Everything you have is yours. It is yours because it is in perfect sync with your life. You have a big family because it’s fitting for you. You have a small family because it’s fitting for you. You have gifts and talents because it is fitting for you. You have a good career or job because it is fitting for you. It works. And why is it fitting for you? Because everything you have is everything, you need in the moment you need it. When you think of it this way, even the things you don’t have that you may want or need start to take on new meaning. Gratitude starts to take on new meaning. What you don’t have is not fit for you and it doesn’t matter how much you think it is, the fact you do not have it means it is not fitting. Not at this moment. Maybe it will fit later but it does not fit now. “Why can’t I have?” Because it doesn’t fit you. “Why is this happening?” Because it is fitting for your strength. “Why won’t they?” Because they aren’t fit for you. Everything you do have is for your purpose and is tailor-made to fit your life perfectly and no one can take that away from you.
We wake up just enough to stay woke but not enough to live. We live on hours and minutes and second hands, gas, and expressways. Espressos and Starbucks. From the bed to the car to the job, back to the car to the house and to the bed where we will lie down again so that we can wake up and exist again. Begin again. Breathe again. Boldly expecting these bodies to be there to back us up again. Do we ever back up? Can we stop? When was the last time you experienced something beautiful and told no one? Can we be beautiful without filter? Can we examine this breath? This gorgeous breath. This inhale and exhale. This miracle that is in us. Can we examine these lungs? Let the seconds and minutes and hours add up, can we forget about time? Let it pass. Watch the orange and yellow rays of the sun bleeding into the sky. Can we experience the day passing onto the next? Can we catch it moving? Can we listen to the sound of quiet? Do we even know if silence has a sound? Can we listen to the birds sing for hours at a time and let the leaves change and crumble into colors? Can we let the wind blow dust onto the windowsill, can peace be still? You have to wake up before you can stay woke. Can we live?
Who can regret the wind’s chill and the smell of the air in the spring when the sun sets? I love it when the heavens bleed crimson with splashes of leftover daylight prophesying hints of yellow like screaming oracles; burnt orange clouds cementing inside the belly of the sky. I love the way birds defy the darkness to find refuge in the path of light, soaring on the backs of colors like they were some tangible thing and how beige highlights swing low like sweet chariots. Even the wind rejoices in the sunlight’s shadows bouncing off the concrete. It hopes to capture as much of its essence as possible before it retires into its chamber. Whether you’re driving home from work or sitting on the front porch mesmerized by the brisk wind, the silence of nightfall, and the sky, it’s the little things that bring calm. Let it fill your empty. Turn your distress into dancing, solemn into singing. Good night.
I come from a place where twitching mouths and search for the white stuff on the floor is protocol. A place where the White Gods ruled, food stamps sacrificed to glass pipes and crack is the answer to every question and yet, I don’t plan to leave any of them behind. Not the government cheese, hand-me-down clothing or the streets chalked with junkies. I ain’t nobody special so if I can be healed they can too, if they choose. I won’t miss a trip to Egypt or beautiful Germany (I almost went one time..bummer that it didn’t work out). I can be found quoting the likes of Whitman, Dickinson, or Frost and I think Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet is beautiful (even though his eyes look weird to me.) I’m a sucker for deep conversation, red wine, and education. I love to learn, pray, and study scripture. After all, what’s a beautiful woman whose mind is weak? I don’t mind walking into your fancy dinners either just as long as you’re paying for the plate. I hate the spotlight, true (though I will stand by my word). Shy most definitely. You can have the credit. I’ll wait and speak when the time is right because I’m kind but not weak and humble but not timid. Don’t box me in. My overcoming is a bridge for all people, not a closed door. Two Xs and no spaces except the one I found outside the box. No boxes please.
So what’s going on people? It’s been awhile since we talked together so I thought we’d do that today. So…
OK, I’ll go first.
So my husband is doing well. His leg is strong and we’re getting back in the swing of things. Though I do hate he’d have to go back to work soon…boo. Oh, and I do have an exciting new update. I’ve been on baby duty lately. No, I’m not pregnant (yet lol) but I am baby sitting and I must say he’s the absolute cutest. So yea, he’s the culprit taking up my blogging time. You cutie you!
BJ has been waking me at 7am with sweet kisses and lots of love. I mean, just look at him. Who can resist that face?
Hmm, what else? I went to Houston recently so that was pretty cool. Got to spend some much needed family time and all that good stuff. I mean, I had to do some work too but I enjoyed seeing the fam while we were there. It’s been raining a lot lately too, which of course is inspiration to write more. I’m pretty sure everyone reading this blog know how much I love the rain by now. I love the calmness of the air and listening to the wind.
That’s it for me, for now. So, what’s up with you all? How is life?
I’m afraid this blog is transforming into something I do not want it to be. That there’s a cloud here that visits every time I publish a book. It lingers over the tops of our heads like an annoying conversation that will not end. How did we get here? I don’t want to write about writing today. Don’t want to hear explanations of grammatical correctness, and book cover design. I don’t want to hear anything about Self-Publishing and ISBN Numbers. And yet, here I am, talking about writing! Why does this cloud of a niche insist on trying to find its way to this blog? I’ve always enjoyed the variety of subject matter here and Dear Writing, I love you, but I cannot let you sneak up on us like this. We need some space. Yes, you are starting to get on my nerves. I don’t want to hear about books and why I should be reading them. I want to hear about life and why I should be living it. I want to talk more about what’s going on inside these walls called the four corners of the Earth. Want to talk about how well my husband’s surgery went and how much I’m enjoying his break from the job. Want to whisper sweet poetic somethings into this post just because I feel like it. No prompts. No tips. Just poetic somethings. Want to sit back and tell you why Lean on Me is the best movie ever and I challenge anyone to tell me I’m wrong. Want to explain why I’m probably wrong. Dear Writing, let me laugh my way into this post without thoughts of you. Time for us to take a break. Give me some space.
You wouldn’t know it from the color of the sky, the not so barren trees, or the way the sun kisses the ground but the wind is a reminder that frost does not need to edge the tops of buildings for the temperature to drop. The heat from the computer modem down at my feet warms my naked toes before the blanket of caffeine engulfs my throat. It has never been so refreshing than to drink coffee or tea in the winter time. Nonetheless, I sit here in the slightly dimmed bedroom I have turned into a second office of which the bed is left purposely unattended, almost as if someone is hiding out in there. The shape of my body left lingering in the curve of its back, sheets curled into itself, and pillows lodged one on top the other that I may return shortly and pull the covers up to my eyeballs. No, it’s not that cold, I just like to do that. My white walls makes the room look tan against the darkness and splash of yellow from the lamp. I love the way the colors blend to mimic the natural earth tone of browns and oranges. The lamp produces just enough light with its small and modest stares. As the cable modem and computer compete simultaneously to produce the greatest hum (have you ever sat back and noticed how loud electronics are?) the truth is that I’m sitting here thinking about the transition of creative thought to production. Obviously my mind is in a creative mood and I wonder how it slips from my thoughts to electronic ink on a page. Is it blue ocean waves overflowing into the shapes of words; is it strung along by string from my heart and stitched into white paper; are these words a mere thread of my consciousness, a spiritual essence poured out only to be confined and restricted to the tangible platform that binds them. It is an intriguing transition. That process of being filled to the brim, only to drip mere inklings of thought from black colored ink, and fire coated passion, on white paper.