a relentless grey since dawn

Here’s the thing. I sat down with the intention of writing something pretty. But I got about five sentences in, when I realized that I was writing the world’s dullest commonplace book. It was all banal clichés and pretty descriptions of nothing. And, for once, I don’t want to talk in metaphors.

I’m working on a new poetry book. By that, I mean it will be done shortly. I’m in the middle of sorting out the cover art. I don’t have an exact ETA yet (sometime in February). But it’s called I Don’t Love You Pretty.

The past couple of months, reading and editing, I’ve gone through the evitable,
“This line isn’t bad!” to “This whole thing is total rubbish!” cycle. It happens. It’s unavoidable. My dear friends always seem to know exactly when to hide the matches. But, reading things over, I’m proud of this bloody book. There are pieces of me in it, because no poem springs out of a vacuum. But only one poem is really me, entirely. The rest are things I tried to capture. Moments I wanted to rescue. Shadows I borrowed from other people. Imagined conversations. Worst fears. Stilted hopes. As the title suggests, it isn’t always pretty.

It occurred to me as I was re-reading, today, that I’m not always good at letting things be. And a part of that, I suppose, is an issue of control. To willingly let go of control is a leap of faith. It’s a thing of trust. It can be both freeing and scary. To put something out into the world and go, “Here, this is mine.” It’s terrifying in all the ways it should be terrifying. Because if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be a risk. And all good things are, in their own ways.

Joan Didion once wrote, “In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind.” To an extent, I believe that’s true. Writing is always meant to show, like a mirrorbox (shout out to Trinh T. Minh-ha): it reflects a certain spectrum of things. It all depends on the angle, the lightning, and how much you close your eyes.

But I digress.

Reading through this manuscript reminded me that I messy things. I like the honesty you can find in fingerpaints or a kiss at three a.m. I like storms, because they’re beautiful – and then either create or destroy. Yesterday, the skies were a relentless grey since dawn. Then, in midafternoon, as if someone flipped a switch, everything changed. The skies were full of sunlight, and everything glitter. Life is like that, most of the time. It can be a dark wreck, only to reveal something beautiful. Something miraculous. Something worth fighting for. Something worth the storm. Because, really, it’s the messy moments and things that brings us back to ourselves, isn’t it? It’s the chances we take. The words we dare to say. The love we light like a candle in the dark.

Writing a book – any book – is a lot like falling in love. In the beginning, it’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s new. Then it gets…difficult. There are times where you want to run, where you can’t put two sentences together, and you really wonder if you’re doing it all wrong. But then, you take a breath and really look at what you’ve made. And you rediscover why it all started in the first place. If it was easy, if it all just fell into place without a fight, we wouldn’t really love it. Because nothing worth having, worth making, worth possessing, just falls into your lap. Nothing ever spontaneously comes into being, darlings. You have to make it. You have fight for it. You have to take risks for it.

(All those things apply to writing and love, dear hearts.)

So, soon, this book will be a thing. Which is scary. And wonderful. And scary. But I hope you love it, mess and all. I won’t light it on fire, before you get a chance to see it. Although, to be fair, this is glorious weather for a bonfire…

Heart on fire, ashes everywhere*

Darling, sometimes love is a battle that you are fighting from both sides. Your heart is two hemispheres, reaching for separate outcomes. The world spins on the axis of your erratic pulse. Close your eyes, and it is all stardust – the burning out of a star from millions of years ago. Forget the armor. Forget crest you once wore. All honor changes with time, and what you love demands its own worth. Take a breath, and show yourself how you feel. Unclench your fists and fight that way: without weapons. It is a risk. It is one way to break your own heart. It is also the most beautiful way you can save it.

Tell the truth. Do not tell it slant. Peel it out of every word you’ve been too afraid to say. This is your story. This is proof that good people do terrible things. Sometimes, a broken promise is a miracle. It is water changed to wine, stone changed into a heart, and a love so fierce that takes the place of a pain so vicious. Mistakes are how we learn to breathe again. Nothing clean is ever quite true. Worship the knife edge, the spilled coffee, and the feel of fingers slipping into your hand.

