dear santa, please bring home: food for the hungry shelter for homeless solace for the grief stricken our country's sanity and a set of tree lights that lasts longer than a year.
when i was a child i very much wanted to be famous - so that everyone would know how special i was. at four i decided when i grew up i would marry johnny cash so i could make him happy. they seemed such useful goals. now,as an adult,i only want to be more reflective - so that the people who love me can see how special they are instead. and if i could - i would marry my husband again - this time not trying to make him anything different than he already is. i know i got a much better life than i deserve. when i go to bed at night, i try to think of new ways to pay it forward. sometimes it's just shutting up.
tonight everything is sleepy - even the dark itself - but i am trying to scratch one more mark into the empty sky like so many takes on film. the crowded day has left - staggered off like an edgy lover i didn't think to follow home. and i am thankful there is an end to every end. for now, i will pull back the covers and welcome sleep in. she will shack up between us, hip to thigh, my palm on your ear. always a tumble of elbow and chin, eye socket and tooth. me and my bumbling grace finding my way to your warm.
Sometimes it seems legit. Like having a robust career, 2 kids, a husband, volunteer work, spiritual practice, exercise commitments, life. But mostly it’s the “I just never quite get around to sitting down at pen and paper (or the computer) where I can really write; you know, something worthwhile. So here is a choppy crumby morsel of a blog from a cell phone and two big thumbs, poolside in Maui, where it’d be easy not to. My skin is turning pink but nothing hurts as badly as an unrealized dream. All I ever really wanted to be was a writer. An under the radar badass chronicler of what it is to feel. Being on vacation is double sided. The sea, the blue, the soft sand beneath aimless feet… All of this is its own reward. But to truly vacate ones “post” so to speak, one must have truly occupied it in the first place. In my case, I’ve parceled out a poem or short story here and there, reaching into my hungry heart to try to touch what urgency is left there – attempting to coax out that gun-shy story teller that absolutely needs to speak, before she just finally shuts her mouth forever from so much waiting. But I’ve never fully occupied the post of writer. I have not worked rigorously enough at the job of writing, of really truly being a writer, to have earned a vacation from it. So, the double edge. The sword. My mind on grand alert while my body tries to kiss the sun. I did this for you then. One thumb at a time, tiny letters, tiny words…refusing to consider the big excuse for even one more hour.