddled around and surfaced the raft swiftly downstream following the rushing current. 

 

The boy was still in his life jacket and he swam three miles down the stream, but he was safely near the edge of the river, in betwen two rocks. He must have held on the rocks and stayed there for safety because the current won't move it and its solid surface was not covered with moss. The boy didn't cry, instead he smiled at me and my friend, Joe, and told us, "I know how to swim," and we curved the rock to pick him up. He hugged Kayla and Joe, and I rafted down to the cabin station downstream to the right of the fork of the Gorge. 

 

Paddling the raft felt like carrying a newborn puppy. It felt fresh in my soul, but with a softness of comfort and love in my bones, with the backdrop of the wilderness. If only I rafted everyday of my life, this dream in my sleep would mostly be more wild. When we arrived at the cabin, my body was soaked and my yoga pants and five-fingers slip-ons were sopping wet. Joe was happy and carried Kayla as she stopped crying and asked for some hot chocolate. The boy came to me, and hugged my flat stomach, "Hunter," he said, "my name is Hunter." And I cried to pieces, as the yearnings for children and a loving husband finally came to an end. 

 

The cabin was opened and the Duke of Cambridge was there, in a batik sarong, and a Balinese wrap hat on his head. He had a Sumatran sash and shirt over him and wrapped in his waist was a leather belt and shoulder stap with a Batik handle and artilleries. He came to me, and told me, "I've watched you grow. You've done good, even with the mistakes you've made." His voice of acceptance held me together as I felt a peace over me, from the tip of my hairs to the tip of my toes. He told me that I've overcame many afflictions and I was sovereign. "Fear no more," he told me.

 

I woke up this morning, and felt at ease. Even in dreams, I was loved.

 

Just write.

There is a fire inside me, burning as if it is a candle lit with a thick enough wick to last a lifetime. At times it flickers from the wrestles in life, but somehow it keeps burning. Without this candle, I would have died, a long suffering death. I tried to put it out once but the wick flares and catches fire spontaneously. I will not fan it out, instead I will feed it.

 

This fire flares when joy sets in and it feels like adrenaline, and it roars when I am in meditation or in relationship. It consumes me and I don't mind it. It stays in between my chest and it is inside my soul. Without this fire, I don't speak in gratitude. When the fire flames, I enjoy every moment of it, and I savor each passing time, although the world is a wave of doubt. I don't stagger nor put out of passion for life when the fire keeps burning, and when there is a time when it flickers and almost dies, I look for another flame to fire my soul alive.

 

Fires can die, when the glass ceiling comes close and suffocates the flame and at times, discouragement comes. Yet, I look at the neverending wick I am given and I know I am made with a special light. Untamable but not savage, passionate but not jealous, and sincere but not mild. The fire flames even when no one cares for it, because it doesn't requiere a lighter since it burns from its wick.

 

Might be a hassle for birthday cakes, but I only need this one flare to keep myself from the storms of life. The fire refines me and gives me a path and a plan. I never ask for its purpose, because I know I am its life. This fire will stay in me, loving me, and keeping me aligned with life's journey. Sometimes, it does become difficult, because this fire is made for more than this body and mind. I can only follow its wisdom to hope for a better tomorrow and I won't be dismayed for it is my help. 

 

This fire burns eternally and forever more, and through it, I can write my destiny. Just write. 

The future felt bleak with the start of the pandemic in early March 2020, but now I am well into the gear towards Autumn. I am no longer a stranger to the concept of surrendering and focusing on the present instead of mulling on what might happen. It has not been healthy and the masks are proof of it. I don't mind the protection, but I am still not used to the normal.

 

I hope to see more solidarity with social distancing, keeping boundaries while preserving community with the attempt to connect with our friends and family. I still hope to meet new people and join new groups, and create fellowship with those in my areas and community circles. It is only human. 

 

My thoughts goes to the future, and what it will look like in a year or two, and five to ten years. Will we still wear masks? Should we stock up on Clorox Bleach and sanitary wipes? Somehow I feel safer now with these precautions than when school shootings and random shootings were on a rampage in the United States. 

