365 Booze-Free Days.

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Yesterday marked 1 full year without alcohol for me.

A couple of days before, I dreamt that I drank some wine. I couldn’t believe I drank so close to one year. But really, what does one year mean? It’s not like I’m thinking, well that was an interesting experiment, where’s my Pinot Grigio or Moscow Mule or nice cold beer? (My favorite summer drinks.)

Actually, to be honest, part of me is thinking that.

What’s interesting is that is seems to be getting harder the longer I go without drinking. Especially lately. And who can blame me? I mean, alcohol sales have increased over 50% since Covid-19 and lockdowns. It’s an easy way to chill. To relax. To numb the perpetual anxiety I feel about being unemployed, my husband being furloughed, our health insurance being doled out on a month to month basis, cases spiking all around us. 

It’s a lot.

Not only have I not been drinking my way through all this, but many of my other easy buttons have been unavailable. I can’t just go shopping because most stores have been closed and we are now living on half of our income. Which means I’m also not shopping online. I can’t hunker down at the bookstore cafe to write because it’s closed. Movie theaters are closed.

So, without those usual routes of escape I’ve had to, ya know, actually feel things. Feel uncomfortable. Anxious. Angry. Sad. Despair. But there have also been moments of joy. Laughter. Gratitude. Ease. I am filling about a notebook a month as I process everything. My yoga practice has also been a crucial part of my toolkit as I navigate these challenging times.

In the beginning, it was easier not drinking because I was excited to make this change. People around me were supportive. Now, the excitement has waned. This is just how life is now. I don’t drink.

And I miss it at times. 

I miss sitting on the deck with a drink in the evening. Or going to restaurant patios in the summer.

I don’t miss the hangovers.

I don’t miss how it wrecked my sleep.

Or exacerbated my anxiety or depressive tendencies.

In the last couple of weeks there have been two times when I really considered drinking again. I thought, who would really care? Both times I was greeted with something online that reminded me why I was doing this. Or, not doing this. 

One was the news that the American Cancer Society now recommends not drinking at all to reduce risk of cancer. The other was a post on Instagram reminding us that booze is literally ethanol, the same stuff used in hand sanitizer and fuel. 

I could drink again. Nobody would care. Nobody would judge me. It’s similar to my writing. I write every single day. I could skip a day. Nobody would care. I could stop writing all together and very few people would care. But I write for me, not other people. I write because I need to. Because it nourishes me in some deep, essential way.

Not drinking does the same thing. I am not drinking for me. When I stopped last year, it wasn’t out of the throes of some massive hangover. It was because it wasn’t serving me anymore. Not drinking is deeply nourishing to my body, mind and spirit.

So, I haven’t had a drink in 365 days and that is something to celebrate for sure. But it is just one year of many more to come…hopefully.

Writing as Prayer.

(This is inspired by the Mindful Writing Challenge with Nadia Colburn. The prompt comes from a poem by Mary Oliver. It also came out of a prompt from Poses, Pens + Inner Peace.)

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Image found via Pinterest.

Writing is prayer. It is my prayer.

My way of paying attention. Paying attention to the stack of books and notebooks teetering next to me in the living while the dog sleeps on the couch, her lip caught in her tiny teeth. Paying attention to the the empty mason jar with just a residue of sweet creamy chai lingering at the bottom. To the sliding glass door that is open to the deck, in letting fresh air, the song of birds and the whine of highway traffic drift in through the mesh screen.

Paying attention is a kind of prayer. I’ve became acutely aware of what I am paying attention to during this time. Some days I only pay attention to the losses: lives, health, jobs, health insurance, events, security.

I pay attention to the grief. To the despair. And that’s okay. They need tending, too.

To pay attention is to tend with my energy. To tend is to pray.

Writing is my prayer. It is sacred. It connects my body, mind and heart. It connects me to wisdom. To something that is greater than myself.

Writing is how I pay attention and prayer is paying attention.

To this moment.

This breath.

To this feeling.

This thought.

Writing is my prayer. My path inward and my path out. Out of confusion, out of my own tiny life and into the larger life that surrounds me.

Writing is a way in. To the center. To the stillness. To the white hot chaos of being human, especially during this time of such upheaval and uncertainty.

Writing is my prayer. Not a child’s prayer of asking for things like a Christmas list, but a way of honoring my life. My body. My time. The people in my life. Life itself. Honoring the fact of my existence.

