Celebrate my accomplishments with me.

I’ve got messy hair and a crooked smile. I might say the wrong things for a while. Though my love comes free and my jokes are cheap, I’m not easy to get and even harder to keep. I like the way the sky catches on fire at night when the sun goes to bed and the moon fades into sight. And nothing makes me dance like a spooky thunderstorm. I’ll shed my shoes and insecurities, swaying in the rain as I transform. My body tingles at the smell of the breeze through the fields - a safety net around me, an impenetrable shield. A newfound energy rises into my heart. I breathe out a heavy sigh and my doubts suddenly depart. Instead of writing down the things I’m most grateful for, I fill myself with them and slowly begin to pour. I thank God for the mountains and for the valleys, too. I thank Him for never leaving me, for seeing things through. And I ask that as I discover myself, He helps me to love me like I do everyone else. When my tears start to rise, I say “Amen.” A hurricane brews inside me that I cannot comprehend. So many years of darkness and trying to break free from chains; now the light is pleasantly blinding but I’ve got no words to explain. The clouds are three dimensional; the stars have started winking. I’ve finally begun to stand tall and speak up instead of silently shrinking. It occurs to me that what I’ve been searching for has been here all along. It’s the courage to unapologetically sing my own song. I took the long way home, as I often do, and I don’t regret it because, on the way, I was found by You. Sometimes I wish things had been different and I’m unhappy with where I’m at, but I’m now able to see that it’s more about the journey than where you eventually hang your hat. If the breeze and sunset, clouds and rain, gratitude and contentment is all there is, then I’ll be completely honest: I’m glad I stuck around for this. I’ve got messy hair and a crooked smile. I might say the wrong things for a while. Though my love comes free and my jokes are cheap, I’m worth the price you pay to know me deep.

I start where I’m at - a collection of pieces from my past. I inhale my intent: to come alive and rest in the present. I picture the me I someday hope to be and come a little closer with each sip of coffee. I build my faith prayer by prayer, feeling arms around me when there’s no one else there. And I relax into the notion that everything happens just as it’s supposed to. I realize it doesn’t make me worthless to take time to heal the part of me that’s hurting. Maybe, on the contrary, self-care postpones my obituary. You can’t pour from an empty cup; you’ve got to water your own garden. Cliche or not, you need to recharge your battery often. It seems that when you do, you allow yourself a different view. Sights and colors start to blend; you create what was once only pretend. And each time you reappear, you’re a little more sincere. Shedding the skin of the girl you once were, of the responsibility of being his daughter. And hers, too. Don’t you see it yet? It’s the truth. Only they lost when they didn’t choose you. You are precisely the woman someone is wishing for. Maybe your wish will collide with theirs, if it’s in the cards. In time, you’ll be everything you ever needed as a child. Your fears and doubts will finally be laid to rest and reconciled. Until you get there, please don’t forget: If life is a melody, you’re someone’s favorite lyric.

love your life.

When I see a shooting star, I still wish for you. Every four leaf clover that I find, every dandelion I blew. I’ve searched for genies at the bottom of bottles, broken every wishbone in your name. Every birthday candle I’ve ever blown out. Every stray eyelash on my face. I grew up thinking wishing was the best that I could do, so I subconsciously created a better version of you. And now when I get feeling like I really need my mom, I reach for a person who was never there at all. So I stopped picking up pennies and asked myself what I could do. Maybe if I was a better daughter, you’d be better too. I bent over backwards and walked through fire all for you. I told you how I loved you, and you told me it wasn’t true. So I took a step back; I walked away. You said that you wanted me out of your face. And less than five minutes of being gone, you said, “You can’t do this to me. I’m your mom.” Your guilt knocks away on the door to my chest with a battering ram marked by your royal crest. You want me to stay quiet and keep painting flowers, expecting your voice to leave me cowering. I step out of line. It’s “off with her head!” The queen only looks angry in red. Maybe it’s inevitably true: nothing makes sense with or without you.

When my hands were cuffed and my ankles weighted and I was tossed to the ocean floor, I happened upon a truth that I hadn’t ever before. The deeper I sank, the faster my lungs filled, and I grasped at a foxhole prayer. Promises made in exchange for help because there wasn’t a second to spare. And in my helpless state, I came to understand: prayer is the most desperate form of love known to man.

musings.