Three Things Thursday {Changed and Changing}

{Inspired by the inspirational Lists And Letters}

1. In “A Room Of One’s Own,” Virginia Woolf says, “So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.” And this is a part of my changing, the beginning of an understanding that goes beneath the surface, so that my heart says, this is for us, and my soul says, here is where we are, and the comments and the likes have no real relevance to the actual act of writing, because the writing is indistinguishable from the living, and nobody gives you a thumbs up for simply taking your next breath. Getting down deep into the habit, inhaling inspiration from a hundred different sources, breathing out unpolished thoughts and unorganized confessions and memories that are fuzzy around the edges, shaking out Polaroid poems and watching as they develop into a picture that’s always a little different than the way I remembered it. Cloaking myself in the words of others, warming myself by the fire of their blazing talent, staring into the flames and following the wavering shapes of my own potential through watering eyes. Allowing myself the time, the space, the permission to say, I am a writer, and to look in the mirror and see that it is so, whether or not anyone else signs off on that statement.

2. Finding myself split down the middle and sewing myself back up, one stitch at a time, no anesthesia, no reprieve from the pain of existing, just learning to coexist with the injuries inflicted on me by an infantry of love, because that’s what happens when you present yourself on this battlefield and throw your chest wide open. And I don’t really know any other way to be, but I’m trying to reign it in a little, to keep a few vulnerable parts of my heart hidden away from the points of the bayonets and the angry eyes of those who take honesty on as an imposition. I don’t really know any other way to be, but I’m carving out a new path, one of stone and water, tree and flower, the softness of my spirit not imprisoned by my ribcage but protected by it. Using my body as a gift and a guardian, an offering and an altar — sacrificing myself for the sake of truly connecting, but knowing enough to get out of the fire before there’s nothing left but ash.

3. Letting it go. Building up a pyre in the pit of my belly  for all the broken promises, the missed connections, the bark of words honed to draw blood, the edge of an empty silence — swallowing a sword on fire and feeling forgiveness smoke through my bones. Giving up the ghost of how much it hurt, there, in that time and place, burying the skeleton shape of old grief under the last spring snow. Walking away, even if I have to go backwards, even if I have to put chains on my ankles and drag myself down the road. Making amends in my dreams, atoning after the sun goes down, waking in the early morning hours with the solid mountain of his back behind me, the canyon of our spines, stepping out into that space unafraid of falling.