Each word is a statement of here I am .

I am here.

I exist.

I am.

I.

Am.

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The Good News Is.

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Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

(Inspired by the  27 Wildest Days writing challenge by Laurie Wagner. The prompt comes from this poem.)

The good news is that you’re alive and you are loved, even in the moments when you feel unlovable. Especially in those moments.

The good news is that you have this body that walked around the lake today with your dog, looking at up at the vast blue sky arching above you like a cathedral.

The good news is that the windows are open and there’s a breeze of fresh air moving all the stagnant energy out of the house.

The good news is that you know how to care for yourself. You slept until ten o’clock this morning for no discernible reason and took it as sign to nurture yourself so you don’t let this crisis throw you into depression. Fresh air. Writing. Yoga. Meditation. Hot tub. Reading. Fresh, healthy food. Lots of water.

The good news is that you how to take care of you.

The good news is that even though this 27 Wildest Days challenge is over, you know how to move forward. You’ve been writing this way for years. Now, you have this structure to help you. Seek out poems that resonate, the vibrate and shimmer, that stir something deep inside of you. Collect poems and fragments of poems to continue using as prompts and just write.

Write for no reason and for all the reasons.

Writ for nobody and for everybody.

Write for you.

For your mind, your heart, your soul, your whole being.

Th good news is that filling these pages, these notebooks with the “breathings of your heart” is your medicine. Many people don’t know what their medicine is. You do. Be grateful. Use it.

The good news is that this practice has given you a structure. It is the skeleton on which to hang your days of sheltering-in-place. It’s a tool that allows you to be present to anything. To nothing. To embrace it all and to release it all..

This practice is a journey. You don’t write for an endpoint. The writing itself is the point. Showing up to the page is the point.

The good news is that you got this. You can do hard things. You can be comfortable being uncomfortable. You can learn to sit with uncertainty. You can lean into loneliness or boredom or anxiety or whatever it is that comes to the door of your life each day.

Do as Rumi says and welcome them all.

The good news is that you have created space for all the guests that arrive. You have set a place at the table for reach an every one, welcoming them in, listening intently to what they have to say, what they have go teach, what they have to offer, what they need from you, why they have showed up.

It’s really quite beautiful what you have done.

The good news is that as this pen runs out of its green ink, another pen is waiting for you. After this notebook is filled, there is another one waiting to be picked up by you. Waiting to be filled with your words, your heart, your fear, your joy and all the guests you welcome into your life, that you welcome onto the page.

The good news is that you are here, still finding beauty in this broken world. Still finding hope. Still showing up.

The good news is that there is still good news.

 

Lower the Damn Bar.

(Inspired by the  27 Wildest Days writing challenge by Laurie Wagner.)

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Photo by Athena on Pexels.com

Let’s lower the bar.

Do you feel that? That rush of relief, like you stuck a pin in a ballooning and all that striving for perfection just leaked out.

Let’s lower the bar.

Don’t wear make-up every damn day.

Don’t use filters on your photos or on Zoom.

Don’t worry about the softness around your belly. Don’t hate it, love it. It is part of you. An essential part.

Let’s lower the bar on productivity especially during this time. Sure, you are at home. Sure, you have more time because you and your husband are currently not working. But do you know what else you have? A pandemic to live through. Trauma to process. Anxiety to manage. I don’t think you quite understand how much energy it is taking just to keep you going through all of this.

Let go of the word counts and submission quotas and the moving your body to fix or lose something rather than for the sheer joy of moving.

Let go of keeping the house pristine just because you are there.

Let go of all the challenges you see on-line encouraging you to really “make use” of this time.

Let go of the memes reminding you that when Shakespeare was quarantined during the plague he wrote “King Lear,” the implication being: “What are YOU accomplishing during this plague? What great gift to humanity can you offer?”

Let’s lower the fucking bar.

Let your gift be that you stayed present.

That you managed to scribble in your notebook daily  and even shared some writing on your blog in an effort to connect, to let others know that it isn’t just them, that they aren’t alone in what they may be feeling or experiencing.

Let your gift be that you used this time to try to heal and grow and that you failed as often as you succeeded and that’s okay because you tried. You entered the arena. The arena of your wild mind and shadow and projections and fears and you faced them.

