Please, can we not have regret soup for dinner tonight?
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 disappointment? You don't. You drop it. You wake up and get busy with the day because the day is obviously already busy with you. You need to wake up with empty hands, so they can be filled by the day's gifts.
So, each movement I make is a moment when I am believing in hope, easier and harder than it sounds. Take a load off, Annie.
I MISS things. (And here they are -- the misplaced keys). I miss the farm in Tamora, sunsets and barn swallows from the front stoop. My classroom. The poems. I miss the kids I left in Georgia. I miss the woman I was before everything undid itself. I miss-placed EVERYTHING. So, here is the reeling back from it all and lifting hands and letting crying happen when crying happens.
There was so much to give away on both sides. Ultimately, I was a fool, but we can argue about that later. I have to let myself feel like one for now. It's part of the process, part of the decision I will make one morning when I wake up and say, "You weren't a fool. You were one of the bravest people I know because you believed in love."
And how thankful I am to be back, loved and lifted from the life ambulance and carried to a healing place overflowing with songs and seeds and a yellow house, and a little girl, whom I love and who is also growing up and angry with me.
But one heartache at a time, mama.
So, this is just to say that I have eaten the plum which you left in the icebox, and forgive me for how rusty and messy this place might be for awhile. I'm just letting the work be done in me, this re-membering. Let's just see what grows on the other side of the earth's surface. You can't deny the green shoot when it appears, soft life so brave and vulnerable and generous.
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 disappointment? You don't. You drop it. You wake up and get busy with the day because the day is obviously already busy with you. You need to wake up with empty hands, so they can be filled by the day's gifts.
So, each movement I make is a moment when I am believing in hope, easier and harder than it sounds. Take a load off, Annie.
I MISS things. (And here they are -- the misplaced keys). I miss the farm in Tamora, sunsets and barn swallows from the front stoop. My classroom. The poems. I miss the kids I left in Georgia. I miss the woman I was before everything undid itself. I miss-placed EVERYTHING. So, here is the reeling back from it all and lifting hands and letting crying happen when crying happens.
There was so much to give away on both sides. Ultimately, I was a fool, but we can argue about that later. I have to let myself feel like one for now. It's part of the process, part of the decision I will make one morning when I wake up and say, "You weren't a fool. You were one of the bravest people I know because you believed in love."
And how thankful I am to be back, loved and lifted from the life ambulance and carried to a healing place overflowing with songs and seeds and a yellow house, and a little girl, whom I love and who is also growing up and angry with me.
But one heartache at a time, mama.
So, this is just to say that I have eaten the plum which you left in the icebox, and forgive me for how rusty and messy this place might be for awhile. I'm just letting the work be done in me, this re-membering. Let's just see what grows on the other side of the earth's surface. You can't deny the green shoot when it appears, soft life so brave and vulnerable and generous.
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