10 December 2012: A Lot Like Home

In the last few weeks, I’ve had a hankering for a condo. I love the area in which I live, but I’m desperate for my own parking space. A friend offered that this hankering might have something to do with all of the changes in my life. She thinks it might be the product of my need for stability in such an unstable time. I think she might be right.

So today, on my way home from yet another stressful and uncertain day, I stopped by the plant nursery. I bought three new plants with an eye toward tending a few new roots. As I sit here typing, I feel high in my own living room, the oxygen is so thick.

As the scent of rosemary and everblooming hoya mingles with my psyche, I realize that I am Spanish moss. I grow where I am and carry my reserves in the pit of my stomach. My stability comes from within.

In this apartment, I can have whatever permanence I want. I love this apartment. I love the glass doors on my kitchen cabinets and the tree full of animal life outside my bedroom window. I love the street I live on, its mix of energy and quiet.  I love how I feel when I enter the front door, like I can let go of the tail-end of the breath I had been hanging onto.

Lately, in my search for a permanent home, I haven’t spent a lot of time appreciating the life I’ve created for myself. I’ve only been thinking about the life I wish I was living. I have been searching for the fork in the road where I went wrong. And I think I’ve finally found it. It was two weeks ago when I started making place=stability. I have done so many adventurous things, and I have always lived according to my own heart. Being THAT person is what grounds me in my life more than any mortaged cement foundation ever could.

I am so thankful to have a beautiful shelter to hold me warmly as the first lasting snowflakes of season settle in their places for the winter. I am thankful I still have the option to dance on the wind.

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5 December 2012: My First Night as a Writer

Today, I am thankful for that dark night in my childhood when my own writing became both a mystery and an answer. I am thankful that at a young age, I found such an enigmatic lens with which to view this world. Thirty years later, I am still returning to words to seek the truth of myself and the truth of the world. I am thankful that the word “truth” is just a word to be lived in the moment, and that reality is its own thing that I come nearer to each time I sit down to write.