Saturday, December 19, 2015

Minimalist goals

 When I moved from one house to another
there were many things I had no room
for. What does one do? I rented a storage
space. And filled it. Years passed.
Occasionally I went there and looked in,
but nothing happened, not a single
twinge of the heart.
As I grew older the things I cared
about grew fewer, but were more
important. So one day I undid the lock
and called the trash man. He took
I felt like the little donkey when
his burden is finally lifted.  Things!
Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful
fire! More room in your heart for love,
for the trees! For the birds who own
nothing–the reason they can fly. 
Mary Oliver, “Storage”, Felicity (2015)

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Out of the shadows

"Writing is drawing the essence of what we know out of the shadows."

-- Karl Ove KnausgÃ¥rd

And may I add, who we were and who we are, and perhaps one day, as well, who we might become.

Saturday, December 5, 2015


I had this thought tonight, of getting into my car and driving around for a while.

But I was afraid that instead of driving around, I'd drive away. And so I stayed. Right where I was.

Friday, October 30, 2015

Searching for you, like the stars

I am sad I never saved my archives of blogs stemming from years and years of looking for love in men I so desperately wanted to be the one. 

Pieces of me gone, eclipsed, lost, and the parts that remain mourn them frequently, in silence.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Revisiting old words

I've been trying to be more authentic and open with my thoughts and feelings on the new blog -- because to write is to be as honest as possible withoutcensoring your words for the world -- but it's scary. 

For one, I don't want people to think I'm asking for their pity or attention or co-misery. Because I'm not. 

Two, I have a hard time, still, being vulnerable. But the need for expression -- the need to let go and let it all out -- trumps my need for self-preservation. And so there I was. And here I am, also.

There will always be those who judge us by projecting their own assumptions on our true intentions. And to those people, I can't give a fuck about them. Often times, it's more of a reflection of who they are, and where their heart is at and has nothing -- absolutely fucking nothing -- to do with me. But that doesn't negate the fact that I have to remind myself of that lesson daily. All the time. Every time.

I have this odd feeling that it isn't a coincidence that my daughter is due this November, the same month as novel-writing month. It also can't be a coincidence that my supervisor told me about her good friend who just signed her debut novel due to be published next summer, all while she was working full-time, pregnant, raising a toddler.

There's been a book waiting inside of me -- waiting to be birthed into life -- for years going into more than a decade now. 

The outline has been sitting there, collecting e-dust in Google Docs.

The ideas -- bits and pieces -- have been rotting, not growing. 

The story -- still developing, not knowing how to start or where to go.

Every birthday, I pick a word. This year's was creation. 

It can't be a coincidence. 


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