I realized this in the shower:
I can “be myself”,
meaning, I can do what I feel drawn to
and skip what doesn’t work for me,
and there will be people who need me as me.
I can present myself authentically,
with all of my sensitivities, trauma, in-process things, health concerns,
and there will still be people who need me
and they will find me more easily when I present myself honestly.
Isn’t that amazing?
I just want to write forever!
People say you can’t make money that way,
imply that’s not a service or a job or work
yet the more I keep “indulging” myself,
and allowing myself to write forever,
the more I attract people who do need me,
either who need my writing, my inspiration, or who I am as a result of writing,
which satisfies, grounds and interests me like nothing else.
It excites me,
when I write;
I’m on the edge of my own seat as to what I’ll write next
and it can feel like listening to a great song.
Today the sun shines down on me and I’m up and outside writing more and earlier than usual.
The wind gently blows grass blades which are still wet with morning dew
and my hair still wet from my morning shower,
and when the wind settles,
the sun settles on me,
warming my legs and cheek and the back of my ear.
It’s like the winds blow through my ear, telling me things,
telling you things,
knowing what’s next, what to worry about, what not to.
It’s my earth and air and fire and water,
my blue sky and garden flowers,
hawks squawking whenever they want to,
breeze blowing the heat of the sun off my cheek and shoulder,
as if to remove the weights that have been put on me,
or that I’ve held onto.
It’s been this way from a young age.
This pen, this notebook,
the spiders web weaving around me,
only seen when the wind blows it from the shade into the sunlight,
and then it disappears again,
and smaller birds are tweeting,
nibbling out their sounds just like they do every morning.
This is where I sit between worlds,
my favorite place to be,
singing like a canary,
smelling like a rose,
swimming while only moving one hand,
breathing so much air while the peckers have their own tunes.
How do we know, how are we so sure we aren’t here to wake up each day and make music,
and listen for our songs
and be still sometimes like tomato vines,
and exist like the rest of creation,
flying in circles and spirals,
singing out in spurts?
How are we so sure?
How are we so sure?