You Are Probably Writing


No.

I was in the shower.

But you don’t need to know that.

For all intents and purposes, at a certain point in my evening I do neglect all but the most urgent of phone calls and texts and I sit and I give myself this.

This forum.

This love.

This self-expression.

This tender heart of mine needs to see itself reflected back and this is where it happens.

Self-reflection and acceptance and that quiet good spot that I find in the pause between the words, when sometimes the singing of the tea-pot interrupts the words, but more often, it is the magic in that space where I find the grace to get lost in the sound of the keys, the sounds in my heart, the voices in my head stop and the singing starts.

Sometimes most literally, singing.

I do like to crank the music when I write, it’s a way of winding down and also a way of letting go of the world and succumbing to this cozy space of mine here at the edge of the world, the edge of the city, the cusp of the Pacific a soupçon away.

Funny thing though.

I rarely go back and read what happened yesterday, though there is sometimes an imprint of it on my day or about my person and I had that today coalesce in different and surprising ways.

There was the surprise text from my ex this afternoon that sprung something open.

Broke open.

Not broken.

Heart is not broken, he did not break my heart, but it broke open more and there it was this tender, kind, sweet spot, there, just there, deep in my chest and the sun broke throughout the playground as I pushed the little boy in the swing “higher, Carmen, higher,” and the sweet text broke over my face like the sun and tears prickled my eyes.

I was not upset that he reached out and I paused.

Breathed.

Looked at the sky.

Saw the imprint of leaves over the soft clouds, the blue that was trying to break through and the shift happened.

I did not feel anger or upset or hurt.

I felt tender sweet love for him.

And for myself.

I felt fondness.

I felt compassion.

I said a little hello to the Universe, reread the text, and responded.

It felt right and I felt neither manipulated into responding nor did I feel like I was opening up some can of worms.

My god.

I think this is called moving on.

I think this is about compassion, tolerance, patience, and love, oh yes love, in all its various manifestations and convolutions.

I felt stars fall on my heart and the old light lit corners of my heart that I knew were there, but did not suspect the depths therein.

I felt beautiful, and full, and loved back.

By God.

By the child in the swing.

The birds in the air.

By myself.

We had a sweet reconnection and I know that I can be his friend.

And yes, there was some pain there, but like the fingerprints of it, not the devastation of break up and change-up and moving on and the pain of rejection.

Rather.

It was like the pain of a wound that has knit and healed and was just jostled slightly, as though to remind me that I went through the experience and came out full and returned to sanity and something else.

I felt free.

Grateful.

Oh so grateful.

But deeply free.

I have peered so far inside myself and I knew I didn’t have to keep digging through it.

I worked it out.

I did not hide from it, I sat through it, I did my process, I did my cry, I did my surrender, I thought I was ok, I realized I was a “whistling in the dark” and I went through the process some more and did more of this, more writing more work, more and then continued to keep walking toward where ever it was next I had to walk to.

Or ride my bike to.

Or sit in the back yard to.

Sometimes you just have to sit in the back yard and cry when you hear a motorcycle engine roar past.

It feels amazing and sad and good and god damn, god damn, I am so glad I keep showing up for this life and doing the deal.

I get richer reserves of faith and love and compassion and growth and it is astounding.

Small progress that I don’t even know that I am making until I can stand on the other side of the park and not be worried about what anybody thinks about me because I am doing the best I can with what I got.

What I got is good.

Feels, frankly, pretty sexy.

I’m awake.

I’m alive.

And I am sexy.

I don’t have to be dressed sexy to feel sexy.

I just get to do the work, that’s what is sexy.

That’s where the real groove is.

It just means that I am being my authentic self, my real person, this strong, beautiful woman I have grown into.

I suspected all along that she was here and I had some ideas about what “she” looked like.

Nothing like this.

This, pink hair, tattooed, smart aleck, bright, graduate school bound, nanny, with a great big smile and a wide open heart is not at all who I suspected.

It’s far better.

Far sexier.

Far more tender and open and compassionate.

Far less judgmental, intolerant and fearful.

I suspect that it only gets better, deeper, more full, this experience, this sexy, loving, bright, tender, sparkling life.

The best is yet to come.

With it.

All the things.

They too, will follow.

They always have.

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