Sometimes, the map is half-burnt, and you are wandering in circles. Sometimes, you are an ocean made of someone else’s desires. Sometimes, you light the funeral pyre yourself to put somebody else’s mind at ease. There are a hundred different ways a soul can burn. There are a hundred different ways a soul can swim. But of all the secrets, this one is the truest: love is a forest fire, and we are all the driest of trees.

I can still taste the ashes in my mouth from the last time you kissed me.

*”Heart on fire, ashes everywhere
— there’s no return from a red like that.” ~ “Fado Menor” by Manuel de Freitas

For 2014: Dream Dangerously*

This has been a crazy year. There were good, bad, and bananas things. To say that I’ve learned a lot is an understatement. Because, honestly, if I’m not learning – I’m doing life wrong. Because life is about trying. It’s about making mistakes. It’s about putting yourself out there, in whatever fashion that might be. Making art, for instance. Trying a new hobby. Saying I love you. Traveling somewhere all by yourself. Meeting people.

To me, that’s the important thing about life: living it. Being present. Finding, stealing, and savoring moments. There are three things I couldn’t live without: love, laughter, and coffee. Let’s face it: no one wants to be around a non-caffeinated me. It’s not pretty. But, to me, those are such vital things. Without love, I’d cease to exist. I am nothing without my idiotic, somewhat spastic, completely willful heart. A sense of humor, too, is a must; there have been things, over the years, that I would not have gotten through, if it weren’t for a sense of humor. I’m not going to list them. You don’t need to hear my scars. Suffice to say, finding humor in the dark parts will help pull you through.

But I feel like I need to say thank you, here (feel free to skip this, if you’re easily bored or pressed for time). To my family and friends, who love and put up with me (even when I’m crazy…which is a lot). To anyone who has ever read something I’ve written – and even liked it! To everyone whose life I’ve been lucky as hell to be a part of, who has touched my life in unexpected, but beautiful ways. To the mad ones, who light up life like stars in the blue-black night sky. To my people, my lost witches, my Gilmore twin, my partners in crime, my Wonder Twin, my darling gypsy witch, and my best friend. To the agents who have blogged, tweeted, and generally been awesome. To my fellow writers and editors who live in this ocean made of words.

It has been a year, darlings. There are moments I wouldn’t trade for the world. Although it has been an especially crazy few days, I’m grateful. I keep thinking about this time, last year, where I was and what I was doing. What was I feeling? Like I’d lost everything and nothing would be the same again. I was reeling in a soul-deep, earthquake way. Since then, I’ve seen, been, done, and loved a lot. I’ve been true to myself. I’ve tried new things. I’ve been open, honest, daring, and probably a wee bit bonkers. I’m proud of everything I’ve learned over the past year.

I hope that 2014 is filled with so much joy, laughter, magic, art, adventure, wonder, love, and honesty. May you face all your shadows bravely. May you always remember you’re not alone. May you kiss someone with reckless abandon, someone who adores and cherishes you. May you make good changes. May you walk right out of your comfort zone and discover new things about yourself. May you laugh until your face hurts. I wish, for you, unexpected blessings, strength, and resolve.

In 2014, be good (and true) to yourself. Believe. Allow yourself to hope and dream, then act on those things. Wish and want, and then do everything within your power to attain those desired things.

For all of you who are in my heart, whether or not I’ve said it lately – I love you. Carry that with you in the new year. Tonight, I’ll be raising a glass to you and making wishes of my own.