 

What I am looking forward to now is the November 2020 Election, with a much anticipated battle between the candidates. I can only hope for the best, and I just want to have the safer United States before the Trump Administration. The world has been in chaos for four years, and I am hoping for a change.

 

The year is almost gone and Halloween is near and Thanksgiving and Christmas are around the corner. 2020 is almost gone, and I feel that some things are unfinished. I feel the world has to start from the beginning again, and connect with our community more than ever. We need the human contact.

 

This evening is about vulnerability and giving my whole life to the maker of the universe. I surrender with all of my heart, mind and soul, and there truly is no other way to handle this year otherwise. My future is in God's hands, and I can only keep doing what gives me fulfillment in my soul and keeps me going with a hopeful outlook. It is taking a step, one foot in front of the other, and enjoying the scenery for what it is. I won't look back anymore, not about love, and not about my career, and certainly not about life. 

 

At the beginning of the pandemic, my life felt final, but now, everything is possible.  

 

Just write.

The rocks on the soil gives into the Earth as my sneakers steps one foot in front of the other, pacing with my music. Running on the grainy and cracked ground is succor to my soul. The pebbles won't lead to a fall and the friction gives a chance to solidify the muscles striations forming on my calves. It is worth the endurance and my stamina keeps me going. 

 

The weeds on the trail are now as tall as me, with large sunflowers and leafs the size of my palms. There is no creek, but the path gives me a way to cope and leads me to a healthy life. The forgiving trail loves everyone, the weary, the mentally ill, the hopeful, the criminals and those who just needs a walk away from the city. 

 

Trails like these makes me a faster runner, although at times I stop from the heat inside my body, almost out of breath but not out of hope. I love trail running, eventhough I am no expert on any trails or any sport. The acceptance from the trail makes me feel loved and I gain energy and peace of mind.

 

Don't run with a motive, just do it. Pace, one step at a time, and let the trail lead you to a focus on the journey. Even if you run for an hour like me, or for ten hours like some, the trail is sanguine and wonder. Keep sweating and keep running, keep loving and keep writing. Life won't stop and neither should I and neither should you.

 

Time feels fast when I run on these trails and although my feet often drags from the small grating rocks underneath my feet, I ignore the pain. I don't want to stop because I deserve to keep running. Nothing matters on these trails, and the ground allows for trading sorrows. Let your tears flow and let your mind chatter with your lips professing in verse, no one is listening. Your secrets are safe on these trails. 

 

Steady on and steady state, with your feet stepping and bouncing over the Earth, the soil is happy to have me. I am with joy as I power up my life, bending my knees slightly as each foot steps wholesomely, and lifts up in sprints. Life is to be a journey and so is health, and these trails keeps my stamina alive.

 

Just write. 

A few miles down the road, a cottonwood with hands for branches stands green in the prairie. The street of Highway 52 goes to 287 North and roads through Longmont like an asphalt river through the city. The cars drive without disruptions and it is always a peaceful road. A bus stop is on Main and 21st, near a Wallgreens with a free vaccums sign inside the plexiglass casing for the advertisement. There are no vaccums, but the promise gives a hope and a giggle for the woman on the metal seat underneath the stop. 

 

The bus is probably half an hour away but the woman sits patiently, with a brown purse that slings around her right shoulder. Not too skinny, perhaps a medium at Kohls, but solid with calves thick enough to kick a wild dog. She doesn't ask questions, but keeps looking down 287 North with a hope of a destination. Her hair is in a ponytail and her brown skin soaks up the sunrays beyond the clouds. She doesn't twiddle her thumb on the metal seat, rather places her hands on her purse, protecting it, because a woman of worth knows her belongings and it is her right. 

 

Her mask is not designer, instead the disposable type with a white stretchy rubber around her ears. Designers masks are in these days and sadly, it is the new normal, but for the woman, disposable is her choice. The woman has cheeks worthy to be pinched but no one will mess with her because her eyes are coal fierce and round like a steel wrecking ball. She looks down Main Street again and no bus, yet.

