Remembering is half the battle

I have to remember that it’s all small stuff

This life is not about us anyway 

July

All we have is right now

Right here

I listen to the voices

On a Sunday morning

It’s about co-existing

I like to refer to it as Enlightened Duality

Just another day

Another way to live

30 minutes for a lunch break and I head to my car

There’s a man sitting on the curb across from where I’m parked

“Homeless Need Work” his sign reads

On any other day

I’d take my food somewhere else

So I wouldn’t have to share it with his hungry eyes

Changing my environment

The task at hand is to make it work

Not to suffer

Not to indulge

Existing while others live

Living while others exist

Allowing others to exist in my own world

No pity

No regret

Don’t sweat the small stuff

It’s really all small stuff anyway

I sit in my car and eat my lunch

He sits on the curb holding his sign

We do not speak to each other

We do not even look at one another

We don’t need to

All we have is right now

On writing

Someone once told me that Charles Bukowski had to work at getting his writing published.

So here I am, working.

This is my attempting to use the tools I have learned, and write.

Committed to writing every day.

I force myself to put words, thoughts, expressions, letters, symbols on paper, because the only way to get batter is through practice.

Practice is dedication, a repeated endeavor, over a long period of time.

“Practice makes perfect,” I learned as a child.

I don’t know about perfect, but it certainly makes me stronger, more disciplined.

The good, the bad and the ugly–

I’ll write whatever it takes just to keep writing.

Over, and over, and over.

Seated now, at my kitchen table, knowing that this could be the last time my legs rest on the soft, cool, wood of the chair.

Knowing that this could be last time I rest my forehead on the dimpled, yellow surface.

Remembering now, all the lasts–and I didn’t know they would be the last time.

Life keeps going, with or without you.

And I’ll keep writing, with or without you. 

I write this…

Because I can’t bring myself to pack that box

Because I’m stuck

Because childhood memories surround me,

sitting their on the shelves like gargoyles.

Pictures of the past, make me forget where I’m going and why.

I can’t bring myself to pack that box

I gave my sock monkey to my niece the other day,

came over to find that the dog had adopted it as his own–

Some things I just have to let go of.

I’m not sure where the next step will take me,

But I’m telling the Universe that I’m ready.

YOU HEAR ME?!

I’M READY!

Bring it on!

Tears of overwhelm cloud my vision and it’s hard to write.

Why do I feel stuck?

I wish I could just peek into the future,

and then I wouldn’t worry so much.

I can’t bring myself to pack that box.

Today I sit in the middle of my room.

Stuck.

Where do I start?

What will happen if I give that book away?

That dress? Those CDs…

I’m not a little girl any more.

If I lay on my bed and cry until 11pm I still have boxes to pack,

they won't pack themselves. 

There are some things that are never going to change.

Today I wish the cloudy skies outside would let loose a flood so huge it would wipe away these boxes, and my house, and me so I won’t have to deal.

Dealing with life.

People drive cars, like they live their life.

People do most things, like people do most things–eat, dance, talk to small children... 

Except packing.