Writing myself alive: The year I said "F*ck it."

 

This is what I have been doing, since August 1, 2014. Daily. Without fail. Even if it is just a sentence or two. 

 

I gave myself the permission to let it come. Sometimes tightly edited. Sometimes in messy little uncensored piles that weren’t much to look at and made me wonder just what the hell I was thinking.
I’d look, close the door on it and move to the next day, and the next one after that, until I had a pretty big pile of thoughts, poems, story’s and mixed up balls of words that I didn’t know what to do with.

But there it was. My year.

I was able to go back through all of it, pick up the thread and see where it was leading to. The struggle, all the sentences, words and ideas were leading me back... to a version of me that I wasn’t quite sure of yet.

Stronger, more sure, able to be still and listen.
Iron, reshaped and fresh out of the forge.
Smoke, still rolling off of my shoulders.

Sometimes you have to travel to places that are unfamiliar and far away in order to do the work that has got to be done. Nobody needs to understand or approve. It’s just you, giving yourself time and attention.

I’m not finished with this chapter yet, but I am coming to the end and knocking the final edges off.