This season I have traded in the great rush for something quieter. I decided to try my hand at really living with the season, to do what all of nature (except for us crazy western humans) do when the sunlight becomes scant. I decided to slow down and dive into deep rest.
There have been stretches this holiday season where I wore my pajamas for days on end. Days when I chose to read with Max by the fire instead of doing the thousands of chores that had piled up. Days when I put the endless to do lists to rest, fully trusting that one day the important stuff would find a way to get done. My phone has barely worked these days and that has been good because it kept me from taking calls. (I am sorry if you have been trying to reach me).
There is something magical about winter that I fear has gotten lost. Winter gives us permission to reboot and restore but the holiday season modern style instead leaves us feeling run round, ragged. Its not simply a matter of commercialism but rather a matter of hectic, rushing that runs completely counter to what our bodies know we need to do.
I am starting to surface now. Something about the new year turning is causing the sap to rise and pulling me out of my cocoon. Eventually I will return to the written word. I am sure of that. But until then wanted to break through the quiet to wish those who come by hear a New Year full of love and peace.
Having declared that I was going to show up here and write no matter what I find myself in a bit of a bind.
Perhaps I thought that that simple declaration would inspire brilliance? Perhaps I thought that if I simply pronounced it, the writing would come. Today, the very first day out of the box I am showing up here with no wisdom, no happy endings and certainly no magical stories. Damn.
Today Max is with his dad and so I don’t have to rush home after my paid work and jump into my work life as a mother and so I promised myself I would sit here for at least 20 minutes. As the day started to come to its close I thought of 100 or so different reasons that I really needed to just get going–errands that needed being run, chores that needed to be completed. I promised myself I would write tonight after Max went to sleep, after my guitar lesson…later.
Its amazing all the ways in which we sabotage ourselves, isn’t it?
I am wondering what THAT is all about? And what is the thing that underlies it all? Is it fear? Fear of what happens? Or fear that if I dropped all my excuses I would show up, naked (figuratively–I AM still at the office afterall) and be revealed for what I am–which is not quite a fraud, but also perhaps “not all that“? Maybe I might discover that when I eliminate all the excuses I am just Uninspired? I think about that a lot you know.
I know…I know…its silly. If any of you wrote or spoke those words aloud, I would be the first one in line to kick your butt. I am just saying.
Cause you know, what the hell do I have to say? I am just a girl. I value kindness. I love my kid. I love to play but can take things way too seriously too. I have known deep personal pain–though I am awed at how in the scheme of things how easy I have gotten off (knocking on wood now). My life has taught me a thing or two but its not new wisdom–really ancient wisdom–the kind of wisdom that the ancestors sort of hit their foreheads over while muttering things like “You just figured that one out Einstein…Duh…Kids today”. Most of the time I think I have shared all that I have learned, all that I know, my hour is over, time to get back to the chores.
I am not doing anything all that big or scary or Meaningful (with a capital M) right now. On some of my projects I am moving forward with the tiniest of baby steps and nothing new to report. Others seem terribly stalled. Along those lines, fitting my life into my life is a challenge and the only thing I hate more than that fact is the fact that I actually think that way. That for all my talk about being present, for all my embracing of now, for all the joy I can find in the smallest moment, I still think my life (the life I want) is still out there somewhere. That I love the life I have but that other life–the one I am moving too–well I am going to love THAT life so much more…
OK. Confessional closed.
In the interest of wrapping up here I will simply share this:
Five Things I Know:
1. Fresh picked lettuce tastes so much better than store bought.
2. Lemonade is much better if you shove a handful of mint in the bottle and let it sit a day or two.
3. Constantly editing myself to be the good girl is a bad habit. Its a challenging one to break. Its exhausting.
4. I could really use a hug today. Not because I am sad, or lonely or any reason like that. Just cause I like hugs. More than the average person I think.
5. I need to exercise more. Really. I’m not kidding. I saw a picture of me timing at Max’s swim meet today and I said, “Oh who is that super cute pregnant girl with the pigtails? I don’t remember seeing her on Saturday.” And then I realized it was me. And I’m not pregnant. (But at least I am super cute.)
I have a friend who thinks that blogs are just public diaries. Every time she says that (in a way that I know is a not too veiled question of what I do here) I want to stomp my feet in protest. There is a lot of mighty fine writing that happens in our bloglandia–a lot of powerful stuff in raw and polished form.
