Every Woman Is A Star

What is it about the night?

Memories recur unbidden. They walk again, spectral, ethereal. Little ghosts that haunt the unseen fissures of our deep subconscious.

What is it about the night?

I was up again last night. Late. I set aside nine days to practice Git and GitHub. Yesterday was the 9^th night. I felt the need to cram in just a little more knowledge, so I was up watching a very informative YouTube tutorial series and practicing along with the videos on my command line.

This is my life lately. Find a YouTube tutorial. Watch a snippet of video. Pause the video. Type the commands I just learned. Un-pause the video. Repeat. I do this for hours until the golden (elusive) light of understanding dawns in my mind and flows through my fingers onto the keyboard. Sometimes, the information is obtuse and the golden light remains obscure.

This happened to me last night. Having wrapped up my tutorial on Git, I moved on to the next topic I need to cover prior to Codeup Bootcamp. I need to learn HTML/CSS and something called Twitter Bootstrap. I already know HTML and CSS. I taught myself on codeacademy. However, I am clueless regarding Bootstrap. I went to their site, tried to download it. Got a list of files and was stuck.

At this point I stole a glance at the clock. 2am. I sighed. I have to be up at 5:45am for work the next morning.

The slippery eel, DOUBT, began to slime its way across the vulnerable vista of my heart and mind.

“Maybe I can’t do this?”

“Perhaps I’m not smart enough.”

“There aren’t enough hours in the day for you to scale this learning curve.”

“You will fail…again.”

Frustrated with Twitter Bootstrap, I closed my computer with a dejected sigh. (I sigh quite a lot actually.)

I lay down in bed. Closed my eyes and that is when I thought of my father.

What is it about the night?

Estranged, I do not often think of my father- not in any significant way. But last night a nocturnal memory whispered from a distant time.

Every Woman Is A Star

My father was writing a book. I have hazy memories of a typewriter and correction tape. I have hazier memories of a never finished book entitled, Every Woman Is A Star.

I have no idea to this day what that book is about. But that title! It cannot help but inspire.

I remembered that I have a degree in physics, another obtuse male dominated field.

I remembered my degree in philosophy, metaphysical and erudite.

I remembered that I teach mathematics, hardly child’s play. I remembered and remembered.

I am a star. Or at least I have the potential to be.

This thought banished the eels. They slithered away into the darker swamps of my mind.

I know they are not gone forever, those slippery eels of DOUBT. But the title of my lost father’s book banished them for the moment.

Just think about that. Every woman is a star. A bright illuminating celestial presence. Able to overcome any obstacle, able to rise after any defeat. Able to soar and soar and soar.

Perhaps this is what my father meant. I will never know. But it helped last night. And I went to sleep with a smile thinly painted on my lips.