With this ring...

I wear a ring that bears the number 2.

I have been intrigued by people's reactions to this relatively simple piece of jewelry that I bought on the streets of Harajuku roughly two years ago...

Strangers have without restraint asked me what the number 2 means to me. Lovers have thought it a subtle message to them (cue Carole King: you're so vain...). Acquaintances have interpreted it as anything from my lucky number, to the day I put down the drink, to my statement on marriage, to my expression of a deep spiritual belief. Intimate friends have seen it as just another one of my things that is so arbitrary, it can actually pass as thoughtful.

People are so curious. They want to know everything, with the caveat that whatever they learn fits with their preconceived notions and personal intentions. Dig a bit deeper into their psyches and it's plain as day that...

Strangers have no reservations throwing social graces out the window in order to make small talk with a harmless-looking woman. Lovers want desperately to believe that I don't in fact prefer sometimes to be alone (as 1) than to be with them (as 2). Acquaintances want to get in my head or at least borrow from an already tired fashion trend and claim it anew. Intimate friends fake believe that it's just an arbitrary number, but know all too well that I'm not going to wear something all the time if it doesn't mean something to me. So, they take their silent votes on what or who that something could be and whether or not that something weighs on my heavy brow.

Fact is, I despise attention (it makes my insides churn in discomfort) so I shouldn't wear such a blatant conversation starter to begin with. Fact is, the number 2 means something to me. And as with all things honest and true inside of me, I can't help but wear it on my skin, radiating in naked vulnerability for all to experience as they wish.

This ring serves as a constant reminder to me of 2 very important lessons. These days, as I gaze out at my hand extended in Warrior 2; as I rake my fingers through the Floridian sand; and as I reach to hold the hand of a stranger with complete ease and comfort...

The number 2 reminds me
that life is better when shared
and that second chances are real.

Like none other

I think a person's eyes can divulge or disguise all the thoughts, fears and love that lie behind them.

I cannot get out of my mind the memory of certain eyes, even some I haven’t seen in years...

Hers is an iridescent blue glacier that I explore barefoot. It breaks off and slips slowly into the ocean with the heat of each of my steps, making my strides lengthen and the press of my soles strengthen with even an ounce of hope that maybe it is I who makes her melt.

Hers is a full-bodied caramel espresso that I’ve let sit for too long. I compensate by mixing in compliments, swirling until it splashes and spills, but I know it will be bitter and lukewarm by the time it obliges to touching my lips.

Hers is a thick marsh that I wade through with all my might. I resist the grip of its muddied memories and dodge the visceral slaps of its vines, knee-deep and struggling through to reach a single red rose that continues to believe this marsh can be its garden.

These were eyes like none other.

Because they were hers.

And I was in love.

The Essence of Us

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Compact. Deceivingly delicate. Nearly identical palm lines. Senior year of college, as part of an Intermediate Photography class, I took a black and white portrait of my mother’s and my hands, palms up, side-by-side. I recall getting a B. I should have known better than to think I could capture – with my intermediate shooting skills, my 21 year-old unmerited bravado and a dusty lens – the essence of us.

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Hers are more weathered by age and decades of dishwashing, dirt digging, diaper-changing domesticity. I know she looks at her hands and is saddened and scared by how increasingly old and frail they have become. Mine have distinguishing traits as well. My right palm has a freckle at its epicenter. My right hand has a knuckle that is permanently disfigured from one of many incidents I wish I could take back. It is my body’s visible daily reminder to me that it will always forgive me, but cannot so easily let me forget.

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

There was a period of time when she could not look me in the eyes for fear of locking eyes with a gaze from a woman different than the daughter she thought she had raised. A woman who did not want to walk a conventional path. A woman who “feared men” and “loved only herself.” I knew that period of time passed when she took my hand one day in a car ride to quiet out the awkwardness in the awkward silence. She held it firmly for the entire half-hour car ride, squeezing it in sequenced pulsations – what I believe as a three count rhythm of an alternating “I love you” and “I am sorry.”

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Over the years, they have written many letters to each other in different languages and from different addresses such as Tokyo, Japan; New York City; Havre de Grace, Maryland; Delray Beach, Florida; and Darien, Connecticut. Over the years, they have been soaked in the salty tears wept to and for one another. They have waved many a “hello” and “goodbye” – both a distant second to “I am always with you.” They have accumulated more lines and scars and worked as ever-constantly as the blood flowing underneath the skin.

My mother and I have strikingly similar hands.

Underneath our skin, our blood is as shared as the evolving essence of us.

A Problem Play

All's Well That Ends Well is a play written by William Shakespeare in the early 1600's. Originally, the play was classified as a comedy, but today, it is now considered by experts as one of his "problem plays" -- meaning they can't neatly categorize it as either a comedy or a tragedy.

"Problem Play" -- that's a narrow-minded, lazy pile of pigeon dung if you ask me. All's Well that Ends Well is a play about love and desperation and there is nothing more comedic AND tragic than love.

Why are we so compelled to categorize? Why must everything be so "defined," slapped with a laser-jet print label and placed in the appropriate aisle, section and shelf at your nearby superstore? Sure, categorization is used as a tool to make it easier on us all in this overcomplicated societal mess we've made to access, understand and describe something. I'm game. I can't say I don't get a silly satisfaction from different-sized tupperware, color label makers and everything that has to do with Target.

But, I can't help but wonder when it comes to "the bigger stuff" -- what do we sacrifice and strip from the essence of things, from ourselves, in order to squeeze fit into the constricting confines of categories?

Try it on for size and you'll understand how incomplete a picture it paints.

Go ahead, categorize yourself. On paper, what are you?

Go ahead, categorize me.

For much of my 30 years, I've reached deep into the electric blender of my own soul to search, find, grip and pull out with a mangled hand my beating heart. Cradled in my shaking hands, I've stared at that heart staring back at me looking terrified, broken, alone and helplessly wondering what went wrong. I could not believe it was my own. I could not believe what I had done to it and how it still had the strength to beat.

I stare at that heart now staring back at me. It looks better. Pink. It beats a list of names followed by murmurs of gratitude, hope and love. Cradled in my steady hands, it feels safe. I don't think it has breathed freely in quite some time. Or seen clearly. Or felt fully. Cradled in my hands, it is very talkative -- wanting to speak about life, love, desperation and the comedic tragedy of it all.