 

Next Urgent Care is close by, with just one car in the parking lot and no emergencies. Whoever goes into the urgent care doesn't know about out-of-network charges without Medicaid, and Obamacare is not part of the accessible plans. The woman stands and leans against the bus stop with her temple on the plexiglass. Dog days of Summer can cause a heat stroke, but cool breeze refreshes her as strands of her hair flies in the wind. She looks above her and the rectangular metal shade is over her head, attached to the plexiglass casing with steel outlining the bus stop. She looks over her wrist, but there is no watch, as she caresses her skin. Que hora es, porque el autobus es muy tarde!

 

Everything moves slower with the Coronavirus, and the woman walks back to her seat, waiting. 

 

Just write.

"Mom, can I have this?" I asked her, with a Spider-Man helmet in my hands. CSPC, ASTM as it said on the tag. I put it on and locked the safety class under my chin.

 

"Jeremy, scale it down a notch. You have to stop asking for things you already have," she said, holding a Purell anti-bacterial in one hand. "People are dying."

 

"It's Spider-Man," I begged.

 

"He took out his tonsils and kisses girls upside down, and you still think he's your favorite?" Mom said. Her cheeks turned red and I knew I had to stop asking or we won't go out for lunch and I'd have to eat left-overs.

 

"Are you angry with me?" I asked, with the helmet still on.

 

"Honey, you know how only fat people go to the Dairy Queen? Spoiled kids will always get bad parking spots when they get their driver's license when they turn 16," she replied. "Do you want to be spoiled? Do you think that's a fair life?"

 

I took a breath and walked to the next aisle and saw a man with his glasses upside down. I didn't want to ask what happened to him, but he probably had popcorn flavored jelly beans stuck up his nose when he was little too.

 

"Mom, can I have a pen?" I asked her and took a pen to show her.

 

"Yes, put it in the cart," she said, as she took the pen from my hands.

 

"I have one at home, how come I can't have the helmet?" I asked, with the helmet still on.

 

Her lips quivered, as she stared at my face, then closed her eyes with her right hand. 

"I won't be spoiled, I promise," I told her. The insides of my stomach tickled because I knew if I had this helmet, I could ride my bicycle faster than my Dad's Volvo.

 

"No, but thank you for the laughs, baby," she told me, as she burst into laughter.

 

"Fine," I dragged my feet to the back of the store and took off the Spider-Man helmet and felt lousy like yesterday's towel.

 

"Jeremy, hurry up!" Mom yelled at me, while pushing her cart towards my direction.

 

Like always, I ran to her cart and stood backwards on the front wheel with my arms stretched back, holding the front of the cart.

 

Mom pushed me down the toilet paper aisle, and I flew the rest of the shopping away.

 

"Mom, look at that Slime Kit!" my eyes popped.

 

Just write.

The rejections ransomed my thoughts, but writing was more than magic. The empty pages offered more than doubts as the invitation besotted me with a soulful divination. Although I was a wounded sinner, the calling for stories gave me a drive to push forward.

 

Writing my stories reconciled my passion with grace, my sins with forgiveness, and depression into healing. The fear gone and I was immersed into a world of mine own, that of which no one could harm. This word junkie propelled forward, moving against the devil who begged me to give up my life and my literary journey.

 

The fuel to write was the vicissitudes from self pity, an action towards love. Away sorrow, away loneliness, and be gone hatred. They were no more because these empty pages befriended me with kindness and compassion, a true love no one could sabotage. 

"Keep going," said my thoughts, as I wrote down the desires to live and to write, till I am no more. Why stop, when my life has been full of stories the world deserved to hear?

 

Just write.

Rejection felt as costly as doubt. Whereas doubt arose from within our thoughts, rejection was an infliction from outside of our control. Doubt was just an imagined worst outcome, but rejection felt so final. However, both felt it could cause one to the other. Push.

 

A fool cares for neither doubt nor rejections. He kept on going, oddly enough just as winners and champions. Was I a fool for literature if I was rejected by many? Or was I made like a champion with an unflinching faith as if I was made to write. Push.

 

What kept a writer to write other than hope after rejection and full of doubt? It has got to be faith and belief, for a voice original to society and mankind. Humanity held under the table as if a gun to an enemy. It could spark and fire at any moment. Push.

 

Fires and sparks were the elements they wanted as readers, yet there was no telling if I had ever caused any. Perhaps some kind of miracle could happen to me, turning me into a literary fairy, writing words of wisdom to children and adults that ripples throughout the world. Push.