But, to some extent she speaks truth. There is a lot that gets posted here and on other blogs that feels very much the stuff of journals. There is a certain recording of our lives that happens here, a marking it down, lest it be forgotten. A turning it into words so that we can better make some meaning out of it. A cleansing because sometimes writing about something just makes it feel so much better and why not here?
I suppose someone could say that all writing is in some way, a public diary. It all starts with using words to illuminate a piece of our souls–whether we call it fiction or memoir whether we claim “it really happened” or we just imagine it did. Telling a story, playing with truth, juggling words–if we are honest it all starts in a vulnerable place and with an idea or thought or feeling or neurosis that is all our own. I can see the truth in what she says and hold in my head that she is absolutely right and also hold in that same space the truth that there is some mighty fine writing going on on my favorite blogs.
But truth be told, I know that I get so defensive when I hear blogs (and especially my blog! Oh my!) described that way, because I want to think I am above keeping a diary for the world. I want my writing to be more than the verbal vomit that I always associated with my writing at the time I kept volume after volume of my deepest secrets scrawled in angry, melodramatic rambling prose in black and white bound notebooks.
I want my writing to mean something. I want my writing to have made order out of chaos. I want my writing to point to something true. I want my writing to be–well–beautiful.
I love my blog because this is a place to practice–a verbal sketch book. I write about my life because its here, in front of me. I write about my life because its really the only thing I know to be true. I write about my life, for the same reasons I read voraciously because stories help me rise above the weeds and muck and blurry close up view of my life to a height where I can see the pattern, sense a meaning. It may read like a diary but it is so much more. It is a place to play with words based writing about the stuff that I know best. Its just that.
When I first had my blog I played a lot more. Made lists. Rambled. Posted pictures. But it has changed as I got more serious and as my writing matured and as I discovered that every now and then someone reads this thing. I think a lot about what I write here because you (yes you!) come here and I want so much to delight you and I don’t want to waste your time.
In this way my blog has become a metaphor for something I am struggling with–(hello diary!) living unedited. I have noticed in recent weeks how I can still slip into the bad habit of dialing myself back to be nice, polite, or to fit into what is expected. Worse yet, I find myself holding myself back until the “final draft”. Living in the messy space of being unpracticed has been a, well, practice for me and yet, the deeper I dig in, the more I see where I am holding myself (and my me–ness) back. And my writing and my creativity is just one of those spaces.
Truth is, I don’t write to be good. I don’t write to be considered talented or brilliant or even somewhat interesting. I don’t write for any other reason other than that words matter and stories matter and telling them is good for my heart. They don’t have to be neat or perfect or even stories, do they?
I worry a bit, about what would happen if every day I showed up here and just wrote. Wrote without a point or without a neat ending or even without prose. What would happen if I wrote simply for the joy of playing with words and saw what happened when I arranged them this way. You might stop coming here. You might even call this space a “public diary” Thinking about it makes me sad. But I am willing to take the risk because write now I am practicing living in a deeper, more authentic way and this seems like a good space to do that in.
July is going to be a little experiment. What would happen if I just got here and wrote without a finished piece in mind. It might all be crap. Maybe you should set your alarm clocks for August. We will see.
About a year ago, I spontaneously decided to go through my blog and find posts inspired by people in my real life and send them to them as a package. It was a strange exercise for me. People in my community of friends know me to play many roles. I am a mother, a neighbor, an activist, a researcher, a mentor, a boss, a student. I am that nice person up the street who hugs and kisses a lot. But very few people think of me as a writer.
And that is a little bit on purpose.
I don’t drive many of my friends and co-workers here because I am a bit shy about the truths that get told here.
Writing here is such a tender process and sharing that writing with the people I love exposes me and often leaves me feeling vulnerable. Its scary enough to share my creativity. But this blog has become a place where I often lay my beating heart out on the table and speak truths that sometimes surprise even me.
So sending those packaged up bundles to those i love was terrifying. I was asking to be seen, warts and all and I had no idea what the response would be. I decided to send them anyway, with no attachment to the response. I decided to risk being loved as I am. Or at very least to be seen.
