I have a confession to make. I haven’t been consciously withholding this information– but just recently uncovered it somewhere in the depths of my cells. I have spent years being ANGRY. Horribly, Defiantly, ANGRY. At myself. What I have realized is this anger (that I have managed bury to the depths of my being) has been …
moving forward is hard. and standing in one place feels like I’m being shoved backwards. there are days when I want to stay in bed with my head under the covers. or I wish I were my cat. and my strength feels buried under too many layers to access. and it’s easier to acknowledge other …
I seem to be pushing up against my edges at the moment. My brain feels as if it’s spread across three separate continents and my body feels as if I just ran a marathon every day for the last week, on my hands. On top of that I flew to Las Vegas last night with my …
kill your old stories slash and burn them to the ground… narrate something new.
i love every beautiful, perfectly im- perfect piece of you.
seeing you happy makes me happy– regardless of where you’re rooted.
I get lost sometimes in my love for you– it’s good to find my way out.
continually marveling at the splendid perfection that is.
I’m sorting through a lot of late. (When am I not?) But by far the most potent thing seems to be acknowledging and letting go of the stories I tell myself. (And I tell myself a lot of stories.) Many of them are based in truth, or partial truth– and have some vague notion of …
we don’t diminish each other– we both just keep pushing expansion.
the edges of myself 