Let your gift be that you didn’t succumb to complete inertia and depression and despair. Oh, some days you did and that’s okay. Your gift is that it wasn’t every day.

Let your gift be that you began to peel away layers of perfection, of masks that you wore out there. That you began to allow yourself to be seen. Truly seen. By others. By yourself.

Just lower that bar that you’ve been holding high above you for so long, always reaching for more, for better, for doing, having and being more. For fixing what isn’t even broken. What was never broken to begin with.

Jus lower the damn bar already. Your arms must be so tired. So heavy. Like cement blocks. What a relief to set it down.

Instead of looking up at the unreachable height, you can lower it, lower it all the way down and set it gently on the ground and step over it, looking ahead without a glance  back. You’ve finally released something you never really needed in the first place.

How does it feel?

A Life in Books.

(Inspired by the  27 Wildest Days writing challenge by Laurie Wagner, which is inspired by “I Remember” by Joe Brainard.)

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Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

I remember getting a set of children’s encyclopedias for Christmas one year from my aunt and uncle and being in awe of all the information that was now at my fingertips.

I remember learning the Dewey Decimal system in school then going home and numbering all of my books, creating my own little library.

I remember seeing how much my cousin Kelly read and looking to her to see what books I could look forward to reading: Agatha Christie, Taylor Caldwell.

I remember checking out “Little Women” in third grade from the school library. I was more impressed with the weight and heft of it than actually reading it at that age.

I remember how the library down the hill from us used to be a church and that felt right to me because books are sacred, reading a temple.

I remember packing to leave for art school and finding a library copy of “the Great Gatsby” that I had never returned.

I remember reading a book required for a high school english class about a girl who was sexually assaulted while babysitting and I was afraid to babysit after that.

I remember the first time I bought more than one book at a time. My husband and I were at the mall. We went into a B. Dalton I think and I found several books that I wanted so I bought them all. This snowballed over the years, never allowing me to catch up with my TBR pile.

I remember getting several Nancy Drew books for Christmas one year and I packed them for our trip up-north, grateful to have almost four hours to lose myself in them.

I remember reading Judy Blume and feeling truly seen and heard for the first time.

I remember reading “The New Diary” and how it got me writing.

I remember reading “Writing Down the Bones” on the train out of Philadelphia, unable to put it own, knowing that I was being changed forever.

I remember reading a book at work one day during lunch and my boss commented that I’d run out  of books to read soon and would have to start writing my own.

I remember a high school english teacher writing in my yearbook: “keep up that wonderfully sensitive writing.”

I remember walking into my favorite bookstore in Arizona and one of the booksellers had a book he set aside for me that he thought I’d like.

I remember looking for story collection written by men because I only read women. He gave me a book by Tobias Wolff and opened it to “Bullet in the Brain” and told me to sit down and read it right there. I did. I had no idea what a short  story could be.

I don’t remember learning to read.

I don’t remember that moment when all those random marks and squiggles suddenly made sense, creating  a whole world on a flat page.

I wish I did.

I bet it was magic.

 

The Dance of Allowing.

(This is inspired by the  27 Wildest Days writing challenge by Laurie Wagner. )

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Things to do in the belly of social-distancing: Clean. Dust. Mop. Organize. Wash. Dry. Fold. Create space. Create order.

Create lists.

Lists of what to buy at the grocery store. Of things to do once the order is lifted. People you want to see. Places you want to go. Events you want to attend.

Create a list of what you miss: people, events, routines, jobs, money.

Mourn the losses even the ones that seem small or insignificant in the scheme of things.

Things to do in the belly of monotony: write.

Write everyday because it is what you do. You’ve been doing it for over 4 years, though you’ve been writing for decades. Writing everyday is the way you show up to yourself and you need that structure now, more than ever.

Things to do in the belly of uncertainty: breathe.

Breathe when the anxiety begins to tighten your throat. When it feels it may choke you. When it gets too large to be contained. Breathe.

Move. Move your body. Get on your mat. Get outside. Move your breath. Move your energy. Get out of your head where anxiety lives and thrives.

Things to do in the belly of these dark times: hope.

Cultivate hope. Notice signs of spring, of change. The pink blossoms spilling from the bush outside the window by your desk as you write these words. The emerald green of grass. The dandelions peppering the lawn. The musicality of birds returning home.

Things to do in the belly of these challenging times: return home.

To your home. Your body. Your heart.