I know for a fact that I have loved ones who don’t get my writing. Perhaps they are embarrassed or shocked by my willingness to open my heart so shamelessly to strangers. Perhaps they think it is “attention getting” behavior and not art to tell stories like mine. I once had a debate with a woman I respect very much (and who didn’t know I write) about the memoir genre. She hates them. She thinks that memoirs are fiction wrapped up and pretending to be truth and they they are inevitably preachy and self-absorbed and to quote her “artless”. She said the minute we claim to tell the truth we are lying and that if an author really wanted to say something they could be creative enough to tell a story to illustrate the point. I sighed, holding her truth in the light and wondered what I could learn from it. Its true, sometimes fiction can tell truth so much more powerfully but I also wondered about the possibility that maybe to her memoir can be scary. When I speak my truth, not as fiction that could be true but as truth it can be really scary. Especially when it isn’t your truth. It calls us all out as liars.
When I write these truths I immediately run a risk that a rift will open up, a chasm, a valley. I run the risk of being called out as a liar, of my truth being sacrificed on your altar, or smashed to bits when held up to the light of what you might know about me. I run the risk of breaking carefully crafted expectations you may have developed about me or worse yet, run the risk of the snickering comments, “Well, that’s not really how she is”. The reality is that when we write about our lives there is no way to do it without exposure and without blowing up that myth we call truth.
I am a both a holy wise woman and a broken down mess. I am extraordinary and unique and exactly the same as everyone else. I have moments of kindness and moments of pettiness, moments when I am magnanimous and moments where my patience is raw and limited. There are moments when I am profound and moments where I am cliche and obvious and so full of shit. I know that whenever I tell you a story I am only telling you a part of it. That every attempt to convey a truth immediately makes a liar out of me. One face. One truth. There is no way to know the whole truth. Ever. And yet…at that moment, in that space, in the perfectness of a now, no one ever really lies but only whispers what they know to be true in that millisecond, even if that truth shifts the moment it is uttered.
Over this last year, some of the people I love most have disappointed me and it has set my world upside down. Perhaps they were unkind or thoughtless. They may have hurt me greatly, acted in a way I found disrespectful or simply annoyed me. They may have behaved jealously or they may have judged me or someone I love. Maybe I thought they took advantage or took all all the air. Maybe I thought they took without giving. Maybe they gave for the wrong reasons. Maybe I thought they were a hypocrite or made a liar out of me.
At the end of the day though, my disappointment was about me.
I was annoyed because they failed to meet whatever unfair expectations I had created when I declared why I loved them and then quietly in my heart of hearts demanded (unfairly) that they always be that way. I was angry because their truth at that moment did not match up with the truth I had told myself about them. I was convinced that they were perfect in the ways I wanted them to be. I was caught up in a lie. Caught up in the calling them a liar, caught up in not seeing the whole, caught up in not being willing to meet them as they are exactly as they are.
The moment I realized this, something hard inside me began to dissolve. That work is still happening but I feel so much softer around the edges. I am able to hold the reality that the people I love are divine and terrible. We all are. As we stumble through our lives they will be lovely and screw up exponentially and I am simply called to love. And the aim of this practice is to know unconditional love. To see and be seen.
I am making it my practice, to open up and love the fucked up parts of the people I love along with the delicious parts.
Immediately as I wrote this last sentence, I tried to qualify it, for fear that someone in my real life could claim it isn’t the truth. They could point to the thousands of times I have failed at this. They could think I am being smug. They could think a lot of things. It takes too much time and energy for me to worry about that anymore so the qualifications are going out the window. I am flawed and todays truths may be tomorrows fictions but for now this is my truth. The Truth according to Me. The truth that the minute is spoken dissolves.
A few days ago, when I sat down to write, I had an entirely different post in mind. But this is what came up and so I honored it. Truth is, it has been bubbling up and wanting to be written for months now but finally came to the surface, probably inspired by these truth tellers whose posts made me think so much this past week.
Six summers ago our babysitter went away to Central America for three weeks. Juan and I were short on cash and so we could neither afford a vacation away nor could he take the time away from his fledgling business. It was just Max and me for three weeks. We spent lots of time in the parks and library and when he would lay his toddler head down for a nap, I discovered the joy of “mindful cleaning”.
My life was in chaos at that time. I was working too long and too hard. Motherhood was overwhelming. My marriage was disintegrating and I was tired, anxious and not sleeping. My house, I have learned, is often a mirror of my heart and so it is no surprise that at the time, my living space looked and felt like a bomb went off in it.
