Morning, Buttons

I’m not all that much of a talker in real life. Writing and pressing buttons, though—this is my emotional jam session.

I keep pondering creating videos of my life. But then I wonder, what am I looking for? Success at being seen? Approval from a larger audience?

Maybe I’m old school. I still believe words can find the people they’re meant to find.

What would I talk about anyway? My interests skip around like a child playing hopscotch.

Hopscotching into this entry, I notice how heavy I feel. Healing feels like the work in front of me right now. The rest of this is intended to be that.

I write about being “present” fairly often. My body, though, is holding on to the past like a licked and dried-up stamp on a letter that never got sent.

I once wrote that I’m not sure if writing is healing me or destroying me. Even so, I lean into this emotional expression.

If I could relay the reasons for the heaviness, it would feel like a confession—vulnerable, raw, and filled with circumstances outside my locus of control.

Yesterday included an encounter with the police. Before we parted, she told me a story about me being brave. Her words have stayed with me, though I don’t feel all that brave. At least today.

Sleep comes in rolling waves of too little and too much. So, no more writing to anyone in the evenings.

When my phone shuts down, so do I. It was me who pressed that button.

And now I press these morning buttons, sharing a few moments from the life of a woman in Idaho—for a global audience, yet no one in particular.

Signing off,

a Bird