Just me this morning. No voices –– or at least none yet. I have decided that my mantra moving forward will be … authenticity. Listen to my heart, listen to my voices.
Stay true. Hang on.
I see that what is happening inside is daunting. And exhausting. And while I am making fairly quick work of it, I have no idea how long this race is. Is it a 5K sprint or a marathon? Is it a chapter in a book or a novel of a lifetime?
I do not quite know how this whole period of my life fits into things. On the one hand it feels like a timeout. On the other it feels more like a starting gun, my life beginning, my self and selves being found after being lost for so long. A flourish of dark, blood red roses comes to mind. Blood so red that it’s barely caught a breath, the color you see streaming through a tube as it comes out your vein. This period of time is marked with that richness, with that depth, with that kind of importance.
This moment in time, these pages, are my life's blood.
And roses … always so beautiful my reflex is to say it all must be contrived –– but none of this is, not a word.