Bird Uncaged

A few weeks ago I wrote about a fox. The next day as I sat in a Barnes and Nobel, there was a fox pictured on the wall. I barely noticed it. But when I did, it was the largest thing on the wall. Did it mean anything? Tears. Even yesterday. Sobs overtook me when I thought of my little girls. I am missing so, so much of their lives. A part of me feels numb about it. A part of me sobs with wails that I have never before heard escape my mouth. I am missing their lives. I am missing it. And they are missing me. And still. It is as if I am looking across the waves of the sea and once again I know the calling that I am supposed to do. So many people. So many hurting people. That is the only thing I can make sense from this pain - I am compelled to find purpose in this pain. It is for me. It is for my girls. It is for others. Yet in the midst of it, there's me. I stare at my own reflection. How have I been so brave up to this point? How have I put one foot in front of the other eac...

I've been asking myself the difference between growth and change. When it comes to myself, I've done both. I changed habits, I changed behaviors, I changed the way I thought (all positive.) On the other side, I changed to suit other people (lesson learned.)  As I sit thinking about it, I wonder. When it comes to ourselves or our relationships with other people, do we want change, or do we want growth? Do we accept another person's flaws and weaknesses and just hope for them  to grow and become better in who they already are (growth), or do we expect them to change completely to suit our own needs?  In living an autonomous life and wanting an autonomous life for others, growth is what matters most. Not every person will be a fit for us in relationship or friendship, and that's okay. Walking alongside someone respecting their journey and supporting them in their own growth journey as they support us in ours, this is love and freedom.  ❤️

"I am a writer." The words bounced back and forth in the walls of my mind until I wrote them down. "I am a writer." Memories flooded my mind. Five year old me presenting to my mother my first book, a book about mice, complete with a front jacket picture. Then my responding to the pressing letters of the publishing company Vantage Press telling them I would send my manuscript as soon as I could complete it - at the age of 11. My goal was to be the youngest published author. Once that letter was sent, I never heard from them again.  But it was still in me. I was a writer. And over this past year, this gift, this thing that I have never laid down stared at me in the face, beckoning me to pick up my pen. But rather, my phone. To type into my phone. To write.  So far my life has been a full one. I remember at the age of 16 expressing how I didn't want to have any regrets when it was my turn to leave this life. Do I? Certainly. But not the kind that comes ...