 

No matter a fool or champion, my faith in stories and words won't harm none. It was a method to play, create, heal, and hope for, of which my mind could rest upon. Push.

 

Rejection or doubt, even worry or hopelessness could be erased with every effort I placed. Publishing or not, and making or not, even if it was just this blog, push. Until it ends.

 

Just write.

Healing takes time.

 

The wait in the hospital cafeteria felt like driving behind a semi during a snow storm, slow with apprehension. All I thought about was how much time I spent with my Dad, building shelves in the garage. Measuring the shelving, drilling the nuts and bolts, and centering them on the wall. It was our last home building project and I savored every minute when I had the chance.

 

I saved all of his voice mails to me, because now he slurs every word and we could hardly understand his speech. While watching The Great British Baking Show, he collapsed next to me as I panicked and screamed to my Mom to hand me the telephone. His tall stature and weight dropped with gravity while I couldn't even lift his shoulder off the ground. He battled infections after infections, as I cried and cried. All I wanted was to be five again, riding on his shoulders or standing on top of his toes, letting him walk me as he held up my hands.

 

Scarce times for writing meant I was busy with life and visiting my Dad, which was good, but dwindled down my hopes of publishing. My thoughts went to the times I cherished with my Dad, and I stopped caring about writing. I savored the conversations when we took turns mowing the lawn during a hot summer day. The time we compared our lumps underneath our skin because some nurses took out their aggression on us by injecting us with saline. The heartbreaking time I told my Dad about sexual assault, and the time I told him that my dreams of having a family and a loving husband might just be an episode in a Korean drama. The times I counted were worthwhile, so was this waiting. 

 

The wait was not the same as waiting for a test result or for romance to enter my life. It was more dear and tender, as waiting for a birth of a baby. I hoped and prayed, and thankfully, my Dad survived everything. I couldn't blame anyone on the infections and the stroke. I completely surrendered, as I surrendered my own life. All I could do was wait it out and prayed.

 

I couldn't dwell on the things that I might not have with my Dad. I was happy he was still with me. I didn't call anyone and I didn't complain. I waited, and I was happy I was with him.

 

Healing took time, as I relinguished mine. 

Soft creamy brown fur on its chubby cheeks as it held its paws in front of its mouth. Munching on nuts and grains found from the dirt around the barren land several miles down the street from my old house. My Mother called them her "friends," although they've never met but in spirit they were her soul children. These small prairie dogs would run about the unspoken land and some of them had families and pups perching on its mound of dirt surrounded by soil covered with weeds. 

 

At times, I would drive by that land for the scenery and to witness my Mother say, "My friends are out today. They must be looking for foods for their families." I would smile and with a lift of joy inside my heart, I felt satisfied of this moment in life. Just to spend the time with my Mother inside the car, driving by these friends of hers, made the novelty of life to be without sorrow. As if time stood still and life was about my Mother and me, in the wilderness of the city and streets surrounded by our small animal friends. 

 

These prairie dogs would mate, heterosexually, and create families as the seasons changed from Summer to Winter, they hibernate and impregnate, then give birth early Spring. The small pups would come out during Summer, ready to find nuts and pebbles to chew on as foods. Its parents sensed the pup's whereabouts and as with an antennae, they felt it moved outside of its mound with a hole underground. The parents would run as fast as possible back to the hole and the pup would return underground, for it was not yet safe for it to find food on its own.

 

These prairie dogs families were my friends too, as my Mother often reminded me, "even the smallest things as these are valuable in the eyes of God. How are you not more valueable to Him?" I would hold my smile for each time she reminded me and for each time I drove by, purposely for her. 

 

Unlucky ones were roadkill, and I recalled some on the street, bloody and squashed. I blinked for an instant, because I wanted them to stay alive forever, with their pups as parents with its families. Every life became valuable in my eyes, because of these small animals. They never bothered humans in any way, shape or forms, as they lived underneath the ground equalizing the biodiversity. Never have I ever found any justice in their death on the street as roadkill, and all I could hope for was for these prairie dogs to stay on the unspoken land, breeding and making my Mother smile. 

 

Just write.