*Title pilfered from the incomparable Neil Gaiman.

what this is

 

this happiness is wet; it tastes
like wine, like a kiss
pressed into a prayer, two bodies
like a church, home
and hope in every corner,
in every curve, all the moments
in an hour, singing.

this happiness is slick, it is
rain greeting a rooftop, the way
a look begs for understanding,
and how understanding sleeps
within every brave moment,
full with purpose, quietly
asking to be known.

this happiness is quiet, secret,
a leaf just beginning to turn,
humble as a thunderbolt,
it separates what it must, a touch
that stays long after a hand is gone,
fears bursting into flame.

this happiness is a rebellion,
and there, in a stolen beam of sun,
it began; it is always beginning;
it is always what it is,
perfect with its imperfections,
freckled with desire, fingers
on a trigger, heart like a flood.

this happiness is two hands
and an afternoon, forgetting the door
in favor of an open window,
it is untying knots while shaking,
going through, rather than around,
and running into deep waters;
this is love let out of its birdcage,
your ribcage, flying wild –
flying. Yes, that.

this happiness is wet
as a kiss – a surprise, an inspired gasp
beneath a lover’s hand.
this is why we came.
this is why we come.
this is, itself, a reason.

one year: I know what it’s like when the stars go blue.

 

I hate the term anniversary. Anniversaries are supposed to be happy – full of cake and dinners and fun. Anniversaries are a celebration. So, to call the one year milestone of my mother’s death an anniversary feels wrong. But I don’t know what else to call it. Occasion? No, it sounds like a category for a Hallmark card. Event? That sounds like someone that happens on Facebook. There really is no good, single word that I can conjure up. So, I’ll just say this: it’s been one year since my mom died.

One year. All at once, it feels like it just happened yesterday – and yet, it feels like it was a lifetime ago. Someone else’s lifetime. Someone else’s story. Except, it isn’t. It’s my life and my story, and I haven’t quite work out the plotlines, yet.

Here’s the truth, as I’ve found it. People tell you that it gets better. That time dulls things. That you hurt less or what have you. But that’s a lie. It’s a kind lie, mostly. But it’s still fake currency in the emotional world. It doesn’t really hurt less. I still miss her as if I’d just lost her. Again, there’s a strange word: lost. She’s not misplaced keys. I’m not going to stumble upon her on the way somewhere. She’s not lost. She’s gone. But gone feels wrong, too. Dismissive, I suppose. As if I’d just drank the last of the milk, and now it’s gone. But back on point: it doesn’t hurt less. It hurts differently. The best approximation is having an injury. You get surgery. Bones mend as time passes. Skin knits back together. There may, or may not, be a visible scar. By all accounts, you’re fine. And yet, when it rains or when the wind is slightly chilled, you can feel that old injury. It’s not gone. It’s not the same as it way. It’s just different.

And, honestly, so I am. That is okay. That is what it is. But it has also been hard for me to accept at times. I am not broken, but there are things that hurt now, things that didn’t hurt last year, things that I couldn’t fathom last year. And that, I suppose, is what catches the light, sunlight glancing off a mirror. For the past week, without invitation, I’ve been playing the last week of my mother’s life over and over in my head. Where was I today? What happened that day? I remember feeling a mix of emotions, of seeing and not seeing how everything was happening, of believe and not believing – the emotional paradox of those watching something unspeakable occur. For me, there was no magical thinking. There was no bargaining. There was no avoiding the truth. I stood in front of the train, knowing it would hit me.

And it did. And I’m still here. And yes, it still hurts. Sometimes, that hurt is an odd thing. It makes me stupid. It makes me raw, unexpectedly. Things come out of nowhere, bits of anger that I don’t quite understand, even though I acknowledge them. I see it all happening. I know when I’m left of my own middle. Even still, I know that the world doesn’t set and end on my sadness. It shouldn’t. It can’t.

But that also doesn’t mean I’m invincible. I’m a big believer in calling out my own weakness, and so I will tell you this: right now, I am sad. I am okay with that sadness. I have made peace with its inevitable, indeterminable existence. Sometimes, it wears my smile, half-cocked. Sometimes, it throws me in a corner. Sometimes, it leaves me bewildered. But you know what? It also does not own me. It may sneak up on me, pick the lock, and sit on the couch – but it does not own this house. It isn’t me.

