Chapter 4: The art of Being

Em sat down at her desk and started her morning routine, checking her email, opening her most used computer programs and sorting through various paperwork as she decided what to tackle first. The tiger lay still for now, napping in the quiet of a suppressed spirit.

Her mind began to wander around as she performed the mundane tasks. Funny how thoughts can wander from the shallow to the deep when one is bored.

This particularly morning, her mind dove into the deep end, to things spiritual in nature, to the things that cannot always be expressed in human languages.

Why is it people are either pushing people to conform to their standards, or encouraging them to be themselves? She thought.

Her mother was one to push her to conform to her own standards of a good life. The desire to please her mother often pushed Em to deny the things she knew about herself deep down. To push her true self away and pretend that she really was who her mother saw her to be.

But more and more Em was realizing that she was not who her mother thought she was; that her mother didn't even really know her, or fully understand her. Em was blessed that she had friends and people around her who could see who she was meant to be; friends who encouraged her to pursue her dreams and follow the leading of her precious Savior.

So Em was going through a process of separation, of becoming who she was meant to be.

Ring! Em's thoughts were interupted by the ring of the telephone.

Good Morning, Reitsma Property Management, this is Em.

Good Morning, this is Kayla from Martin O'Shea's office. Is Bonnie available? the chipper young voice replied.

Em craned her neck to see if her mother was at her desk.

Yes, just one moment.

Mom! She called out, It's Kayla from Martin O'Shea's office.

She heard her mother pick up the phone and begin a friendly banter with the secretary from her most profitable client's office.

Em was often in awe of her mother's people skills. Somehow, though, those people skills didn't extend to those closest to Bonnie Reitsma. But she supposed that was the case with most people. The people you are closest to are those you are most comfortable with, and those who see the most facets of a person's character and personality.

However, those you are close to often have the hardest time remembering that sometimes you are not the person you used to be, that you are no longer a child, that you have your own thoughts and opinions.

Em settled back into her work, her mind going back to where it left off.

She had come to a realization that while she was still in the process of figuring out who she is supposed to be; still in the process of separating expectations and assumptions originating from sources outside her being from the true passions and desires from within herself, the process was as much a part of her being. She realized that the dichotomies within herself were in fact a part of who she was.

She realized that being a little shy, but on her way to boldness, was a part of her. That the random desires that occasionally pop up, such as getting bold, punky, purple highlights or dreadlocks or both, was a part of her, whether she actually goes through with it or not. That wanting to change the world, yet giving in to laziness, was a part of herself.

What mattered was the journey. What mattered was that she never stop moving. She realized that the art of being is really an active thing, whether it is being still or being hyper, being quiet or being loud, being faithful or being doubtful, or being somewhere in between, on the way to one thing from another.

And with that in mind, she continued her day.

Chapter 3: Morning

Sunlight peeked through the crack between the window sill and the bottom of the window shade as Em rolled over and moaned. Hearing the click of her stereo as it turned on, preparing to blare the music that served as her alarm clock, she reached over to the remote and reset the alarm for 20 more minutes of sleep.

It wasn't long enough.

Rolling out of bed, Em was already wishing her workday was over so she could relax.

Life is moving too fast, she thought as she plunked down on the toilet, rubbing her eyes, still heavy with sleep. And I'm only 20. After washing her hands, she glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes to finish getting ready and get to work on time.

Crap.

Work sucked the life out of her. Oh, there were times she enjoyed working with her mom, but she was barely in the office anyway, so Em mostly worked alone. She found it hard to motivate herself much of the time when alone.

Em ran out the door after hurriedly getting dressed, nearly forgetting to grab breakfast on her way out.

A few minutes late...what does it matter?


Bonita Reitsma Property Management, Inc. the sign read.

Her mother had started her property management company years before, managing two small apartment complexes in a run-down part of town. Her mother had built the business from the ground up on a reputation of integrity and a willingness to go the extra mile. Her mother was well known in La Marina as an honest woman, and well-liked by all the people she worked with. She had a strong personality and determination.

Em admired her mother as a businesswoman, but found it quite a different story to be her daughter, particularly daughter-employee. Her mother wanted to see Em do her best, to excel, at least in the way she thought Em should.

All throughout her childhood, Em felt like she could never live up to her mother's standards. There was always something she could have done better. In reality, Em did the things she was passionate about quite well. But she realized, better than her mother, that some things are worth putting your all into, and some things weren't.

Her mother put her all into her business, often working late, not realizing that Em and her brothers and sisters didn't care so much about the things than they did spending time with their mother.

Chapter 2: Next Door

"Oh my fucking God!"

The words of surprised exclamation wafted into her room through the window. The source of those words most likely a lip-glossed mouth attached to the body of a college girl who hides her emptiness in parties, friends and a dependence upon her looks.

Kind of an odd phrase if one thinks about it literally. Em had always been amused by the use of certain cusswords, especially when you think in terms of the literal. Like the time she heard a teenager reference a "fucking fork". What?

As she listened to the bits and pieces of conversations floating into her window, she couldn't help but wonder about the people she barely knew, though they inhabited a house no more than 15 feet away from hers. What are their dreams, desires, passions?

She had met them all at various times since moving in six months ago, but didn't know too much. One of the guys was in grad school. Maybe both? And the girl...perhaps she was too. Em couldn't recall.

Were they doing what they wanted to do with their lives? Or did they feel empty at night during that time when one is wavering between consciousness and sleep; when thoughts well up from the depth of your soul unbidden, but relentless.

A loud laugh brough Em's thoughts back to her room and she realized her eyelids were beginning to droop.

She willed her feet to fling themselves to the floor, got up to turn off the light, and went to bed. The Bible on her nightstand left as it was placed, despite her intentions of reading it that night.

As she drifted off to sleep, she imagined herself alternately embracing a human lover in the form of a body pillow, and being embraced by the Lover of her soul. Perhaps if she imagined hard enough, it would become true.

Chapter 1: The color purple...

Em lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, but not seeing it. Her arms straight out from her shoulders, hands hanging off either side of her bed. The familiar comfort of her bed underneath her, she lay thinking thoughts that no words could express.

She lay still, listening to her breathing, listening to her roommates laughing and talking in the living room. Not roommates, actually, but housemates. Who really pays much attention to the difference anyway? She felt alone, but not lonely. At peace with herself and her thoughts, at least for the moment.

As she sat up, she looked at her hand, noticing the lavender comforter and blanket underneath.

Purple.

The color speaks of passion, of royalty. Yet the shades she favored were soft, gentle, comforting.

Like me, she thinks to herself. She knows there is passion within her, but it doesn't always get a chance to come out, stifled as it is. Most of the time she feels soft, gentle, but knows there is a wild passion within that struggles to get out, like a tiger in a cage. Pacing, pacing, back and forth.

Sometime a paw would bat out from the cage. A thought popping into her head. Like a random little desire to say fuck for no reason. The word rolls over and over in her brain, despite the fact it won't actually pop out. She almost cherishes it, despite the utterance of cuss words being against her habits and tendencies.

So there she sat, a shell of gentleness, softness, caging the passionate tiger within.