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Christmas Without Chimneys

Santa came through the open window, my mother said, as we didn’t have chimneys in Florida. Plus, he’d only come in the very middle of the night, long after midnight, when there was no chance we’d wake. Except at my cousin’s house. Then Santa came just after nine pm, but only if we would pretend-sleep before. My aunt would eventually come into the bedroom and pretend-wake us, tell us she heard something outside. We’d sneak out to the living room where Santa would be quietly taking presents out of his bag and placing them under the tree. I was scared; I’d run back to the bedroom. Mostly he pretended we weren't there, and we felt proud to peep on Santa undiscovered. One time, however, he turned

My Response to Fear & Curiosity

Dear Fear & Curiosity, Fear, I need you. Curiosity, I need you. You both contribute to me. And yet, you both suffocate me, at times. Fear, living endangers your health. Besides, Curiosity and I inspire you with our brave stunts. Curiosity, Fear is also our friend, let’s not forget. You know that sometimes, we must say no. As we three are life-long companions, we must find a way to coexist. I do acknowledge and honor you both, so let us borrow our dear friend’s (James Pinkel) mantra, to help us all live together, in harmony. You are you. I am me. While you Fear are being you. I, Elizabeth, am being me. While you Curiosity are being you. I, Elizabeth, am being me. You are you. I am me. I am me

A Letter from Fear

Fear is cloaked in a doctor’s vest, a telescope around its neck: the ultimate authority. Fear walks into a room confident; it knows how to keep me safe. Fear knows the remedy to stay alive. Fear winks at me. Fear knows we have a secret love. Fear is a bit goofy at times, but mostly fear stands watch and waves its finger. Fear appears bold and in control. Inside, Fear is shaking. Fear wrote me a letter too: Dear Elizabeth, I have never loved anyone like I love you. I can’t bare the thought of losing you. Were something to happen to you, I’d lose my ability to breath. I want you to live the life you want. But I want you to come home at night, in my arms. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want y

A Letter from Curiosity

Curiosity is a cliff diver. A circus clown. Curiosity is my monkey muse. Wearing the Fendis. And cursing like a mother-fucker. Curiosity is in my head because Elizabeth Gilbert gives talks about its nuances and assigned one of her podcast lab rats the homework exercise of animating curiosity and having it write a letter. If Curiosity wrote me a letter it would be a letter of gratitude, maybe even a plea: Dear Elizabeth, You have taken us so many places. You have followed whims and been brave when others wouldn’t have. You have persued me like a guru at the expense of all others. And I just want to say, Thank You. Thank you for your devotion and your loyalty. Lately, though, I’ve noticed you