About One Spoonful
When I was 7, I spent afternoons with a 90-year old lady who lived next door. She was a frail widow who donned a crisp white bonnet over a proper ladies’ bun. She told me stories, shared her life and showed me kindness on a small porch along a not-so-kind street. She told me these stories of her life during long, hot Texas afternoons. I listened to her tales while drinking iced coffee with a spoon out of a stained plastic coffee cup – my small, skinny and dirty feet swinging back and forth as I listened. Each spoonful of coffee and of her life was just the right blend of bitter and sweet for my youthful taste buds.
Fast forward – now I am 40 and the girl who has it all – the handsome man, the house, the kids, higher education and financial security. I have successfully checked all the boxes thus far along the cattle path of life. But, somewhere along that well-trodden path, when things didn’t go just as I had planned, I let something go quiet. That something was me. I closed my eyes to the world and went numb. Paralyzed, I chose to blame others rather than stake claim on my own discontent. Then, I just fell asleep and began letting those blonde big-chested twin bitches, fear and resentment, beat me at my own game.
What have I learned?
Well, funny you should ask (wait, you didn’t ask…oh well, I’m still telling and maybe you’ll keep reading).
I am a middle-class American white girl. I am a woman and a wife, but view these as neither assets nor limitations. I have two beautiful children, but motherhood doesn’t define me. I own a business, but it no longer owns me. I am a Texan, but most times pretend not to be. I am neither Mexican nor French, but sometimes pretend to be. I was given a harlot’s name, but my closest can refer to me as “Mittens.” I cannot nor will not deny my love of bacon and despite my social environment, my body contains not one ounce of silicon, saline or other foreign substance. I have brains in my head, some feet in my shoes and a true restlessness in my spirit.
I have noticed that I say ‘I’ a lot and may indeed be a narcissist. One with a vagabond heart rarely accused of being subtle or lacking in opinion. I have an insane amount of energy and the attention span of a small East African sand flea. I thrive on relentless exploration and constant change and, despite my arguments to the contrary, may indeed be a malcontent.
Think of this blog as a spoon-fed cup of pitch-black iced coffee after a long winter’s sleep.
You see, I am not a writer, but I am writing my way awake. This is not a love letter, mommy blog or travel blog but it will include a little bit of all that from time to time. This blog is about opening my eyes. Like an electronic “hey, wake up asshole, this is all passing you by.” About getting real and learning to live fully again or even, perhaps, for the first time ever. Learning it all and sharing it freely – one bittersweet spoonful at a time. With a lot of laughter and probably a bit of cussing along the way.
I am Amber and, contrary to the name sake, I have never spent one minute on a pole. I am now true to my restless spirit and seek to ignite the one that lives within others. For the world and our own hearts are immense places that should be relentlessly explored.
I sit here now, wide awake, slowly sipping the coffee off my spoon out of this stained plastic cup – one spoon in, slurp, stir, repeat. As you read these words, maybe you’ll taste it, maybe you won’t. But I am savoring every drop – no matter how bitter, no matter how sweet.