Honestly, when I first sat down to write this point, I didn’t know what I’d say. Then I had too much to say. Part of me wanted to talk about my mother – who she was, what I miss, and all the little details that fill up the space of a relationship. But today is not a day meant to mark who my mother was. It’s a day to recognize her absence.

It’s been a year. Not an easy one. At times, an insane one. I have been on all ends of every spectrum. I’ve grown. I’ve laughed. I’ve loved. I’ve been broken and breaking. I’ve seen and done and followed my heart. Maybe in ways that I couldn’t before. Maybe with the perfect abandon everyone always talks about. I’m not afraid of being a fool. I’m not afraid of trying. Because I know that tomorrow isn’t a guarantee. I know that it’s a gamble. I know that it’s an uncertainty that we try not to acknowledge. I’m acknowledging everything. The good. The bad. The crazy. The wild and wonky.

The past year has taught me a lot. I know what I’m capable of. I know what scares me. I know that what I’m scared of is never enough to stop me. I know what I want, without question. I’ve found things in the absence. I’ve found beauty in the shadows, and I’ve dug memories out of the silence.

If you’re me from a year ago – if you world feels like it’s been wrecked by an earthquake and Godzilla – know this: it’ll be okay. It won’t be the same. But you’ll find your way through it. Not around it. There is no shortcut. There’s no passing go. There’s just straight through the mountain. It will not get better. It will not magically be a not sad thing. It will just be different.

And that’s okay.

a lifelong love letter

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I want to tell you a story. Some of it happened years ago. Some of it happened today. Everything about it is important.

I got a letter in the mail today. Funny, how some things arrive just when you need them. Funny, how some words are said just when they ought to be. Funny, how some people matter – and how they often show you yourself. This letter was from a dear friend. We often exchange letters, telling stories and sharing parts of ourselves. It’s nice, honestly, to see actual mail in the mailbox, not ads or bills.

By the end of her letter, I was completely in tears. By the last line, I cried ugly tears. In the last paragraph, she was talking about me – about who I am, and what I’ve shown her – and she said, “Never stop.”

It reminded me of how often we are told to change who we are. To be this or to be that. To fit in to a mold, when we are told as children to stand out. To stay inside the lines that are so old no one can quite remember who drew them.

The secret is: I’ve never fit in. I’ve always been friendly. People have always, for the most part, liked me. But I remember a friend giving a speech once, about seeing a girl talking to everyone – and how she judged her, formed an opinion based on an easy smile. When she actually got to know her, her opinion changed. That person was me. And it struck me, then, how people tend to judge others in odd ways, for reasons one might not consider. It also reminded me that what you see may not always be what is. Because, as Nin said, “We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.”

And today, my friend told me, “Never stop.” She meant that I should never stop being who I am. And, let’s face it: it’s not always an easy thing. I’m a little odd. I’m usually well-meaning. And I’m crazy.

But not the bad crazy. Not the boiled bunny version. Not the bitchy version. I’m just…irrevocably marching to the beat of my own taco. Or something. My point is that another person – a few weeks ago – implied that my kind of crazy was somehow…not okay. That maybe I was the wrong kind of crazy. If you know me, you know I take things like that to heart, even when I crack a joke and toss out a smile. The truth of that moment was that it was a dumb thing of him to say. In retrospect, I get it. Sometimes, we say things to push other people away. Because it’s easier. Or we’re scared. Or a myriad of other reasons. If we can make somebody run, it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy of our own perceived unworthiness.

The thing is, I don’t run. I don’t flinch. And I think that is sometimes…surprising. But that’s another story and a whole bottle of tequila.

