pitstop, march 18

FB ‘on this day’ reminds me that three years ago today I’d packed up all three kids for a two day road trip to southern California. The caption of the post, “Pitstop. Yep, they’re are still here,” above a photo that I’d taken at a stop in Medford. The trunk of the Jeep is open, rear door high up pointing toward the sky. Rear trunk space bursting at the seams with everything we can hope to need for what should have been a spring break getaway. Firework burst of flowers on an army style duffle, full of who knows what but will eventually be emptied and used as a dirty clothes bag, laying on it’s side toward the front and surely being squished when the rear door slams down. Pink yoga mat crammed into an in-between space, duffle bags on one side and backpacks on the other. One of the girl’s gray and neon green track shoes peeking out of a paper grocery bag on the left. Red carry-on suitcase stacked on top of black and white polka dot duffle bag on the right. Pastel butterfly pillow perched atop it all, easily accessible to the lazy arm of my 9 year old when she gets sleepy. Above all of this, in the narrow space between luggage and the soft of the gray roof, peek the smiling faces of my three children. They’re in the backseat, turned around facing back, propped up high on their knees, peering out with goofy grinned faces. My son is in the middle between his two big sisters. His hands up by his ears, a shoe in each hand dangling by his fingertips look like giant puppy dog ears on either side of his head. All three kids eager to arrive at our destination the next day. Excited to see friends and family and the familiar places of what used to be home.
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strength is what we gain / from the madness we survive :or: having a very public nervous breakdown

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Oh look! I failed Self Care 101!! I wrote this blog post back in August about self care and listening to my body because it knows.
I was watching myself spiral.
I thought I was catching myself.
I was wrong.
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fire breathing words

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That feeling you get when your first story starts forming in your head. In your heart. In your body.

The words stream across your mind like a blurry old silent black & white film reel when you close your eyes. You feel sounds become words. Dissociated at first. No order. Just whizzing by like the shots of machine gun fire. Random words working hard to string together and form into cohesive thoughts.

Letters flowing through your veins. Mixing with your oxygen your blood your plasma your marrow your tears your saliva. Picking up tissue and cells along the way. Pieces of you. Ripping them away from you.

Colliding. Combining. Dividing. Multiplying.

Words that bring up feelings that bring up more words. More feelings.

Memories. Whispers. Screams. Tears. Truths.

Colliding. Combining. Dividing. Multiplying.

Senseless at first. Growing bolder and stronger and louder. Taking on a life of their own. Escaping your body through your breath your pores your sweat. Oozing.

Breathing words like breathing fire. Heat and flames. Igniting. Searing.

Swirling. Breathing. Multiplying. Screaming. Burning. Fighting.

Forcing their way to the page. Fighting for their life. For their chance to tell their story.

connection, authenticity, vulnerability…oh my!

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I am a writer who lost my voice. What’s a writer with no voice? A tortured soul. An affliction. Like a swimmer who has lost a lung. A pianist who’s lost his hands. Like a singer whose vocal chords have been severed.

The craft was lost. The lifeline cut. The music silenced.

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