We Do What We Can and Can What We Do

From 30 thousand feet above the earth, it’s easy to feel as if you are only observing your life.  You see the rooftops and the tiny orange rectangles sitting side by side that you know must be school buses, filled that morning with children carrying peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and dulled pencils and homework they begrudgingly finished the night before.  And there are the parents in their desks that you can’t see, typing and calling and moving money from one pocket to another, but rarely their own. It’s easy this far above the ground to regret that you could only have one child – not because you are greedy, but because you love the one you do have so much, you wish you could give her the one thing she wants most – companionship.  And you think of your own sisters, how growing up with them had somehow prepared you to play well with others in adult life.  But even then, sometimes you still act like a jerk. That’s probably normal, and something, from 3...

Imagine digging out, pen in hand, the writing shovel, unearthing bad decisions and tossing them on the compost pile and the page. If you've always used writing as a way to process, but you can't process yet, do you stop writing?  No.  Never.  Never stop.  So I process through practice.  I grow through going.  I lift by letting. I have felt that in order to write to you, my friends, I would need to go back and explain EVERYTHING.  But you don't want to read about every misplaced key on the piano, though I feel like I should explain, perhaps, one chord.  How about A major (mistake)? Mistake.  I took wrongly.  I missed taking. Ex-plain.  I made the mistake of moving from the plains.  There.  An ex-plain-ation.   I was misplaced of my own volition.  Let the finger pointing begin, standing in front of the mirror pressing the tip to your own heart.  No one else but you. Where do you hold the disappointme...