Return to this moment. Let this moment be home. If your to-do list and planner are currently empty, revel in the white space and let yourself just be instead of always doing.

Come home to yourself. What are you curious about? What can you explore? Play with? Dream about”

Things to do in the belly of loneliness: reach out.

Text. Email. Call. Zoom. FaceTime. Connect.

Breathe. Come back to your breath. Always.

Connect with the loneliness. Ask it questions. Be curious about it.

Does it feel familiar? What does it need? Why did it show up?

Write a letter to loneliness. Write a letter from loneliness to you.

Things to do in the belly of disruption: allow.

Acknowledge and allow all that has been disrupted: careers, jobs, retirements, bank accounts. Routines. Celebrations. Milestones. Health. Life. Death. Mourning.

In the face of disruption what do you choose to do?

I choose to feel angry, sad, disappointed, relieved, grateful, anxious. Whatever comes up, I give it space.

That is what I am learning to do in the midst of all of this: allow.

Lots and lots of allowing.

Allowing rest and activity.

Allowing making plans and making no plans.

Having goals and no goals.

Sleeping in and waking early.

Going to bed early and going to bed late.

Eating fruits and veggies and eating chocolate cake for breakfast.

Allowing space to do, to be, to dream.

Allowing myself to meet myself where I am at any given moment, over and over again, as often as needed for as long as needed.

Surrendering to the beautiful and awkward dance of allowing.

Prompt inspired by this poem

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To Live in this World.

(This is inspired by the  27 Wildest Days writing challenge by Laurie Wagner. )

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Image found via Pinterest.

To live in this world you must let go of it.

Let go of the memories of what was.

Gathering in public spaces.

Gathering in homes with friends.

Shopping for food without fear.

Sleeping without the anxiety of the world rippling through your drams.

Let go of plans, of what we think or hope normal will look like.

Shaking hands.

Summer concerts.

Art fairs.

Packed movie theaters.

Feeling secure in our jobs whatever they may be.

To live in this world you must be comfortable being uncomfortable.

Comfortable with uncertainty.

Conformable knowing that anything and everything can change in an instant.

Comfortable learning to be alone.

Comfortable learning to be together.

Comfortable with the tenuous quality of life itself.

To live in this world, the one have now, not the one we had or the one we dream of, we must be present.

Present to who we are in this crisis. To who we want be.

Present to fears about money, the anxiety about security, the anger at the lack of leadership.

And also be present to the moments of joy, of gratitude, of grace that slip in through the cracks of all we see as broken. Because perhaps it’s been broken for a reason. Perhaps it’s been broken to let the light in.

To let the light shine on all that wasn’t working in our little lives and in the greater world.

To let the light guide us toward our better angels, calling us into our best selves.

Maybe the brokenness happened so we could all begin to claim our own light, shine our light, share our light, be the light.

To live in this world it is necessary to carry yourself lightly. Carrying only what is necessary.

Step with care.

Soften your impact.

Lighten up the shame. The greed. The fear.

Step into the truth. The truth of who you are.

Drop the masks.

Let yourself be seen.

To live in this world is a gift. Even in this world as it is now. It’s a gift to have this body of flesh and bones and cells made of stardust that allows you to smell the heady scent of lilacs, to see the beauty of a sunset or sunrise, to hear the winds shaking the windows, to taste the exquisite sweetness of a chocolate cake made with your daughter.

It’s a gift to wake up.

It’s a gift to sleep.

It’s all a gift.

Even now.

Especially now.

Books Read in April.

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“Cozy- The Art of Arranging Yourself in the World” by Isabel Gillies

It makes sense that I was drawn to this book in the middle of a pandemic and being forced to stay at home. I am all about coziness. Cozy clothes. Cozy spaces to read in front of my cozy fire with a cozy cup of tea. 

Gillies takes us through a journey of coziness as we live our daily lives. We journey from ourselves to our homes to nature and technology to traveling to facing difficult challenges. 

In the end, coziness comes from a deep sense of self.

A passage I love:

Cozy is an attitude, not a thing—a shortcut to bringing the most essential parts of ourselves with us wherever we go. Once you put your finger on what makes you feel solid, supported, and calm, you can arrange yourself in a world that can be cold, awkward, dangerous, inauthentic, and unpredictable. 

