Clock In The Sky?

Why did I decide to name my blog "Clock In The Sky"? 


Because I was laying here, staring at the screen, trying to come up with something meaningful that described my life and I asked myself, "Is there any one phrase that could somehow define my life's experiences?" and immediately it came to mind.


And so, I guess my first blog will be somewhat depressing, but I figure - it's not the happy, care-free moments in our lives that define us. After all, if I think about the traits I possess that I'm proud of (the things that make me me!) it's clear that I've acquired those traits because of the struggles I've been through; the pain that I've felt. I am not my struggles, however - I am the strength and determination that washed over me in the midst of them.


"Clock In The Sky" is from a time when I had frizzy hair with straight-across bangs (that my mom cut), a clumsy little out-fit from Goodwill, and a shy, blank face. I was about ten years old. I was a little bit different. Okay, maybe a lot-a bit different. I wrote poems while walking and whispered them to the air; a lot of them started with "Thou Shalt" - I think I was trying to be Shakespeare. I made pamphlets citing all of the reasons why people shouldn't smoke and threw them out my window, sure that all of the right people (the smoky, lungs-getting-black ones) would find them. I cried a few times when the kids at recess jumped in the piles of leaves - I jumped in leaf piles at home, but something about the way they did it, so loud, so energetic .... it seemed mean. I put my hands over my ears because the crumbling sound hurt me.


Pale-faced and tired, I trudged through the hall ways at school feeling like I was walking through snow some days. My legs heavy and weak at times, I wondered how the other kids seemed to race on by me. 


I wondered how they ran down the bike path for gym class. They did it with such ease. I'd be holding my side (a stabbing, sharp pain behind my rib) and wheezing, blocks behind them. My best friend Miranda was often there with me. We'd both be out of breath, occasionally exchanging sad glances.


Once we made it to the field, I'd sit on the bleachers looking up at the sun, so as to give my eyes a reason to water in case they did on their own. The other kids were already playing, shouting and kicking a ball back and forth. My side would still be throbbing, but the nails-scraping-against-stomach feeling would kick in and over power it. My palms would sweat, hands shaky and white. I can still remember how, after gym class, my palms would have little indentations in them from my own nails - because I'd ball up my fists so tight. 


Our gym teacher was an athletic woman, probably in her forties. She was my own personal Wicked Witch of the West and only God knows how many times I prayed for a fairy godmother. It's amazing how helpless children are. I've looked back at this time over and over again and it seems I should've been able to change the situation - but I was just a kid, and kids are pretty powerless. And that is exactly how I felt for those years. Powerless. Like life was spinning out of control. I was dizzy and sad, and unable to do a thing about it.


Once on the field, pushed into a frantic game of soccer, I stood there staring into space. I watched the ball go back and forth. I watched the kids chase after it. It was so effortless; at times, almost graceful. It was a dance I didn't know. A dance I couldn't take part in -because every time I tried, the world got cloudier; the way my parent's car windows fogged up on a cold, rainy day. I liked to write my name in it and then look through the letters and be grateful that I could see through them - that things were still clear.


"KYLI!" she'd yell. "GET THE BALL!", "PAY ATTENTION!". My whole body tensed up. I was frozen still. I could do nothing, but listen to the shards of glass in her voice and feel them tear up my already hurting stomach. I inched towards the ball, pretending to try to do something I knew I could not do. The ball moved too fast, it was never where I thought it would be. My legs and feet were clumsy and wobbly. I'd hold my breath, feeling like a spot light was on me. And it was. The sun - burning into me, like it hated me too. Like it was saying "You loser... kick that ball!" And then, some other kid would kick it (and usually me in the process) with force I could not begin to understand. I'd take a few steps to the side, trying to slowly ease myself out of the game. 


That's usually when she'd pass by me. "You stupid idiot," she'd whisper, "You can't do anything. Can you?"


And that's when I'd see the clock in the sky.


The clock in the sky was big and round - with a friendly, familiar smile. I liked to imagine it's face, grandfatherly and warm. I liked to imagine he was encouraging me, comforting me. More than that though, I loved his hands. They weren't anything special, except for how they moved. They moved fast. Faster than the kids chased after the ball, faster than Mrs. Gym teacher could run, faster than real time moved. 11:39 could turn into 11:45 in a blink of an eye. One quiet line of a poem recited aloud and six minutes could pass on their own. "The time clock, the time clock..." I'd repeat to myself. Once she heard me saying it, and she shook her head and screamed at some other kid. "KEEP IT UP AND I'LL WRING YOUR NECK!" she said to him. And he was her favorite.


After about two years of that, I fell to pieces one day and made sure everybody knew about it. My parents, after months of hearing about her, but not truly understanding the situation, were forced to do something about it. Suddenly I was the kid with a social worker and an "older sister" (I hadn't known I needed one before that... I had 3 already!), but none of that mattered because after that I spent gym in the library. Safe and sound. My friend Lori had a deformity of the knee so she spent it there with me. We read books and wrote stories, and my stomach felt better.


These days I face different struggles. Mostly with my health. They leave me feeling powerless often; like the little kid I was on that field. It's funny though - as scary as health can be, and as much as it weakens me and leaves me feeling option-less, I still feel so much stronger than I did back then. It's amazing what privileges we have as adults... it took me a long time to realize I was in control of my own life, of my decisions. For a long time when someone or something was hurting me, I felt like I couldn't do anything about it. Now I know better.


Health is the one thing that hurts me and gets away with it though. 


And when it does, and all else fails, wherever there's a sky, there's also a clock.


And time always moves on, moves forward. And there is always another day up ahead where life is easier, better... and that makes everything worth it.