Write Choices

Which relationship has taught you the most about yourself?

Yours and mine.

*

I’m sitting here staring at the time, 11:30am. Pain is radiating down my legs. I tried walking just now. I made it 20 minutes.

As I sit here, the flowers from “D” are here and the memory of her note. Her sick note and whatever happiness she may have felt in sending me flowers with those kinds of words. It’s her suffering.

I felt her pain in the words. It’s not about me. 

I held up a mirror and she didn’t want to see her reflection. That particular view. So much of her wants to be seen as only loving and kind.

Me too. Me too.

Perfection, though, is an elusive feat. I also need to stop identifying or pointing out other people’s weeds.

A garden may seem perfect one day, only to be overgrown with time. The weeds’ roots are so strong, they keep populating. So does the joy and suffering in life. And that’s okay.

It’s helpful to simply remain present with both. To say to the body, thank you for letting me know. Praying, even, that the uprooting of a surgery will help.

I don’t know what the future has in store. What I am certain of is that I’ll navigate through whatever storms come. I’m like those weeds. My roots are incredibly deep. I also keep popping back up.

One thing I’m also certain of is what will happen when I die. It’s a secret faith and I’m not telling anyone anymore. My faith in an unknown wouldn’t matter anyway. 

Us humans, we believe what we believe and no conviction is required. No followers. No disciples. No book.

Friends, though, that we need. Community, too.

Love and acceptance for “what is” matter. I have no interest anymore in changing people’s minds with what I say or write.

I can listen. Even as they work through their own choices. Their beliefs.

I can even listen without judgment. I can practice mindfulness. I can meditate. I can emit gratitude and positive vibes like a prayer.

I can also leave a bit of my history. Through Birdanity and a written journal. 

I exist. I want to continue being. Even through suffering, I have the same will to survive. To prosper.

I can sit here resting, staring at the time with a knowing that if time exists, I have and had plenty of it.

What will be will be.

This pain, it too shall pass.

Regardless, what is mine to do?

Write. 

It’s a choice. It’s vulnerable. It’s healthy, even if/when rejection happens as a result. 

At this point I can handle rejection. It’s still worth it to me to write, “I exist, too. I feel joy and suffering, too. Tell me more about you?”

So… tell me more about you?

I’d love to read – you.