“Station Eleven” a novel by Emily St. John Mandel

The king stood in a pool of blue light, unmoored.

I’ve had this book in my to-be-read stacks for a while. I am obsessed with dystopian literature. Not sure that choosing to read this particular novel about a flu pandemic that devastates the world population was the best choice but once I started it, I couldn’t put it down.

It is so beautifully written and the structure that moves back and forth in time was perfect. We see life before, during and after the pandemic, and some of the scenes felt way too close to what we are currently experiencing. The story itself is mesmerizing and the writing, lyrical. I even teared up at the ending. 

The sentence that made me teary:

If there are again towns with streetlights, if there are symphonies and newspapers, then what else might this awakening world contain?

“Know My Name” a memoir by Chanel Miller

The fact that I spelled subpoena, subpoenas, may suggest I am not qualified to tell this story.

To be honest, this book wasn’t really on my radar. I thought it would be heart-breaking, enraging and I wondered what the quality of the writing would be.

Well, it was heart-breaking. It was enraging. And the writing was phenomenal. 

This post from Glennon Doyle made me run out and buy it.:

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Everything she says it spot on.

I admit, that I will often skim passages in books. But with this one I felt compelled, even obligated to read every word. To honor her with my devoted attention. To honor her story. To honor every word she put onto the page. 

Every single person should read this.

Reading it now, in the midst of this crisis was interesting. While it is not the same AT ALL, her resilience was inspiring. Her story hopeful.

Chanel and her story and her writing are all lights in the darkness.

This sentence felt like a punch in the gut:

The judge had given Brock something that would never be extended to me: empathy. My pain was never more valuable that his potential. 

“Big Magic-Creative Living Beyond Fear” by Elizabeth Gilbert

Q: What is creativity”

A: The relationship between a human being and the mysteries of inspiration.

So, even though I have 593 books in my home that I haven’t yet read, (Yes, I counted them this week cuz quarantine.) I picked up this gem to read for at least the third or fourth time.

I was listening to Liz give a TedTalk about the current pandemic and the challenges presented by sheltering -in-place and I found so much solace in her words. So I decided to find even more solace in this book again. Her vision of creativity and inspiration is both pragmatic and filled with magic which I love. I picked it up  because I’ve been feeling anything but creative and inspired these days. 

I found myself nodding at the many sentences and passages I had underlined previously and underling new ones that speak to me now.

It was so worth the re-read. I felt thoroughly restored and rejuvenated after closing the pages. 

A new line I underlined:

Work with all your heart, because—I promise—if you show up for your work day after day, you just might get lucky enough some random morning to burst right into bloom.

And this:

We are all just beginners here, and we shall all die beginners.

“This Is Not Your City” stories by Caitlin Horrocks

It is July and we are a miraculous age.

I heard about this amazing writer several years ago at a writing retreat when the instructor praised her as the most talented student he’d ever had. So, I immediately bought her book. Sadly, it got lost in my many many many piles of TBR books.

I recently read her current novel and was blown away by the story and her writing and I remembered having her story collection. So, I searched my shelves and found it. 

It did not disappoint. As a reader, I was hooked by every story which is unusual for me. There is often at least one story that I skim. Not so in this case. 

As a writer, this collection felt like a masterclass in writing short stories. But not the kind that seem like they are workshopped and born out strictly of an MFA program. They are born out her experience and imagination, each story a world rich with detail and complex characters.

Reading this book has me itching to return writing short stories again.

A passage I love:

Then I realized that the pain doesn’t travel so much anymore as live there. It’s settled on in, it’s farming her bones, and it doesn’t need to travel because it’s never going anywhere. 

“You Are a Badass Everyday” by Jen Sincero

It always surprises me when people say, “I’m not a creative person.”

I was looking for something easy to read. Easily digestible. My focus can be shaky these days. As I perused my shelves I landed on this one. Since I’d read her other two books I opened it up. Yep, this would do. The chapters were short and sweet. As I read, I could see it was a reminder of some of the more important lessons in her other two books. It was just what I needed. A reminder to stay present, to be myself, to stay motivated and overcome challenges but to also lighten up and find joy. 

This was a good reminder:

Motivation, commitment, focus—these are a muscles that, like any muscle, required strengthening. 

A Fable of Fear + Trust.

(Inspired from prompt by Amber Rae.)

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Image found via Pinterest.

