Dear Readers,
Once, years and years ago in another lifetime, I worked at Moxie Java. I had just finished a book on my shift, and after telling a regular customer of mine about the book, he asked if he could borrow it, and I let him. You should know that I have a bad habit of writing in my books, one of the many reasons that I can't jump on the e-book train. Poetry, journal entries, phone numbers, airline confirmation codes, the most important things all get written down in the book I'm reading at the time. So, back to my story, I handed over my book to my customer, forgetting that I had written a poem on the back cover. A couple weeks later, the customer approached the counter and when handing me my book, recited from memory my poem word for word. I was shocked and embarrassed. Not because the poem was very personal (because it was), but because he was intrigued by it and more than that he had mistaken me for a poet.
Today, I sit at my desk where I should be working, and have "Rock and Roll Suicide" by David Bowie (a true poet) playing on repeat loud enough that I expect the new neighbors to complain at any moment. Under the same impulse that I write in my books, I type away on my computer, putting my emotional dribble on the internet for everyone or none to read. Although I appreciate those who take the time to read it, especially those who have no criticism to offer, I write my blog for myself. It has always been an outlet for me, writing that is. I have journals filled to the brim with my illegible hand writing, documenting even the most mundane days of my life starting at the age of 7. It's important to me though, all of these words, every tattered notebook, even the 90 or so entries included in this blog's history. A living history all my own, with all of it's ups and downs and circular thinking.
I've been contemplating writing a heavy handed blog entry on the most recent events of my life (which my last entry eluded to), but have decided against it. At this point it's not about the tsunami anymore, but the beauty of rebuilding after the water has calmed down. I've made some big discoveries about myself. For instance, I am a valued and beautiful person. And what's more, I genuinely like myself. How strange! 33 years of displeasure and self-loathing, only to find at my absolute lowest point in life that I've been so much harder on myself than any one person ever should be. That's not to say that I should earn your respect, Dear Reader. Because I am human, and have made some major mistakes. I am not immune from hurting others. I fail and flail and fall. Ye without sin, please feel free to strike the first letter key in response; I have a feeling though that we're all in this slowly sinking boat together, bright orange life vests made of broken promises and unspoken apologies. I'll do my best to rescue myself though, and pull you up along side me.
Now that it's springtime and the daffodils are in bloom, my hope is renewed and my excitement for warmth and comfort grows. There's not a better place to be than Boise in the spring and summer. A couple of my dearly missed friends have made their way home. There is an energy in the air that lifts my spirits and my heart, reminding me moment by moment that life is happening and I'm privileged to be a part of it. A poet I am not. But an active participant in life I am learning to be. My heart breaks over and over for those that I've lost or hurt along the way, helping me get to this point, but it's a grateful heart that's breaking because those lessons were necessary for me to reach this new place. I'm so grateful. I'm so sorry.
And to you, Dear Reader, thank you for reading and giving life to my words. I hope that one or two of them help you out once in a while.
Sincerely,
h.
