Thursday, October 23, 2014


In high school I got into the habit of writing two poems each night in small journals I purchased from Barnes and Noble. The covers of the journals featured something embroidered or beaded, usually flowers. What I wrote was in no way remarkable. The words inside were more like weeds than the wisteria on the outside. But inside my head I was on to something. I was a budding poet about to bloom. I just needed some slight guidance -- and maybe a windowsill and some water with a few hours of sunshine each day. It would only be a matter of time before I became the poet laureate, right? Right. Or at least one of those rare creatures known as "a poet who actually makes a living off of being a poet." I used to dream of being an Academy Award winning actress until one afternoon I realized that was an outrageous dream that bordered on delusional. It would be better if I changed my dream to something more realistic and practical. How sweetly naive I was to think that the life of a poet was in any way realistic or practical. Why do we believe being sensible is on par with sainthood? I can write about how we should embrace our fantastical notions and wild mind and walk those unpaved paths... But do I embrace my own confusion? Not very well. I can't seem to give myself a break or to break out of the box that has always been too small for me. I know I do this -- I know I keep myself trapped -- so the question is: How do I free myself? Or maybe a better question would be: Why am I afraid to free myself?

Is there something that holds you back? Do you know what holds you back? And why aren't you going after whatever it is that wakes up your soul? If we stay scrunched up inside the box with too little oxygen and far too much fear, we are going to miss out on all of the almost-unbelievable colors outside. The shapes, the depth, the shades, the dense forest of magical oddities -- they will all cease to exist without the help of our senses. The wondrous world needs us just as much as we need her. May we work the rest of our days to open, open, open and bloom.

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