I’ve been pushing things down and I hate that–that’s right, I’m opening this letter with a complaint about complaints. I’m overwhelmed by the feel of fullness, the over-stuffed sensation. Drunk on bottled emotion. So I’m sending all these not-so-terribly-wretched things out into the world for them (you) to deal with.
I hate feeling anything but love; I hate the way a negative anything can slip into my positive everything and bring the whole show to a screeching halt. I hate how utterly determined some people are to bringing other people down.
I hate my past when it rears it’s disgusting head, full of puss and condemnation. I want exfoliate my present of its past.
I hate problem creators—they are a spot on the lungs of the creative community. Why use our most remarkable gift to cause more fear, more hatred, more confusion in this world? Why misuse your magic in such a way?
The news. I’m so tired of what this machine has to say. So tired of wondering where this gnawing feeling originates—it’s on the television screen in every public place in this country. I don’t want to be in public when the public has so much fear to perpetuate.
Measles—someone say measles one more god damn time.
I might hate flying; certainly spinning.
I don’t feel safe traveling now; it occurred to me on this trip. The moment this enormous bird lifted itself from the earth’s surface I felt uneasy. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, what is it exactly that is wrong.
I might hate flying, I can’t be sure; a double whiskey diluted feelings of oh shit something’s wrong. It’s much more likely I hate leaving my tribe behind.
And the little ones are in Poppi’s capable hands, but can’t help feeling the queerness of it all. Mama’s hands are for holding babes. Poppi’s hands are for holding Mama’s. Babes hands are for reaching out to these people they know as home.
I hate hearing the words choked on the other end when I say goodnight to them; they’re so much braver when we’re all at home. Chin up, little cubs. It’s only going to hurt at night.
I hate getting older; there are moments when I own that shit, but most of the time it feels like opportunity slipping through outreached fingers. You’re supposed to cup your hands—fists are even better. Smother those days into staying.
Youth is subjective. I know, I know, I know.
How many years before I let go of the ideas of “what should have been by now” and free my hands to shape what is?
Things that should have been: books written, names made, vows exchanged, babies birthed, disease beaten, voice found, body nourished, self found, money made, savings saved, countries visited, tattoos expanded, bridges mended, claims staked, past released, present-moment embraced.
I hate complaining; I hate being the one to complain especially.
I hate not finding all the words and stopping before I feel done.
But behind me is the coo of a warm mother; behind me is a heart unable to provide anything but love. And though her tiny creation can do nothing but wail, there is something of comfort in this moment. She calls her “sweet girl” and my belly stirs in recognition. There’s an ancient longing to give life, to house life, to grow life; and I love being a woman because of that.
I pushed life into this world twice; and I would do it again and again and again.
ShhhShhhShhhShhhhh and the rocking/swaying/bouncing babe is quiet for moments more.
We’re cruising past tiny lights of some anonymous city—with anonymous faces and anonymous buildings and anonymous cars and anonymous streets—and the copperorangegoldbreathyblueandink fills the gap between earth and sky.
And I fill the gap between earth and sky, too.
But what will fill the gap between black and white? Love. Love will fill the gap and spill back into my positive everything.
I found love. Can you believe that? I found it waiting in the place I left it and now I get to exist in love every damn day of my life. Can you believe anyone could be so lucky?
Dear Existence, I want to thank you for all the magic you’ve shown me in my 30+ years. I want to thank you first, for offering so many years to learn and grow in.
For every problem creator there is a solution finder, a problem eliminator. You’ll know a problem eliminator when you find them, they light up your insides like a halogen bulb. And you’ll feel more capable of handing life than you’ve ever felt before—a contagious fuck yes mentality. And the world is yours once again.
Spinning is much like flying and flying is akin to free.
Flying. Spinning. Freedom.
There are two worlds in every reality: black or white // black and white.
Perspective is what sets us free.
Dear Existence, thank you for the solution finders of the world. Thank you for sending them into my life when I need them most (and for knowing I always need them most).
Thank you for the words that sometimes come easily and sometimes make me work. I’ll be better for having the experience of both. Thank you for my dancing fingers across these familiar keys and the ability to accept that sometimes, not finishing completely can still be the perfect amount.
Your willing participant