I am not much of a housekeeper, even in the best of times. Just ask my mother, Juan or my college roommate (sorry Cindy for those four years I buried you in squalor!). Somehow, the art of keeping my space in order feels like I mystery I may never crack. I have never quite figured that organization thing out. Over the years, I outsourced a lot of that work–to cleaning services, to my husband, to my mother who would frantically scrub each time she visited. While in some years it has been better than others, I gave up on housekeeping because as the ultimate achiever I felt the calm, tidy peace of my mother’s home was something I would never achieve. A clean, orderly space might momentarily be mine, but as a rule it eluded me. The idea of spending energy on something I would never accomplish just struck me as silly. I was driven by the finished product and this was one I never would obtain, so why bother?
But that summer, when Max would sleep, I would sit. My mind would whirl and spin with worries of how everything was falling apart. Then around day 3, after a good long cry I fell quiet for once. And in that quiet, a wisdom rose: You have to take care of your life.
I didn’t know how to fix my broken marriage. I wasn’t ready to face what was making me struggle at work. I had no idea how to tackle the lack that filled me like a canyon. But I knew how to do laundry. And there was so much of it piled up. I knew how to clean windows and I had many that were dirty and streaky in the summer sun. I knew how to dust and there were inches of hidden grey dust piled up on the tops of cabinets and shelves.
So, I started to clean, not in order to arrive at a picture perfect home, but simply because it needed to be done and I needed to quiet my mind. Around this time, my friend Anne had told me about mindful eating, a practice she had started after a trip to Kripalu. She said its principles could be applied to anything. I wondered if it could apply to cleaning.
I treated myself with a small bag of new cleaning products–Mrs Meyers I think it was in geranium or lavender or some other delicious scent. I used the mid-day hours when Max would sleep to scrub and clean solely because 1) it needed to be done and 2) because it gave me a relief from the constant thinking I was doing–about my marriage, my career, my “failure” as a mother. For three weeks I cleaned, bit by bit.
The house did look better at the end of that month, but to be honest, I never did quite achieve utter sparkle. The mystery of complete cleanliness and order would remain a mystery. But at the end of the three weeks I had found some peace. In my heart there was more quiet. And I also knew that without having to solve any big problems, I was stroke by stroke, taking care of my life.
I have often returned to this exercise when life gets at its most overwhelming. This winter, all crabby I had a moment where I felt unnourished, depleted and wholly uncelebrated. “I take care of everyone!” I whined to myself. “There is no one to take care of me!” But that deep wisdom got bossy with my complaining mind. “Just breathe and take care of your life” it said. So I put down my computer, my guitar, my books and my worries and picked up the laundry basket, the mop and the spray bottle. Not with any goals other that simple deep loving care of myself and my son.
I have thought of this story often as I have seen bits and pieces leak out of Karen Maezen Miller’s new book, Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life. I am a little girl waiting for Christmas, anticipating its arrival, joyously loading the dishwasher while I wait. You can read an excerpt of it here. You can hear Karen’s beautiful soothing voice reading a selection of it here. And you can start your search for peace of mind in here, in your own laundry room or kitchen with nothing more than than your willing hands.
I am swimming in words. They trickle down and slide down my forehead, blur my vision, drip down my nose. Words are streaming down on me these days, like the heavy October rains. This is what happens when I don’t write.
Three weeks ago, I decided to take a break. Not really consciously. But I decided it would be OK if I didn’t write because I felt it was time to turn my attention to other things. Not big things. But important things. After a summer on the go, after years of prioritizing my social life over my home, after weeks of birthday celebration, my intuition told me that I needed the slowness, the easiness, the aloneness of simply just living. Not writing about living. Not thinking about living. Just washing dishes. Packing lunches. Taking walks. Reading to my boy. I told myself I would write if I had time, but no pressure. Just for a week or so. The blog would hold.
And then my internet broke. I guess the universe thought I needed a bit more of a break than a week.
Its been most wonderful, this respite. It was so nice letting go of that judging voice that says: “OK girly…get to your computer and write something.” I loved being able to silence the little supportive but annoying voice that said, “have you made time for your morning pages today? If you want your writing to grow you need to spend time writing”
I spent my extra minutes feeling on top of the bills, cleaning the dishes, not feeling guilty about a thousand other things that seem to pile up while I sit here at this computer. I even made some progress at learning to play the F-chord. Its been a productive time here at chez Meg.
