The big excuse 

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.