This brings us to my story of when I was three years old. I was a precocious little thing, a hank of curly brown hair and completely infatuated with life. At the time, my family was staying at a friend’s house, while we were building ours. My godmother was watching me, and there was a local tornado warning, which was usual for the area. My parents were somewhere else. The place was a farm, and there were cows and shutters – things that needed to be housed and battened down. After all that was done, my godmother was worried I’d be afraid, so she was keeping me distracted. I did something funny, but I don’t quite remember what it was. And teasingly, she turned to me and said, “Alison, are you crazy?” Without missing a beat, three year old me said, “Crazy as a loon!”

I was an unusual kid, but damn, did I mean that when I said. And it’s true. I’m crazy. I’m strange. I am as likely to start singing in the middle of a grocery store as I am to hug you when I see you. But all this talk in my life, recently, about being crazy – and being true to yourself – has really made me stop and take stock. You know, it’s okay to be crazy. And it’s damned okay to be who you are, because who else are you fucking going to BE? I mean it. I’m asking.

You can’t be true to anything else, if you aren’t true to yourself. It’s like trying to build foundation on top of glass. Eventually, that glass is going to crack. Eventually, everything is going to shatter and shift. And then what? Everything you’ve built on top of that false foundation is going to fall. It’s a ugly thing to watch happen. It’s an ugly thing to survive. It’s something that’s survivable, sure. But it isn’t easy.

There’s nothing inherently noble about being, or seeming, normal. It shows a lack of courage. An absence of will. Sometimes, you just need to throw yourself into the fire, or off a cliff, or right into that hot-as-hell volcano. Sometimes, the only real thing to do – the only true thing – is the crazy thing.

Nobody gets anywhere by sticking to the rules or playing it safe. If they did, we’d still think the world was flat, and nobody would’ve ventured into outer space. Skeptics might say it can’t be done. Cynics may say it won’t be done. Others may point out that you look stupid or foolish. But, to quote Ted Hughes, “The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.”

Nothing else really counts. So, you might as well be crazy. I know that I am. That is, at least, part of my story. What’s part of yours?

a story between us

I felt it, the moment it started –
thick, like the way heat broils
in the middle of summer,
and three steps to the mailbox
means breathlessness
and the desire to strip off
skin and smile, the only ringing thought:
get back inside where it’s safe.
Not, it should be noted, cool.
Safe.

My heart clicked into place
like clockwork, gears beginning
to shed their rust. I was afraid
of everything, until you. Then,
I pulled every fear out by the roots
and burned them, carefully.
The smoke they made was not pretty,
but it was ugly with a purpose,
the message:
It was not a mistake. It is not a mistake.
This is not a prayer. This is belief.

Once, you held me
as if I was the wind:
fragile, impossible. Now,
is when I am about to shatter,
and I am so weightless,
I am weaponized sorrow –
a grenade already swallowed.

This is how I wage war
within myself. This is how I call myself
mistake, without believing it.
This is the way
I peel the fog apart, skipping sleep
and naming all the things
that prefer namelessness.
My heart cannot be hidden.
I tried to tame it. I could not.
I am not sorry.

This is the wildness that you love
about me, passion pricked
by fragility, always unwilling to break,
always ready to bend.

This is how you feel the word want
and need, unexpectedly. This is how love
becomes a rosary you count out
in the dark. This is how the world tilts,
and disaster thins out.

We are dirt
and hours
and circumstance, whispers
and abandoned directions.

We are the way rain
swallows a skyline, a ballet
of kisses, words threatening
to wilt on the windowsill –
this is waiting,
because words are useless,
because everything falls eventually
and I know – I know –
that this will fall into place.

I am longing at the top of the stairs.
You are a passion made of ashes
and apples – a reminder
that some things must burn
before others may be eaten.

A reminder that everything
was always something else first,
and nothing worthwhile happens
overnight.