But sometime late last week, I noticed that suddenly words were falling around me in the supermarket. They were chasing me in the car. They were piling up like the dirty laundry that was no longer littering my bathroom floor. Random phrases became stuck in my head like songs. I would repeat them over and over again. I missed writing. Really missed it. I kept telling myself, you don’t need the internet to write. But I had equated not having the internet with not writing and it felt good to be on vacation, even as I found myself falling slowly apart.
I am glad to say that today my internet is back and my self imposed hiatus is over. The technician was 4 hours late but here I am, better late than never. I am happy to be at the computer again.
I am awash in words that don’t yet make sense–there are so many stories, none fully formed that are begging for me to play with them.
Mostly, I just wanted to say HI. This is me waving. Shyly, perhaps. But it sure is nice to be back.
So many of the notes in our holiday card have wished me a happier, easier year in 2009. While I have been touched by the friends who have recognized that this year was a big year, and challenging year at our home I have also been a bit confused. Looking back I feel nothing but gratitude for this year, for the gifts and the growth. Does that sound too Pollyanna? I don’t mean it to be…And its not that I am denying the difficulty of what we have faced this year. There have been real ups and downs.
Its true that 2008 has been a year that has felt a little bit like spiritual boot camp–but truth of the matter, I like I have been whipped into a new shape. Now that I am through it I can’t imagine where I would be without these trials. Sure, I hope 2009 brings us lots of blessings, but I guess I have stopped trying to define what “blessing” look like.
Still, this whole mental exercise, this questioning why friends thought our year might have been “tough” led me down a trip down memory lane. It lead me to this blog–which I so often don’t go back and read. Its lead me to want to post here some of the posts that captured my poignant, even if they were impossibly difficult moments in 2008, the ones that make me bow my head in gratitude, some of the moments that were teachers and and now, old friends. To honor them, these moments and acknowledge them before I bless them and let them go.
Thank you 2008…Thank you for the sweet gifts of laughter, joy, love that I experienced in your embrace. And thank you for the lessons, the growth and the opportunities you gave me to dive deeper into my own heart’s wisdom.
- A Good Year: The reappearance of my dear Jenni’s cancer called on both of us to question how we would live if we had only a year left.
- Somebody Loved: My divorce hearing in February called me to look back at the journey of love I had been on with Juan, and how at the end of all this mess, I really found myself.
- Everyday Magic and the Gift of Wings: A reflection on what happens when the Universe is in charge
- Rum, Serendipity and the Lass…:An ode to faith, the magic in the universe, the gift of friendship and things working out exactly as they should
- Transition : What happens when the bottom falls out and when things get turned on their head.
- Real: What Max taught me about seeing and being seen
- Held: My birthday card to myself.
- Things that Go Bump in the Night: On fear and facing it
- Stay:What I learned about winter when I finally settled in.
Who can tell what miracles Love has in store for us if only we have the courage to become one with it?
Everything we think we know is only the beginning of another knowing that itself has no end
–Iqbal, Sufi Mystic
Happy Love Thursday. May miracles be yours.
I haven’t been writing much.It seems that there is a shift going on in my life and I am not quite sure what to make of it.
It feels rather big and quite small at the same time.
After all, nothing has changed and yet everything seems to be changing.
My life feels so very much the same, but I feel new. And yet I feel as though I am really who I always was. And recognizing myself from long ago and realizing I had been there all along.
I don’t know how to write about it. And yet I don’t know how to write about anything else.
So I do my laundry. And I make dinner. And I play Uno with Max and read books. And I go through stacks of paper and finally take care of a thousand things that just last month seemed not worth doing.
Many of the events that are precipitating all these shifts are not the stuff of publication. Some are quite small, like streams that gently shape a mountain side over time. They are so mundane. Others have been earthquakes, shaking my very sense of security. They leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Sometimes I feel like I am on the edge of some big deep breakthrough, but really, truth be told, most minutes I feel like I am wandering around in the spiritual desert, arriving at the same lesson over and over again. I feel like the last month or so has been a kind of spiritual boot camp.
Over and over, in big and small ways, I keep being called on to trust. To shed fear. To open up to love at whatever the cost. To operate not from a place of hurt but from compassion. To hold it all lightly, even when it feels so heavy. To claim my power and then to be unimpressed with it and let it go. To establish boundaries but let love flow freely across them.
To stop asking “what next?” To stop asking “why?” To stop seeking and spinning and hoping and wondering.
And just be.
