When the World Was Ours

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

When the world was ours,

I searched the creek in my backyard for arrowheads…

Patches of clover on the playground for luck in four leaves…

And a fortune-telling eight ball for answers to all my questions.

△REPLY HAZY TRY AGAIN△

When the world was ours,

I made bookmarks from pressed flowers between clear sticky film…

A clubhouse from a painted cardboard box for a new refrigerator…

Feature films with flashlights and cardboard paper on the stairwell to the basement.

Not caught on camera. Just consumed by an audience of parents and siblings.

When the world was ours,

There was no greater anticipation than waiting on a roll of photos to develop at CVS…

No better way to spend your allowance than a little league concession stand…

No longer 10 minutes than adult swim in the neighborhood pool…

(Unless you had a Drumstick or Freeze Pop to keep you company.)

Now, when so much of our day’s energy is consumed into datapoints, it’s hard to describe,

The joy of a milky pastel colored gel pen…

A Lisa Frank trapper keeper…

A Jansport bookbag (*pre-bulletproof edition*)…

A sheet of puffy holographic stickers…

And a freshly hand-sharpened #2 pencil.

Now, when AI finishes our sentences before we even ask, it’s hard to explain,

The thrill of passing notes in class…

Back and forth until every inch of an 8.5” x 11” page sheet was covered—

With doodles and confessions and check yes or no’s.

Bonds of friendship etched in our own handwriting,

Belonging to no one but ourselves.

Now, when we watch a screen in front of another screen giving neither our full attention, it’s hard to remember,

That computers were for dying of dysentery on the Oregon Trail…

And televisions were for Saturday morning cartoons…

Phones had spiral cords that held us hostage to kitchen walls…

And we called into radio stations to request our favorite songs.

At slumber parties, we were witches.

In the pool, mermaids.

In the backyard, geologists.

On the trampoline, popstars.

And anywhere near a box of crayons, we were goddamn Frida Kahlo.

I fear we’re the last generation who got to experience the way it felt:

Looking up answers to questions we didn’t know in the basement encyclopedia set…

Or calling our grandparents who might know…

Or visiting the local library and taking out a book to learn…

Or sitting with the important discomfort of simply not knowing for a while.

I wonder how it shapes someone,

To inspect every photo as soon as it’s taken.

To have the recording of a concert being part of your view.

To have numbingly unlimited access to everything, everywhere, all the time.

To not know what it’s like to have to choose…

Just one movie to rent from Blockbuster Video.

I miss fireflies.

And pen pals.

And sales catalogs.

And studying the games on the back of the cereal box

For the one hundredth time 

While I eat my Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I know…I know that world was far from perfect.

But we existed in it in a way that no longer exists.

In a way that felt like it belonged to us and us to it.

So if I still had a Magic 8 Ball today, 

and I asked if we were the luckiest,

And I’m pretty sure the answer would be 

△SIGNS POINT TO YES△

Ten Years of Snow

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

A decade feels heavy.

But not heavy like an impact, a crash, a totality.

Heavy like accumulation. Like snowfall.

Gradual and slow.

Each flake a moment I’ve lived without you. 

A memory that was supposed to be. 

Now frozen in time. Now a blizzard with no end.

I’m covered by the weight of all that never was.

Surrounded by you and the stinging absence of you. 

So cold I might as well be numb. 

(Maybe, I’m just numb.)

10 years feels endless. 

Like a spring that won’t break. 

And flowers that won’t bloom. 

No irises or tulips. No jonquils daring to poke through.

Grief is a winter I was never prepared for. 

Because I spent my life basking in the sunbeam of your love.

8 Years Later

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

You may or may not know,

My mother died 8 years ago.

5 days before christmas.

With no warning. 

She was 57 years old.

You may or may not know,

That grief is just a blanket that covers your body,

A coffin you’re trapped inside.

You may or may not know, 

That without that grief,

You are naked.

You are lost.

You are hollow.

You may or may not know,

My mother’s kindness.

And struggle.

My mother’s generosity.

And resilience.

You may or may not know,

Her goofiness, her awkwardness.

Her self-deprecating humor, 

That would put anyone at ease.

You may or may not know,

She taught me to be wild.

And trust myself.

And love my body.

And be whoever the fuck I want to be.

You may or may not know,

She was a teacher. 

A writer

An artist.

A survivor.

You may or may not know,

What it’s like to have your creative inspiration

Become your writer’s block.

