Hiatus

I always write when it feels right.

That's the method to my madness. It hits me out of obscurity and I stop whatever it is that I'm doing, and walk straight into my office at home. There's a three minute bout of anxiety that rushes over me while my computer wakes up.

The words are coming and I can't stop them.

And then I don't stop until it's finished. It's a purge, really. I have this panicked, fevered fear that if I don't get it all out it won't come out at all. And if it did, it wouldn't be the same as I had originally intended. And the sounds won't come out right, and the words won't fit together in their perfectly jig-sawed places.

Words sit in my brain, waiting to be plucked out and used. I hear something I like and it gets stored there. More times than not, the words are thrown together in phrases; brief snippets of the possibility of a full thought. And I'll say, 'Yes, I'll use that here when I write about this.' And those phrases hover in the haze, patiently waiting their turn. They always do. And they always get one.

So this hiatus of writing has been a jumbled mess of words and phrases and topics and ideas and so many things to say that the jar became too full. And the air was vacuumed out. So opening it was a little tough. It's probably exactly as you imagine it: jar open, worms everywhere.

And I have so much to write about but the words are all pushing their way to the exit. Stampeding over each other and it's torture to get them into single-file.

I say to them, behave.

And they don't.

Because they're mine.

And I rarely behave, generally speaking.

And in that vein, I had struggled with my voice. Because I write here and here... And here is me. And there is me, plus more. And it wasn't until this weekend, and three people telling me the same thing (mostly) independently of each other, that I realized that both are me. I can be all of it at once.

So.

The crux of the hiatus, and this particular set of words, is to say that I'm here. The words are here... Good Lord, are they. And I intend to use them.

Let Your Heart Be Light

I have a Noble Fir in my living room. Full of lights and hangings and glitter and memories. It dazzles and catches the light, just the way I like it to. The ornaments are as symmetrical as they're going to get, no matter how many times I place and replace, searching for an impossible balance. But such is life. And how my mind works.

I was staring at the tree this morning. And again, tonight.

Because I never pictured my own Christmas tree. With balanced or imbalanced ornaments. Or a thousand lights that my husband wound and wound until every piece of wood and greenery was touched.

These were not the things that I thought of when I was younger. This wasn't the life that I dreamt about, because I didn't dream about such things. They were too pretty. And perfect. And I didn't think I was worthy of those things; of this life.

I didn't dream about a wedding, much less a husband. I didn't dream about a home. Or a family.

I just thought it would be me. Forever. Maybe a dog or two. And a small place by some water.

And that would have been my life. I kind of just assumed and accepted that notion of solitude...and the span of forever.

So I have this tree and yes, it's just a tree, but it's not just a tree. It's a tree that will be used to celebrate life and love and family. It is a tree that was plucked from a mountainside. By my husband. On a tree hunting expedition that I have been enveloped into year by year by year. It's a tree that annually marks a twinkling dot on a timeline, reminding me of when Justin and I got together. It holds memories and offers a reminder that life is more.

So much more.

The Fear

I was chatting with a friend of mine about the creative process and how damn scary it is.

She's experiencing the freak-out phase of development. It's the fear that hits right before you show the world what just came out of your brain.

It's naked and scary and awful and blissful and so many things all at once.

I rarely get so cliché as to mention song lyrics, or quote poetry, but I did mention a phrase to her that has resonated in my mind since I heard it first -

'And when the world finally sees his art, he wishes that he never would have made it...'

This.

Is.

Exactly what it feels like to push 'publish' on a blog post. Or to submit drafts to an editor. It's opening your world up to ridicule and inspection. And for me, a 70/30 introvert, this is harrowing.

My next article is about something so terribly personal, that I'm terrified of pulling the trigger. It deserves the highest honor in my emotional task force and I'm so worried that it won't translate. Adversely, I'm apprehensive that it will translate too well and show too much of something that I just can't fully expose.

So, I'm here and there and wanting to show but not tell.

But somewhere in the shadows is a positive email, or a comment, or a nudge from a friend that what I'm doing is right. And moreover, that it means something.

And resilience overrides fear.

(This is really a roundabout way to say thank you. You know who you are. Your words mean...well, everything).

(Girl) Friends

I get a little soapbox-y about certain things. Sometimes it's warranted, and sometimes it's frivolous. Sometimes, I get riled up at a news story, or see something dancing around pop culture that just burns me up. I know my opinions aren't facts, and I don't try and convince people I'm right...at least on most things.

I know I can be a bit ridiculous. And a touch dramatic.

...sometimes.

I think there's enough in the news as of late regarding a general lack of respect for women permeating our culture. And while I'm overjoyed that these conversations are being brought to the table, I think there's one that deserves a little nod of recognition:

Women respecting and uplifting other women.

More pointedly, and perhaps to speak in clear and concise terms:

Stop calling your female friends derogatory names.

You know the ones I'm referring to. I don't even want to type them out. Not because I don't say them (*ahem* probably far too frequently)...but because in this context, at least this time, I don't think it's necessary.