As a storyteller I don’t know what to do with the silence. The long stretches of quiet. Except to honor the stillness and to know that some stories are meant only to be whispered to God. And that soon, other stories will come to me. To let the fields go fallow for awhile and trust that I will write when I am ready.
This past Sunday, Odette threw a dinner party at our house. She called together some of the dearest members of our tribe to thank them for planning a fundraiser to support her girls. We pulled out dresses and dusted off the china, put a white damask cloth on the table and filled the house with flowers. As everyone started to arrive it started to pour…a heavy summer rain, the kind that washes funks and bad moods away. We drank beer and wine and gathered in the kitchen, all of us crowded in that tiny space leaving the rest of the house empty. As the lights flickered and the power threatened to go off, I pulled out candles and placed them next to the good dishes and half- hoped for the intimacy that an outage would bring.
And then Odette called us around the table. We stood there all of us, adults and children. We held hands as Odette bowed her head and began to say a blessing in her mysterious and beautiful language, a blessing over the food we would eat, a blessing over strangers who had become family. I opened my eyes and looked around the circle. And I took a mental picture and burned it into my heart. A circle of community. A table loaded with food. An endless cycle of giving and receiving.
And I knew that for all the shifts and changes and silences and spiritual deserts and breakthroughs, I have all that I will ever need. And no matter where I explore, I will arrive back here. Home.
Back when I was in my teens or very early 20s I had a vision of my future and it looked like this: I would finally make it, be wildly famous if only in a small circle, have lots of friends, and life would be largely effortless.
The things that would be difficult, I imagined would be amazing challenges–like hiking up high Asian mountains, or writing THE speech, or winning some national prize. I imagined that things like getting the laundry done, remembering birthdays, matching my clothes and looking passably fashionable would be so old hat. Certainly things like caring for children and getting a healthy dinner on the table and the grocery shopping done–that stuff would be done breezily in no time flat, leaving me lots of time to struggle nobly with poetry, and science and other meaningful critical important stuff.
I read this post today by Jena–Her blog is often a mirror for me–I go there and see so much of my own internal world reflected. In her post I recognized so clearly the way I sometimes hold the ordinary regular old stuff in my life. I wonder why it is 20 years later and I am still struggling to figure out how to get the cat fed and the recycling to the curb and the kitchen floor mopped, why small things can leave me feeling a bit flustered and why I do not have a perfectly ordered and neatly wrapped up life like “everyone else”. Or I stomp around grumpily through the mundane wondering when I can get through it, when there is going to be time to be brilliant and glamorous the way I imagined it would always be. Fortunately, I recognized too my own eventual settling into the notion that really at the end of the day I am enough. Happily enough.
I am so thrilled to be regular and unglamorous. To not always have it together. To screw up and make mistakes and learn.
Yesterday Jen Lemen talked about many of the things that leave her feeling foolish. Oh I have my list too. Many of them are mentioned above. Jen and I spend hours giggling over all the ways we play the fool and yet in this laughter I see beauty reflected back at me. I look in this mirror and know that I am exactly perfectly who I need to be right now. That its quite OK to be able to the kind of person who doesn’t always hold it all together so neatly but instead who runs around with life spilling over her arms, dropping pieces of lovingly constructed color along the way. Flawed but authentic. Jumping in with both feet. Getting messy. Living now.
And just now, I stood at this mirror. How crisply I saw my reflection in Bella’s story even though the contours are so very different. I am on the otherside of my divorce and am truly healed and yet the echoes of who I once was are still there. And I wonder what that means. Like Bella, after a long struggle to overcome difficult things I am used to being in healing mode. I laugh with glee when I realize that I am actually on the other side –not in the thick of it anymore and have to giggle when I say, “What is my excuse now? What is holding me back”
And speaking of now, I also today found this little gem at another of my favorite places to go for comfort–Cheerio Road. I thought Karen Maezen Miller just hit it perfectly–this notion of what it means to live in the moment. To be present NOW. Its so cliche, so chic these days to talk about THE NOW as though you need some special sort of wisdom, you need to have obtained some special enlightenment to live in the present. I am printing this post out and taping it to my mirror to remind myself that there is no future when I will be glamorous–there is no time when it will all fall together. There is no time when I won’t play the fool. There is no time when I will forget what happened in the past. No–there is only now. With me in it, enough–more than enough.
I am tonight standing at my mirrors, gazingly lovingly at soulsisters who hold themselves up so that I may see myself clearly. And am thankful.