Another coffin,

For another part of you.

You may or may not know my mom.

But if you know me,

You have seen her.

You have felt her.

You have learned from her ferocity.

Her brilliance.

Her defiance.

You have benefitted from her existence. 

I am hers and she is mine.

You may or may not know, 

The loss is still a burden.

But today, 

8 years to the day,

That grief is not a coffin I’m buried inside,

It’s a reminder from her

To live.

love trumps faith

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

Photo by tyler gebhart on Unsplash

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

1 Corinthians 13:13

Curious as it seems, the Bible tells us that love is more important than faith. The first and second greatest of all the commandments. And the cornerstone of the entire religion.

—

In the 2016 election, 81% of the white evangelical voters cast their ballots for Trump.

Still today, they’re as faithful to him as ever; their support of late at an all-time high. They claim Trump stands for Christian values, but his adulterous indiscretion with a porn star is “Between him and God.” They believe he represents the Christian family but ignore as he rips immigrant families apart. They applaud him for keeping his campaign promises, regardless of how those promises hurt others. They think he follows the Christian faith; they have forgotten about Christian love.

—

I liked going to church growing up. I liked the performance of it, the fellowship, the tradition. The candles and the stained glass. The robes and rituals. Above all else, I liked the hymns.

Our church had an organ. The choir led the way in song. The congregation followed. I read along in silence, baptized by each word. Poetry set to music, haunting and true.

 

—

Last week I ended up behind a Jeep Cherokee on my way in to work. It was polluted with bumper stickers that ranged from rainbow-infused “Love Wins” and “Proud Democrat” to messages of equality and hope and peace and kindness.

On the way home from work, I ended up behind a Ford F-150 with a single bumper sticker. It read, “Trump 2020: Make Liberals Cry Again.”

A cross hung from the rearview mirror.

—

“Here Is Love Vast as the Ocean” was one of my favorite hymns. It captured the might and relentlessness of God’s love. It summed up my belief system better than any Bible verse or parable or Sunday school lesson ever could. It all comes back to love.

At 22, I got those words inked into my rib cage, just beneath my heart.

—

Yesterday, the supreme court ruled in favor of a Christian baker who refused to make a cake for a gay couple. The baker insisted gay marriage went against his religion.

Even more than faith over love, now we’re talking about faith against love. It’s religion I can hardly recognize, much less call my own.

—

Outside of funerals and weddings, I don’t go to church much anymore. After watching evangelicals use Christianity to stand by Trump, I doubt I ever will.

But I still have a tattoo on my ribcage. And I still have a hymn in my heart.

So here is love, vast as the ocean. May it one day be the greatness of faith.

Thank You for Making Valentine’s Day Meaningless

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

Todd Shelnutt Sevier,

You should know that every time you hit snooze on your alarm so we can spoon for nine more precious minutes before getting up…Every time you sneak up behind me while I’m doing my makeup and kiss the back of my neck…Every time you send a text during the middle of my workday with a gif of two otters holding hands or a surprise greeting card from Curly Girl Designs…Every time you come home with a cheerful “Hey boo-boo!” and a generous hug…Every time we go out for a spontaneous date night and sit at the bar so we can be close…Every time you hold my hand as we walk back to the car from dinner…Every time you patiently tell me every last detail of your day because I won’t stop asking you to…You teach me how to celebrate love. Not just in grand gestures on holidays, but also in every little moment of every other day of the year.

So I just want to say thank you for making Valentine’s Day meaningless in the best kind of way. And, of course, I love you. Yesterday, today, forever.

<3 <3 <3

0Andrew-Cebulka-0326

 

 

 

Troo Love

~ GennaClaire ~ 2 Comments

I’m a dog person. I love a leg-slap by a happy tail. I love wiggly butts waiting for me at the door. I love joyful barks and big ol’ toothy grins and the uninhibited affection that only dogs can offer.

I’ve always been a dog person. And that’s exactly why I struggled with Roo, the Chihuahua-ish mix that Todd adopted right before we started dating.

At first glance, you’d probably say Roo was a dog. Although we all agreed, she looked more like the lovechild of Dobby from Harry Potter and Yoda. She had ears that stuck out from the sides of her head, oversized bulging eyes, a pink nose, and a tongue that seemed far too long for her mouth.

Despite her perplexing appearance, Roo was in fact a dog. A very, very peculiar dog.

