They blow around wondering if this is the last time it will be there and for how long it will stay.
They live a life of constant unreliability, leaning on the wind for guidance instead of living independently.
Growing with the Fierceness Religion Wanted to Stamp out of Me |
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Emotions are like leaves.
They blow around wondering if this is the last time it will be there and for how long it will stay. They live a life of constant unreliability, leaning on the wind for guidance instead of living independently.
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Being shoe-less means not being able to care. Not caring what other people think of you as you walk around the block, shoe-less. Not caring whether you get a splinter or your feet get dirty. It's being free, feeling the way your feet hit the cement, asphalt, carpet, hardwood floor... it's all about feeling. Being shoe-less means not wanting to care. Don't make a wall out of a doorway- A wall of expectations for yourself when others just expect you to walk through the doorway.
Perfectionism is one of the biggest symptom of pride. (I'm beginning to see just how pride impacts my life). I had a lovely conversation with two people last week, and each one gave me one piece of advice that really hit me. One also told me to write more. Two summers ago I celebrated "The Summer of the Sixteen Fears"- I was sixteen and wrote a list of sixteen fears I wanted to face. Things like getting my ears pierced and climbing a giant tree. I tackled that summer with... fright ;) But my friend Katy acted as a guide. I collected a rock from each location and drew a doodle to represent that event. I also found a verse that I loved and that had to do with the fear- somehow. This summer I'm celebrating "The Summer of Friendship and Writing and Reading"- or TSOFAWAR (Not sure if this will catch on or not...) and I plan on reading, writing and creating things with friends. Be it memories, scrapbooks or paintings. Bring it on summer! :) You certainly see some interesting people at the gas station...
I guess its one thing most everyone has in common. I remember seeing words and thinking-
"Someday." As I travel to them now, someday has finally arrived. The words can't hide, the words are mine. -I have decided 11th grade created a monster- that monster is me. After googling "Why am I an emotional wreck", I have come to several conclusions-
First off, perfectionism will kill me. Kill my creativity, my drive, my spirituality, all my -lities. And I like all my lities, they make life joyful and worth it. b. I am learning to have more fun. It may not be that creative to write a lower case "b" instead of saying secondly, but its a big deal to me. I'm doing a Wreck this Journal with my dear friend (coincidentally, yesterday I found out we've known each other for 15 years- instead of the assumed 12 years), and it's helping me immensely. 6. Google doesn't have all the answers, but no body else seemed to have any either so finding a few articles on different ways of overcoming emotional mood swings is definitely beneficial in showing me that the world is full of people and people are different SO different things help people learn different things. As dumb as that sounds. 3. I may sound sarcastic and mean, but I usually don't mean to be, so I apologize in advance. M. Writing is messy, fun, moldable, and fricken awesome. So do it. Even though it will suck, at least the first couple drafts anyway. And always, always, ALWAYS write for yourself, or else you'll never get published. (But don't take that to an extreme and leave zero room for improvement and criticism from others). I don't have to feel good all the time. I don't have to feel like myself all the time. I don't have to accept these feelings, but sitting down with the burglar and inviting him for tea just might make for an interesting story. And as I am overwhelmingly afraid of forgetting, [when I learned about Alzheimer's disease as a kid I almost experienced my first panic attack (I remember it vividly) and I learned I'm most afraid of forgetting who I am] and I'm an emotional wreck, I've decided to pick up journaling again. But this time, it's more of an art/life/emotions thing, not a day to day I did this then did that journal. And most importantly, to counteract my perfectionist demand for one set place for these thoughts, I will not have a special journal. I will use a combination of outlets including but not limited to: Wreck this Journal, 642 Things to Write About, a currently active poetry journal and Word Doc for expanding semi-living stories. The water warms slowly as it swims in between my fingers.
Last time. The last time I have to wash stage make up off my face in my high school career. Change. I don't particularly like change. This feels more like an end, the chapter has closed. Six plays- oh how I've grown. How much I have left to grow... Rinse off my face, water runs down my elbows. Last time. The last time I'll have break outs from this stinky make up. Ending. I like this end, it's time to end. It's time to move forward. Soap gently rubs from my finger tips to my face. Thinking back, I regret. Regret my words, my actions, my impatience. As the soap washes and loosens the make up, I catch my thoughts... they wash away as I rinse the soap off. Water runs down my elbows, regrets and worry over regretting this play's words and anger, trickle down with it. I'm learning, that's all that He expects. I give myself a little slack, and crawl into bed, cuddling with my cat and counting my blessings. My arm drops.
marbles roll down, through my veins. Like balls of wet sand, they land with a splat, and scatter like mice. feeling comes as the sand smashes at the tips of my fingers. Two, maybe three, years ago I was in a poetry class with my writing teacher. I did a lot of soul searching, and my poetry began to morph into something more serious and raw, less joyful and peppy. Since then my poetry has been very focused on growth, how I'm growing, how God is growing me, what I'm learning about myself and my faith.
A beginning, middle and end. Usually the beginning is hopelessness, the middle is what God has shown me and the end is short and sweet.My endings are so short though, and I'm beginning to get tired of my own work. A close friend of mine made a comment about how hopeless my poetry sounds, although at the end it isn't. Balance. Life is all about balance. Humans change. I change. What I need from my poetry changes. I am ready for this change, for my poetry to change with me. I love it, I love how words have a heart beat when they are spoken. I love how I change, and how my words get to change with me. Change. Balance. Excitement. I can't wait for my next poem, I'm excited to see what God has for me. A bleating goat, a lone leaf crunching as its blown down the hill. Helicopters, planets and stars clutter the blue table.
One young star gazer stands on the slanted surface, wrapped in a robe over her pajamas. Only in Rodeo would there be a goat in the neighbor's backyard... A dog walker heads up the hill. The star gazer walks casually to her porch, not wanting to be seen. |
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October 2013
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