Live where you fear to live.*

“Heart on fire, ashes everywhere
— there’s no return from a red like that.”
~Fado Menor by Manuel de Freitas

it doesn’t matter. it never did. it is for the best.

these are the lies we tell ourselves when the world gets dark. when the stars in our souls begin to explode, and our hearts feel impossibly like tinder. the match is always ready. it is foolish to think otherwise. even if your skin feels like the ocean, it will still burn. likewise, a promise made of water means nothing and everything in the desert. always, when it’s night, the monsters come out. the mirror is a monster in its own right. do not place your hand on it, and whisper a name at midnight.

sometimes, it hurts too much. a gasp for air, only to find the ocean swimming into your lungs. sometimes, it isn’t the pain that kills, but a possibility, unexpected. an idea, like an earthquake, shatters the foundation underneath your feet. trouble is, the fault line is in your fingertips. trouble is, the wreckage begins with a smile gone plastic around the edges. a false start that turns into something endless.

but this is not how things end. this is how they begin – coupled with the wrong pronouns, a missed train, a late arrival, a doorbell that rings. happenstance and heartbeats, the way a hand lingers on your back, or your shoulder, living there like sunlight. this is the wayward grace of a window, the promise of green and tomorrow – and tomorrow. this is waking up, with crazy hair and nothing on.

say yes. say love. say please.

then, take a deep breath. then, wait.

this is why we run, hearts filled up with hurricanes. this is how we reappear, with our smiles full of simple magic. this is when we remember who we are, answering the ringing question – who do you think you are? – with a fierce truth.

this is how we are consumed by fire, nurtured by water, lifted by air, and grounded by earth. this is untied hands. this is hope that smells like copper. this is a sunrise that tastes like childhood. this is the way a kiss unravels every lie.

it does matter. it always did. it always will.

*line from the poet Rumi

Don’t run. Stop holding your tongue.

 

I want to be brave. I am not always. There are moments, things that reach back from our past, that remind us of who we are – of who we’ve been – and how fear changes over time. Something odd occurred to me, today. There’s a parallel situation from over ten years ago, a little thing. Just a whisper of a shadow. Different time and place, but the same shade. Then: I was fearless. Then: I refused to allow myself to give in to the ghosts. Today: I caught myself wondering. Today: I caught myself talking myself out of an idea.

I was listing all the reasons why not. Except, they weren’t really reasons. They were excuses. They were that little idiot voice that lives in the back of a person’s head, rubbing salt in every wound that you forgot you even had. If, ten years ago, I was brave – what changed? What is it about growing up (okay, growing older) that erodes our fearlessness? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s that we fail to nurture that part of ourselves. Perhaps it’s the day-to-day grind that wears us down. Perhaps it is the endless list of responsibilities, instead of laughter. Perhaps it’s the have tos instead of the want tos. Whatever it is, whatever the root cause, it stops here. It ends now.

Sometimes, you have to do the exact thing that you are afraid of. Sometimes, you have to prove it to yourself. Sometimes, you need to be a little less You Now. And a little more of your past. The truth is that even the most spectacular disaster teaches us something. The truth is that there really aren’t mistakes. There’s what you do and what you don’t do. There’s how you feel or don’t feel. There’s love or there isn’t.

And there’s being brave. I can’t help but think of Sara Bareilles’ new song, Brave. There’s nothing worse than letting words fester underneath your skin. There’s nothing worse than letting fear – of anything – win. So, it might be crazy. It might be ridiculous. It might be the foolish idea born of a mad moment. But it also might be real. It also might be true. It also might be the best thing you almost didn’t do.

This, I suppose, is why I love the word yes. It opens doors. It breaks down walls. It punches a hole through a window. Yes begins everything. Yes teaches us. Yes reveals us. So, when faced with a choice? With a scary thing? Don’t let fear steal your yes. Don’t hold back, because life is wonky and difficult. Don’t hold back at all.

