I moved to the place where my life almost fell apart. 

Something about the 48th always drew me in. 

The arid landscape, wide open skies, lack of humidity. 

A place so remotely different from where I was raised. 

Memories absent. Until they weren't. 

The place I almost fell apart. 

I allowed myself to wonder what would happen if I left it all behind. 

I had a little taste. 

And then I too fell apart and was given a blank slate. 

Except, no slate can truly be clean. 

Marks remain. Remnants of drawings left behind. Stains remain.

Time does not heal all, but intentionality does.

Sunshine does wonders, as does movement. 

Exploring passions, considering new ones.

There is much privilege in this pursuit, and I recognize its presence. 

Peace can be made with the past.

The traverse is endless. 

Looking in the right places for the filling.

All ingredients added with consideration can create something delicious. 

To be tasted over and over. Yearned for over time. 

Comfort and memory provided. 

Harmony fills a soul in ways nothing material can.

Peace is a path which can be found, if only sought.

 

 Sleepwalker

Shuffling blindly, obediently.

Listening to anyone's voice but your own.

Walking the path someone else designed.

Buying the clothes someone else chose. 

Determined to find self, outside of self.

 Rivers rush one way.

Swimming against the current requires cognizance.

Deliberate strokes, mind attuned to the goal.

Sleepwalking no more, now simply strolling. 

Awake, alive, well.

 

 I underestimated.

The toll. 

On every part of your body you knew and parts you didn't yet know.

The demands.

Endless in a world where everything is accessible if you have enough dollars.

The weight.

Swimming while holding responsibilities over your head, keeping them out of water, dry.

The crush.

Of dreams not realized, placed on a backburner, forgotten in a pot.

The expectation.

Placed upon you by a thousand differing voices, your own most chief. 

The overwhelm.

Alarm bells ringing, smoke detectors firing and nothing to put out the fire.

The guilt.

Knowing your load isn't as heavy as others, gaslighting needs unmet.

And yet, you press on.

If you see a healthy plant, 

one that winds up the wall, 

with many limbs trained to climb,

leaves green and vibrant,

plump and upright.

Know it did not achieve this on its own.

They did not will themself into health.

She was potted, nurtured, watered, placed in the right place, pruned when needed.

Old leaves discarded, soil changed when necessary, fertilized. 

He did not materialize this way. 

Time and care were on their side, 

Allowing it to live, fully. 

Purpose fulfilled. 

 

Land

 The only place I've ever felt free is outside. 

In particular, on a familiar plot of land. In the front of the house on Whisnand. 

I went there when I felt overwhelmed with life. When I felt joyful. When I wanted to escape whatever was happening inside. When I wanted to explore. When I felt like I couldn't go on another day. 

When I wanted peace. 

The spirits of Indiginous Kickapoo, Myaamia and Kaskaskia people, who made their home above the branch of creek that runs north and south amongst the cedars and oaks, were ever present. 

The land was acquired by my family over 100 years ago. It was partially cleared for pasture for horses and cows. A farmhouse stood at the corner of Old 37 and Whisnand Road, named after my ancestors. 

I felt the tension. The native land turned settled. The conflict interwoven with the land herself. 

A shared commonality of the struggle for existence by all who once made their lives there. 

My parents built near the back of the pasture, toward the south wood line. It was once surrounded by sinkholes, dotted with a mess of cedars and invasive vines. We explored the property before we ever broke ground, when it still belonged to my Grandma. 

I loved how the land felt then. Wild, tamed, back to wild again. Nature reclaiming what humans had tried to domesticate. Structures erected had fallen down from neglect. 

My parents divided the land and sold to others. I always felt conflicted about land ownership. 

How can we stake a claim to something that can't belong to one person?

 

We moved into the house on my 10th birthday. I moved out 12 years later and returned again, when it became my own family's 7 years thereafter. 

A lot of memories were stored within those walls. Like the house had absorbed all of the good, the bad, and everything in between. I could feel memories as I'd stand in certain rooms. It was overwhelming. I was able to begin to process everything that happened throughout the various times I inhabited the space. It became too much. The walls began to close in around me.

Like I'd always done, I'd go outside. But once outside, I was free. I belonged.

It was such a contrast to the feeling I felt inside.

The creeks, valleys, trees and open field invited me to rest. To tell Her my secrets, my pain, my longings. She was a wonderful listener. 

I'd go into her woods and dream, imagine, pretend. 

I could be my fullest self and she accepted me, just as I was. 

to be continued. 

I'm writing a poem.

I'm not sure if it's correct. 

I'm using the same form I used in fifth grade.

I'm remembering it got published in a book.

I'm realizing I let the poet in me die then.

I'm allowing her to resurrect. 

 When people ask me what I do, I want to say I'm a writer.

The problem is, I can’t finish a thought.

I have been involved a torrid affair with writing since I started my first blog almost 15 years ago. I have never been able to be consistent enough to materialize into a career, or even a steady hobby. I am not convinced that I have to make this anything. My goal is just to simply begin again.

I used to write here about the version of Christianity with which I was involved. It dictated how I saw the world, until I broke it open. Like when Jasmine breaks the trace that Jafar's staff induced.

Breaking open a previous worldview is intense. Almost every relationship in my life was created through the pretense of Christianity. It has taken me a few years, mental collapse and rebuild and a cross country move to receive the perspective I have been searching for.  

I have finally allowed myself, after 33 years, to pursue me. This involves attempting to decode the thoughts in my head out of my body and into another medium, whether it be print, type or another form. It involves attempting to make sense of my experiences and translate them into a shared connection with others. It involves giving myself permission to put my three beautiful children into the care of others Monday through Friday so I can have the space to make this attempt. 

It's giving myself permission to occupy space. To use my voice. To have an opinion. 

To carve out my individuality within the sea of individuals.

To wonder. To dream. To create. 

To allow myself to be fully human.

Things I have denied myself for most of my life. 

I tell my children they can be anything they want.

So you know what?

I am a writer.