I am falling all the way in.


I am eating the breakfast my friend and I used to make together on those lazy long vacation days in Boulder. Back when I was running away from motherhood and into her home to be taken care of. Yogurt, granola, strawberries. It’s nice to take care of myself. Except for when it’s hard to breathe. Then I need the names that show up on my phone. Who reply back to me. Who remind me that I’m lovable even when I can’t breathe. It’s taken so long to turn away from people who no longer find me lovable. To find myself lovable. Even my really tired self who cannot believe my tears are as vast as the stars. The self who looks outward and wants an answer in a blogpost. Until I get to the part that says I need to come up with $1000 for a retreat that will help me birth myself. When I know these tears and those people who love me are enough. Yes, I want to see the Canadian Rockies and work with the very best writing teacher. But more than that I want to believe that not knowing what’s next is where I am supposed to be. I am supposed to be here, tasting the salt that accompanies change. Eating my yogurt-granola-strawberry breakfast out of the soothing peach-colored bowl. Holding on to my love for myself like it’s the shelter from the storm, the refuge that I need, the teacher that I seek. I am falling all the way into myself and calling it home.

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