Be brave.

the heart is quiet

Earlier today, I found a note on my phone. I’d written it, obviously. Unless my phone has developed Gremlins. In which case…don’t feed it after midnight. But this note – I don’t remember writing it. I don’t know when it was written. I don’t have anything to go on, except what it says.

You are worth it.

That’s it. One single, brief sentence. And yet, it sparked a whole wave of thoughts in my head. Because we all what to be worth it – whatever hardship and troubles are in the way, between us and something else. Between us and someone else. Everyone wants to be worth the trouble, the risk, the difficulties, and disasters.

You are worth it.

Take a tough situation. Conjure one up from your memories. Think about your last, great, difficult relationship. There’s a moment, always, where you think: is it worth it? Is this person worth the trouble? [Whatever that trouble may be.] There’s that turning point where you look at all the chaos, weigh it, measure it – factoring in emotions with the facts – and you decide. It might not be a conscious thing, but it always happens. You always choose.

You are worth it.

Some situations are rife with fights, emotional shrapnel, and razor-wire that’s found its way into words. In instances like that, people often lie to themselves, convinced that it’s easier to stay, easier just to deal with it, easier just to keep on keeping on. That, darlings, is a lie made of someone else’s broken glass. Somehow, you swallowed it, and it’s torn up your throat. That makes it hard to talk, hard to move, and harder to fight. Harder to make the changes that you – in your heart – know need to be made. Hell, when you’re in any kind of pain (physical, emotional), it’s hard to make any kind of decision. Fire, bad. Tree, pretty.

You can’t do something like that (change your life; change your job; follow your dreams; chase a person) for someone else. That kind of thing isn’t something you ask another person (unless you’re Meredith Grey. Pick me. Choose me. Love me.). You’re not borrowing a car or a cup of sugar. But you’re standing in front of someone, vulnerable, open-hearted – saying, I’m right here – am I worth it? (Possibly, I might add, in the figurative sense.) You can’t change for a person, but you can change because of a person. Because that person woke you up, gave you something when you needed it, and maybe saved you a little – when you didn’t know you needed saving. And loves, we all need saving, now and again. Anyone who tells you differently is probably a little too Gollum (hiding in the dark; a little effin’ CRAZY; fond of raw fish. Wait…that’s sushi).

Here is what I know. Here is what I’ve been thinking about lately. The people who love us – who truly love us – they point out the things we’re obviously trying to ignore. They do this with love, but they do it. They look at you when you’re at your worst, but wearing a smile, and say – hold up, this is wrong. This is not a selfish act – to fight for someone else, for that person’s own wellbeing. It is easy to buck against, though, because it’s easier to hide. Because hiding means not having to face what it is we’re hiding from. It’s easier to stay in one place. But no matter how pretty the prison, it’s still got bars on the windows. You may get three square meals and a roof over your head – but that’s not all that life is. That’s not all that life should be. Choosing to stay in a moment, a situation, like that? Well, you become your own jailer. But I digress.

Someone who loves you – not your wallet, not what you can do for them –  will fight for you, even when it means fighting you. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s terrifying. Even if it seems crazy or impossible. I don’t believe in impossible. That’s just a challenge wearing hard work like a hat. I’m okay with that.

What we often fail to remember is that the ‘right’ thing isn’t always the sane thing. That the definition of right cannot be defined by anything other than your heart. Sometimes, the crazy thing is the best thing. The insane wild leap. Given yourself permission to be happy (strange, that we need to do that, no?), to pursue what makes you happy, to better your world. That choice is like magic. Because, yes, you are worth it.

When you need to hear it – and who doesn’t? – you are worth it.

 

“He isn’t interested in simple. He wants what he wants. No matter how much trouble she is and no matter whether he even understands it himself.” ― Deanna Raybourn, A Spear of Summer Grass

“The only problem is the heart is quiet. It takes a very special kind of person to hear what the heart says. Most can’t hear it at all and they have to guess. There are a lot of people walking around just guessing.” ― Suzanne Palmieri, The Witch of Little Italy