She was suddenly thrust into the Territory of the Unknown + Uncertain. It felt both strange and oddly familiar. Had she been here before?

Yes. Yes, she had. Long ago. Before she was She. Before she arrived in this Life, she had inhabited the Unknown. What she found there, what guided her into this Life was Trust.

Trust the Unknown.

Trust in the larger plan.

Trust in the Universe.

Trust in herself.

Now that she finds herself here again, she struggles to see and claim that trust. A dragon must be acknowledged first: Fear. Not slayed. She knows that if she tries to slay Fear or ignore it, it will only take up more space. Fear just needs to be seen. To be felt.

Fear keeps her from seeing anything else. It keeps her from remembering that there is so much more beyond Fear because it is so close, it takes up all the space around and within her.

She wanders in restless circles, searching, seeking, desperate to feel stable, secure and safe. The Fear follows her, leaving no space to rest. No space to breathe.

Breathe.

Breath.

Then she remembers.

Fear dissipates with breath. Breath is the one thing Fear can not stand up to.

So, she stops her pacing, stops looking for all the tunnels and holes to escape into. She pauses, stands still and breathes deep.

Immediately, there is a shift deep inside. A settling. A softening.

She breathes again.

And again.

When she opens her eyes, Fear is still there but so much smaller. Tamed for now, it sits crouched next to her like a beloved pet. She can see all around her again. The world is so much bigger and smaller than she remembers. She sees the horizon line.

She sees a light on that horizon.

Ah, there it is.

Trust.

She reaches down and pats Fear.

Let’s go, she says.

And they set out together, side by side, through the Unknown and Uncertain, toward the light of Trust, a beacon calling them home.

How Wasteful I Have Been.

(This is inspired by the  27 Wildest Days writing challenge by Laurie Wagner.)

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Image found via Pinterest.

How wasteful I have been.

On some level I knew this. But, now with so much pared down to the bones, I see it with such clarity.

How I didn’t think twice about running to the grocery store to pick up one or two items that always turned into more instead of making do with what we had.

How I tossed leftovers and rotted fruit and vegetable into the trash on a regular basis.

How I bought piles and piles of books, ignoring the shelves of books that sit unread throughout our house.

How leaving lights or the TV on was just normal.

How wasteful I have been.

Not just with food and things but with time.

My time.

With my one wild and precious life.

My time here in this body. So much of it lost to fear of not being good enough, talented enough, thin enough. Fears that have kept me in the shallow end of  my life. Dipping a toe in as I send out the occasional story or agent query and letting the rejection stop me again.

How wasteful I have been with this one wild and precious life.

If I am learning anything, it is this: If not now, when?

As the number of deaths ratchets up daily,

As I see bodies in mass graves, bodies stored in random hospital rooms, bodies being transported in the back of a pick-up truck,

As I hear stories of couples dying or one dying while the other had only fever and aches,

As I hear of people in their 30’s and 40’s, barely sick with virus, now dying of strokes ,

As I see the unpredictability of the virus, and the sheer scope of grief and loss I am humbled and stricken and find myself looking for meaning anywhere and anyway I can.

If not now, when?

Say the words you need to say even if it is difficult.

Write the story.

Send your words out into the world and let them land with grace or crash and burn. The result is not up to you. Your job is to write them and send them on their way.

How wasteful I have been as I stay small and quiet, not wanting to disrupt anything or cause any waves.

Now, now we are in the midst of a transformational disruption the likes of which most of us have never seen before.

Now I see the world needs disruption.

We’ve wasted too much time stuck in systems that don’t work. Doing the same thing because it’s how we’ve always done it.

Now I see that the world needs us to step up. Needs me to step up. To step into my life as fully and deeply as possible.Needs us all to do that.

No more lingering on the edges. No more wading in the shallows.

Now is the time to dive deep.

To be bold.

To be present.

To do the thing that scares me.

To do feel the fear of rejection and do it anyway.

To feel the fear of how my words may cause disruption and share them anyway.

To speak up.

Speak out.

To stand up.

Stand out.

How wasteful I have been trying to blend in my whole life. To take up as little space as possible. Not wanting to be seen as:

Selfish

Arrogant

A bitch.

How wasteful to camouflage my gifts, my voice, my life.

Now I know better.

I didn’t know before.

Now that I know better, I can do better.

I can be better.

We all can.

Because, if not now, then when?