Look forward on what is to come. Bless it all -- not with saccharine gratitude, but the kind of raw and holy blessing that honors the blood and guts and gore and heat and sex and hard work and giving up and giving in and the howl of loss and burning down and rising again.
But all planes land eventually. And some on those planes will be met, and some will not. And for all of those people, there are beginnings and endings and middles and sunsets and wide open moons that fill the cabs of red pickup trucks with a light that just happens to be the color of hope.
What are the moments that make up your day and night? Where has this year carried you? What is at the center of your knowing? Do you find comfort and truth in the unknowing? Does music hold the lineage of your stories as it does mine?
Above all, honor the wisdom of your own silence. Know that it is true and strong and whole and good. Know that it needs no explanation or justification. Know that it is what it is, and nothing more or and nothing less. Know that it is everything. Just like you.
And sometimes the storm comes. It hits hard. And when it does, we cannot find shelter. We are swept up in its force under cracked open heavens. And there is nothing to do but let the flood waters rise, and yes -- sometimes things break and sometimes we break and sometimes it seems that the damage is catastrophic and that nothing will ever be the same again.
Make your art. Tell the truth. Take that selfie. Step into yourself. Wear that dress. You know the one I'm talking about. The one that feels like heat and sex and swirls around your legs like the sweet seduction of freedom.
Just look around you. At the beauty and the bliss. At the terror and the teardown. At the utter certainty and every last unknown. It is all a part of your story. Part of how you were made. Embers of grace and grit. Ashes of breakdown and breakthrough. Born of fire. Made of light.
But I want them to know well the Selfish and the Selfless that lives within each of us, and the delicate dance between the two. To experience the wilderness of reclamation and the surrender of relinquishment that is a part of every negotiation we will walk as women who burn and ask and risk.
The longing that still curls in stubbornly hopeful tendrils from your open wounds? These will be your roots, seeking through hard earth to find you exactly what you need to thrive. The grief that took you the ground? It will help form the bedrock of your eventual rise.
To welcome the burnout, to coax the threatening spark until it turns into a blaze which illuminates all the dark spaces. To walk into the fire, knowing that we will be reduced to ashes. In the process of destruction, the fire can deliver us a new, fertile ground from which to begin again.
What are you doing right now? Stop it. Sit down. Exhale. Let it go. You don't need to clean the kitchen. You don't need to finish that email. You don't need to do anything but give yourself over to the night.
I know you, and your darkness and your shadow and all the things for which you practice self-flagellation. And I still see you as good, and true and strong and powerful and exquisitely present in this world.
Rip away the false face. Open wide the locked door museum exhibit of your holy history. Demolish your crumbled brick walls, your dumpster daydreams, your rusted chain link fence. Don’t deny your kaleidoscope heart. Without the broken it could never be so beautiful.
We are writers by birth and by destiny and by intention. Not by choice. If we never scratched another word on a coffee shop napkin, this would not change. A writer is not someone who does. A writer is someone who is.
Blessed be this worthy sadness. Blessed be this knowing love. Blessed be the finding home. Blessed be the kitchen slow dance. Blessed be the magical sunset. Blessed be the strong arms. Blessed be the true north. Blessed be the unmet hope. Blessed be the unwavering light. Blessed be the hard goodbye. Blessed be this holy life.
Today I bring it all downon the side of loveand I’ll tell you now,yes, you should fly across the country justfor 48 hours in her armsspend your last dollar and borrow moreto get there
steal words from the past andink them along your lower left ribin a promise to never risk this.
then risk it.
let it get fucking messy.get naked and swim around in thehavoc you’ve brought forthby lovingclaim fiercely only the brief momentsyou are given.
then take moretake everythingtake with relentless fury
take until the taking looks like giving
and the giving looks like a prayer.love like holy looks when it says your namelike a confession booth redemption.and like on your knees supplicationto gods you don’t believe in
then see what happens if you believe in them.
love like the cadence of poetry.like nails...
Millions of meteors burn, every day, as they enter the atmosphere. Incinerate and turn to dust. Disintegrate into the finest particles. So that every time you breathe you are inhaling the universe. Right now, this very moment, your lungs are filled with stardust.