RIO's May E-Zine
Look Inside out Minds . . .
Graceless by Lelainna Dahl
Graceless
Look at her walk,
So full of grace.
Listen to her speak,
So full of grace.
Her poster of perfection,
Her speech of water,
Her strut of
fluidity.
Everything about her is sheer flawless.
Now look at me . . .
Flawed
in every way imaginable.
I trip when I walk
I stutter while I speak
Everything I do is the
opposite of perfection
Lack of grace follows me everywhere.
Look at her walk,
So full of grace.
Listen to her speak,
So full of grace.
Her poster of perfection,
Her speech of water,
Her strut of
fluidity.
Everything about her is sheer flawless.
Now look at me . . .
Flawed
in every way imaginable.
I trip when I walk
I stutter while I speak
Everything I do is the
opposite of perfection
Lack of grace follows me everywhere.
My Meaning by Olivia DiCintio
*This is a true story however it has been fragmented to fit this project.*
One foot off the flying metal beast and I’m hit with a force new to me. Is it a headache? Jet lag? Just plain hunger? No, it’s a feeling of calm, serenity, yet excitement and adrenaline. It’s as if someone shot electricity in veins, as if someone opened my eyes for the first time. The full beauty of London’s Heathrow airport hit me like the weight of it itself. I felt shaken, like something inside me had sparked or come alive for the first time. Breaking from the figurative grasp of my relatives, I step out into the main terminal ringing with accents and terms I’d only heard from my U.K born friend, Mary and One Direction. I’m standing in awe as I peer around the massive and spotless building, soaking up the British atmosphere like a sponge. Somewhere in the back of my mind, logical thoughts may be attempting to come forward, but they are all blocked by the wall of distraction created by ideas of crumpets, Delia Smith and jumpers. Eventually my mother tears me out of my trance of amazement and guides me towards our next gate. As she half walks, half drags me to our transferring flight wait area I gaze around distractedly. I bump into both animate and inanimate objects, mumbling embarrassed and half-focused apologies along the way. When we finally reach our destination, I slump down in one of the plush seats and again try to put my finger on this mysterious feeling. Analyzing the facts; waking up from deep slumber as soon as we hit the British border, my recently discovered thirst for any knowledge about the U.K, my love of the accents and dreams to live there as soon as I’m ready to being uni. It all brought me to one conclusion. This is the feeling that’s been written,
drawn, spoken and acted for centuries. I’m Home.
The word “home” in my opinion deserves a capital, as I believe it is important enough to have one. Defined as “a place where something flourishes” or “to return by instinct” by the Oxford Concise dictionary, I never thought I’d truly understand the word. I’d never felt “flourished” or had any “instinct” to return anywhere. I had assumed I’d just be a floater all through life. But as I board the aircraft and sit in the uncomfortable seat next to the window awaiting takeoff, I feel as if everything has fallen into place. Like I don’t need to worry and I can be whoever, and whatever I desire. I relax in this feeling of complete contentment as the pilot announces the beginning of our taxi down the runway. The takeoff sends shivers down my spine but as we near the border for a second time, drowsiness takes over my jet-lagged body. We finally depart where I belong and I’m hit with a sadness that makes me bite back tears. “Let me come home someday.” I plea silently with the landmass below just as I close my eyes.
Follow-Up
I often reflect on this experience, and it makes me think of what I believe is the meaning of life. I can never remember who said it first, but I’ll believe it forever; “Do whatever it takes for you to be happy.” My two hour stay in London showed me what true happiness is. It means, to me, being completely content of where you are. It’s a sense of not knowing, but understanding, not looking, but truly seeing, not just hearing, but listening. I believe God gave me that flight transfer to show me where I need to be. To tell me “This is where you belong.” And my sudden intense interest for England was like my plane; just a taxi down the runway and my first step was my takeoff.
Thank you, God, for showing me where I will fly.
One foot off the flying metal beast and I’m hit with a force new to me. Is it a headache? Jet lag? Just plain hunger? No, it’s a feeling of calm, serenity, yet excitement and adrenaline. It’s as if someone shot electricity in veins, as if someone opened my eyes for the first time. The full beauty of London’s Heathrow airport hit me like the weight of it itself. I felt shaken, like something inside me had sparked or come alive for the first time. Breaking from the figurative grasp of my relatives, I step out into the main terminal ringing with accents and terms I’d only heard from my U.K born friend, Mary and One Direction. I’m standing in awe as I peer around the massive and spotless building, soaking up the British atmosphere like a sponge. Somewhere in the back of my mind, logical thoughts may be attempting to come forward, but they are all blocked by the wall of distraction created by ideas of crumpets, Delia Smith and jumpers. Eventually my mother tears me out of my trance of amazement and guides me towards our next gate. As she half walks, half drags me to our transferring flight wait area I gaze around distractedly. I bump into both animate and inanimate objects, mumbling embarrassed and half-focused apologies along the way. When we finally reach our destination, I slump down in one of the plush seats and again try to put my finger on this mysterious feeling. Analyzing the facts; waking up from deep slumber as soon as we hit the British border, my recently discovered thirst for any knowledge about the U.K, my love of the accents and dreams to live there as soon as I’m ready to being uni. It all brought me to one conclusion. This is the feeling that’s been written,
drawn, spoken and acted for centuries. I’m Home.
The word “home” in my opinion deserves a capital, as I believe it is important enough to have one. Defined as “a place where something flourishes” or “to return by instinct” by the Oxford Concise dictionary, I never thought I’d truly understand the word. I’d never felt “flourished” or had any “instinct” to return anywhere. I had assumed I’d just be a floater all through life. But as I board the aircraft and sit in the uncomfortable seat next to the window awaiting takeoff, I feel as if everything has fallen into place. Like I don’t need to worry and I can be whoever, and whatever I desire. I relax in this feeling of complete contentment as the pilot announces the beginning of our taxi down the runway. The takeoff sends shivers down my spine but as we near the border for a second time, drowsiness takes over my jet-lagged body. We finally depart where I belong and I’m hit with a sadness that makes me bite back tears. “Let me come home someday.” I plea silently with the landmass below just as I close my eyes.
Follow-Up
I often reflect on this experience, and it makes me think of what I believe is the meaning of life. I can never remember who said it first, but I’ll believe it forever; “Do whatever it takes for you to be happy.” My two hour stay in London showed me what true happiness is. It means, to me, being completely content of where you are. It’s a sense of not knowing, but understanding, not looking, but truly seeing, not just hearing, but listening. I believe God gave me that flight transfer to show me where I need to be. To tell me “This is where you belong.” And my sudden intense interest for England was like my plane; just a taxi down the runway and my first step was my takeoff.
Thank you, God, for showing me where I will fly.