I suppose it hasn’t been easy living with me either, with my piques, and ups and downs, my need for privacy leo pride and weeping in bed when you’re trying to sleep and you, interrupting me in the middle of a thousand poems did I call the insurance people? the time you stopped a poem in the middle…
“Love isn’t about the romantic nights or gifts. It isn’t about fireworks going off around you when you have that first, real, kiss. Love isn’t about kissing in the rain and dancing beneath the stars. It isn’t about the big moments or the big surprises. Love is not a fairytale. Love is about still having the butterflies after years. It’s about the second looks and laying in bed wide awake, all night, because you can’t go to sleep mad at each other. It’s about being willing to sacrifice, literally, everything for someone, just because you care so deeply for them. It’s not about buying them gifts, but it’s about leaving them little presents here and there, just to remind them that you are constantly thinking about them. Love is about all of the little things, that add up to really big things. Love is rare and special, but should not be treated as if it will break. Love needs to be thrown around and beat up a little bit, worn in, but not worn down. Love needs to be a comfortable feeling, a place to go when NO ONE else in the world can relate. A safe place, where you know that no matter how ugly you look or how angry you are, you will still be… loved.”—Unknown (via fairylullaby)
If life were like giving birth, I’d be the mom to be, up on a cold table, legs akimbo, struggling to find the strength and inner resolve to do what needs to be done. You would be the Lamaze coach, soothing me. Whispering words of encouragement. Giving up your hand to my crushing grip of fear.
I’m basically letting you know you’re the doula of my life.
“I have advice for people who want to write. I don’t care whether they’re 5 or 500. There are three things that are important: First, if you want to write, you need to keep an honest, unpublishable journal that nobody reads, nobody but you. Where you just put down what you think about life, what you think about things, what you think is fair and what you think is unfair. And second, you need to read. You can’t be a writer if you’re not a reader. It’s the great writers who teach us how to write. The third thing is to write. Just write a little bit every day. Even if it’s for only half an hour — write, write, write.”—
Depression has woven itself into the fabric of my being. My soul is a rich, vibrant quilt with ink-like swirls that cut through the ordered squares, oftentimes leaving only tiny corners of color to peek through. I find myself oddly protective of it. Perhaps it’s the darkness of those swirls that makes the bright hues shine with such incandescence.
I write in the Laundromat. I am a woman and between wash & dry cycles I write. I write while the beans soak and with children’s voices in my ear. I spell out words for scrabble while I am writing. I write as I drive to the office where I type a man’s letters and when he goes to lunch I write. …