My Safe

A man carries a safe onto a moving van parked in front of my home.

We place our important papers into the safe.

What important papers do we carry inside of us?

Which sentences do we cross off to make better sentences? Sentences that help us become confident enough to do what we want to do.

I like the way mud responds to feet walking through it. The squelch-squirch sounds. How long does it take a writer to decide how the mud sounds?

The mud reacts to our boots.

We react to the stories we tell ourselves. So—we write new renditions of old stories.

When someone interjects meaning onto my story, I physically react. Oh yeah, that’s right. But what do I want to remember? I want to remember the parts that carry me forward with confidence toward the person I yearn to be. That’s why I have a few lines of a Gigi Marks poem on my bulletin board:

If I want I can remember everything—

the not tender, the not gentle—

but look at what we’re being offering,

the change to strip down, accept grace

with our grace, dive in and forget.

I tell myself I have everything I need to move myself forward. In fact, where I am right now can feed me. I write new words on the important papers I carry inside of myself to help me on my journey. I carry my safe within me.






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