She never barked. Or learned a single trick. She looked irritated and incredulous when scolded. She hated the cold. And the rain. And the outdoors. She didn’t care much for food. Or chew toys. Or other dogs.

What Roo did care for was sleep. She slept with us in bed—under the covers—every night. And she growled if you happened to nudge her while shifting your position.

While our two pit bulls pounced on our faces at 6:00 a.m., Roo preferred to stay tucked beneath the blankets, snoozing the day away. We’d have to pull the covers off her and coax her out of bed when it was time for us to go to work.

Roo also differed from other dogs in the things she liked: going to the vet, bath time, and wearing cable-knit sweaters. If we could have heard her voice, Todd and I imagined Roo sounded something like an old, crotchety British professor.

She loved to play, but only in 15 second increments—and only on her terms. She loved our other two pups, as long as they were quiet, still, and keeping her warm. She loved being held, but of course, she hated being picked up.

It never failed that as I tried to sit down on the couch, Roo’d hop into my lap before I could even get settled. I’d be trapped awkwardly holding her 22-pound physique asking Todd to pass me my glass of wine so as not to disturb her.

Roo also had a funny way of greeting me when I’d get home each day. She would prance up to me, struggling to squeeze in among our two bigger pups. She’d curl her lips around her teeth in what most people would clearly call a snarl, but I knew it was just her strange, excited hello.

Weekend mornings were Roo’s time to shine. After we’d let the other pups out to play in the yard, Roo would crawl her way to the top of the bed, roll over on her back between Todd and me, and bask in belly rubs. Then she’d give the sweetest little kisses for as long as our faces were within her tongue’s impressive reach.

The people who met Roo either loved her instantly or didn’t get her at all. I hate to admit that for a long time, I was the latter. I was a dog person. And Roo didn’t act like a dog.

But my hesitation didn’t affect how she treated me. When Todd and I moved in together two years ago, she adopted me as her owner with full confidence. Todd hates to admit it, but she loved me the most—and without ever wanting anything in return.

It took me a while to figure out, but Roo’s unconditional love made her more of a dog than tail-chasing or squirrel-hunting ever could.

I’m a dog person. Roo was my dog. And last week, we had to say goodbye.

I’ve never had a pet that’s so completely irreplaceable, and I doubt I ever will. My little Roo-Bug was dearly loved and will be greatly missed.

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another silent night

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

four years is an eternity.

four years is an instant.

while most days are easy,

today is impossible.

and so i remember her—

always with love

and sometimes with peace.

Andrew-Cebulka-9463
“Our Lady of Guadalupe,” one of my mother’s paintings 

Honoring Mom

~ GennaClaire ~ 2 Comments

“Do you want to take a photo to honor your mother?”

That’s the question my thoughtful, compassionate photographer asked me on my wedding day.

The dress was on. Hair and makeup, done. Chandelier earrings dangling by my cheeks.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t say anything at all.

Todd had decided to take a portrait holding his mother’s cowboy hat across his chest. Perhaps I wanted to do something like that?

“Maybe in front of one of her paintings?” the photographer offered.

I stared at my hands. I tried to focus.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t put plenty of thought into how to honor my mom at my wedding. I’d considered empty chairs and photographs. Special songs and moments of silence.

None of it felt right. None of it felt like her. Or me. So, I’d let it go.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I don’t think I need to do that.”

Now I look back at the pictures from that day, and I know I was right. In shot after shot after shot, my face shows nothing except unbridled joy.

And that’s how I honor her.

By being happy. By finding the best partner for me. By living life fully. And always, always, always overflowing with love.

 

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11.04.17

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

IMG_4725

I choose you,

as my husband and partner,

my companion and friend,

my forever and always.

Because I love you just as you are today

and I’m excited to see who you become.

I promise to always support and snuggle you,

to challenge and cherish you,

And to be honest and adventurous,

so that our love will not grow old, even as we do.

The Love that Built This House

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

When I wear white,

there will be no church or chapel.

Just the sanctuary we created—

a simple plot of fertile ground

where a sacred love could grow.

At the end of the aisle, we’ll plant our feet.

Hearts beating like two hummingbirds,

captured in cages of bone.

There we’ll test the limits of human joy—

pledging words that no one else has said.

Because we wrote them.

Together.

As we invite others in to join

the unending celebration

that began when we first met,

my heart will be as full as the moon overhead.

Standing beneath oaks that have lasted for centuries

and hoping—always hoping—

for a love that lasts just as long.

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