I think the spirit these terms are meant in is one of camaraderie, to show familiarity, to show that we (we, as in women) have the power and wherewithal to use those words in a joking manner that are typically meant to demean us... I get it. I get it all.

But still.

It's tacky. And unnecessary. And rude. And, honestly, still demeaning. The gender of the person speaking doesn't dictate how the word is going to sound spilling out of their mouth. A mean word is a mean word.

And really, don't we hear those things enough?

Reconciling an Athlete's Body

My body doesn't do what I want it to do anymore.

And sometimes that physical frustration bleeds into an emotional frustration. All of my formative years and a large part of my adult years, I had complete control over my physical being. I could bend, stretch, wrap and move. Effortless and fluid and poetic and strength and lightness and joy. My knees and hips and ankles did whatever I tasked them to do.

But sometime in my mid-twenties, my joints stopped responding to my every command. Instead, I was met with resistance. And awkwardness. And weird noises. And yes...pain. My body felt foreign to me. I'd watch myself in the mirror of a dance studio and see something alien. Not me. Not my movement. Not my ankles. Not my knees. Not my flexibility.

Years of injuries and a diagnosis of 'pre-arthritis' (whatever that means) took it all away. Right from under me.

Any long-term athlete will tell you what years and days and hours and minutes of practice will do to a body. It strengthens and weakens. It lifts and tears. It responds and resists. And years later, it stops. Like a cold rubber-band, everything tightens and constricts and seizes.

So I went from ballerina to runner. Because I had to do something. I had to know that my legs could go. And do. And keep going and doing. An athlete is always an athlete and the body is the vessel.

And then the running stopped. Three knee injuries and some major health problems (that I've written about here) forced me to (literally) slow down. The state of my body had become a perfectionist's worst nightmare - inability to complete a task that I had practically mastered.

So, yes... I get really down on myself because I can't run long distances anymore. And I can't stand on my toes or throw my leg over my head. But then I remind myself that I have run hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles over the last 5 years. I have danced a million dances on a million stages under a million bright, starry lights. I have crossed finish lines to a cheering crowd and had roses thrown at my feet after a 3 hour performance. My knees and ankles are muscularly destroyed, but have put up with a lot of punishment and continue to hold up my body. My hips, after a lifetime of rotating unnaturally from ballet, have slowly deteriorated into rusty cogs, aching every morning and sometimes waking me up at night. Sitting hurts just as bad as standing, which is just as bad as laying. And sometimes my legs go numb. But I'm still here. And I'm still trying.

I'm extremely lucky. 

Grace and the Dark Days

I, like most, can split my life up into phases. Clusters of years; different versions of me. And I used to be ashamed of certain periods of my life. But that shame is ushered in by confusion, and gracefully swept out by patience and the knowledge that I've done better since.

Time mercifully brings transparency. I am so stupidly humbled by what my life has brought me over the last handful of years. A healthy mind, a healing body, a divine love and a family. Right under my nose, I sprouted a huge net of beautiful, loving people.

Damn, that's an honor.

So, thankfully, I can ruminate on the ghost of decisions past and forgive myself for being blinded by pain and desperation.

Love will do that to you.

Almost a year ago, I had someone reach out to me via Facebook. And this person was such a beacon of everything that went wrong in the dark days. He was the catalyst and the ringleader of a multitude of bad things. Chaos and dramatics hung around him in a hazy smog and everyone within his radius was touched by it. We were all pretending to be happy in this dizzy, fast life of debauchery and whiskey that he evoked.

The version of me that existed in those days was so terribly sad and angry. I was desperately running... no, sprinting... away from my past and jumping on any train that took away the compounded years of abandonment, abuse and rejection. An exhausted shell. And for some odd reason, that's when the leeches come out to help you waste away. And so this person, and his band of merry fools, brought me under their bone-picked wings.

That is what happens to the lost ones.

But this post isn't about the Facebook message and what was said. It's about grace. And how it pulls you out of the obscurity and into the light. And holds you there until your legs are strong underneath you and you remember what it feels like to have hope. Grace is abundant and does not discriminate. It gives you life. And light. And love. And it doesn't. ever. stop.

Grace just is.

Sweeps out the bad.

Calls home the good.

And tells you that you are worthy of more.

On Pain

I do pain pretty well.

That is to say, I can write about pain very succinctly and very easily. And I used to think that that was weird. Or that I was weird. Or that I needed a psychiatrist.

As it turns out, all of those things are true... but the words are my therapy. The bad memories are sharp and when they're at their darkest, they can be unbearable. But then I sit and type and breathe and think and before I'm done, I'm lighter. The room is lighter and I'm lighter and the weight that can anchor my heart has been pulled up and in.

The hard stuff is the stuff that matters. That's what my friends keep telling me. And I know they're telling me the truth because that's what they do. So I sit and let the wounds have their time with words. And it's a sacred healing to have them laid out in that way.

That's why I do write about pain. I'm far enough away from it to look at it objectively. And I know that timing is terribly beautiful.

That's why I can write about pain.

It's yours and mine and universal. I say what you say. Sometimes out loud and sometimes internally, but always written out. And that's when I know I'm not so weird.