I want to share my life with you

I want to share my life with you.

But sometimes I don’t.

You, as a regular reader of my words, are a friend, but knowing that strangers may peek in sometimes makes me pull away. I do want those strangers to become friends like you have…but some things that I want to write about feel too intimate to share before they do.

This most recent phase of life has been an intimate one. I am nearing the end of the first trimester of my first pregnancy, and I am preparing for the release of a book of poems written during a time of personal struggle and growth. These are just two of the things close to my heart that I’m willing to begin sharing — there are others I still keep to myself.

But I do want to share my life with you.

Sometimes I wish you lived next-door. Then I could invite you over and have a conversation over a cup of tea so that we would get to know each other.

Then I remember how thankful I am that in this day and age I don’t have to live next-door to you to share my life with you. That’s why I blog. That’s why I’ve shared my life online for over a decade — because I’ve found friends through it. Close friends.

That’s why I wrote this today — because you are my friend and I haven’t forgotten you. Quite the contrary; even though I’ve been quiet here, I’ve thought of you each week as I’ve considered what to write and ultimately remain silent. Sometimes a little quiet is okay. In this case, it’s given me some freedom to simply be in this phase of life instead of trying to put it into words. It’s led to this moment when the words come smoothly and easily and I can’t help but share them with you.

Because I want to share my life with you.

they helped me; soon they can help you

The year I was twenty-one I took a leap and learned I could fly. Or maybe glide… It wasn’t my arms that kept me in the sky, but the wind that carried me.

I learned how weak I was. I got lost, I faced monsters, and I woke up in strange places.

I learned how strong I was. I found my way, I killed monsters, and I made homes in new places.

And through it all I wrote poems.

The poems became a roadmap, a weapon, and a shelter from the elements. They were my lifeline. In the middle of a hard day I stopped to pen a few lines. While walking to clear my mind of the overwhelm beautiful words rushed in to the emptying spaces.

Some of the poems I shared, some I kept to myself, and some I never finished.

Somehow the words I shared found their way into other people’s lives and brought beauty to them. I didn’t expect it, but I welcomed it.

But then I left the stack of poems from that era in a corner. I nearly forgot them. They had fulfilled their purpose in carrying me through that hard time… or so I thought.

I didn’t think about the people who hadn’t had a chance to read the words that had helped me. I forgot that someone else might be helped too, until someone reminded me. Until one friend suggested I turn them into a book and another friend added her voice to the request and others caught on to the idea.

I forgot until I started to listen to them.

These past months I’ve worked on the project off-and-on. These past weeks I’ve worked on it in earnest, putting poems in order and talking with an artist about illustrating the cover.

Soon I will be able to share with you the beauty that came from a time of wandering, fighting, and making a new way through the darkness.

Soon that beauty can come into your life too, and perhaps help you find your own way.

do not judge the wild rose

Sometimes the best poetry comes unexpectedly. The random phrase jotted on a calendar page… the lines that settle into place while walking to work… the stanzas penned by she who thought she couldn’t be a poet…

The untended, vining poetry of the wilds, ignorant of rules of meter and rhyme, may be more beautiful in its own way than the most manicured garden of verses. Brambles and stones, easily overlooked, until a child stops long enough to find the wild rose and arrange a rock wall — innocent beauty that can’t compare to a formal estate.

And the two should not be compared.

So why do you judge your words against a master’s? It is this that blinds you to the valuable creation in your hands.

The reason you think you cannot write something beautiful is because your vision of beauty is too narrow. Look through the corrective lens of childhood and examine your own work as you would a tender young thing. Do not be harsh, but instead encourage and nurture, that the poet may grow and mature.

It has been said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Write a little poem and choose to behold the beauty of what you have created. Perhaps you will return later and cut this part out make room for the other part to grow, but today give yourself freedom to plant something wild and unexpected. Who knows what magnificent garden you will eventually produce if you plant a seed today?

write something beautiful this week {free mini-course!}

I didn’t intend for you to read my poetry. I didn’t have a childhood dream of being published. I wrote for myself, to process life, to see in black and white what I felt in the shadows of gray.

I wrote as a little girl, I wrote as a teen, and I wrote as I left the nest and flew. I wrote through the wind that blew me where I wasn’t sure I wanted to go and in the shelter of this place or that as I caught my breath.

When the wind shook me free of everything I tried to hold onto, the weight of what I wrote helped me find grounding. When the darkness was so thick that I struggled to move, the scratching of my pen tore open a place for light to seep through. When the ugliness of the world pressed in and tried to make me forget beauty was anything but a dream, I wrote beauty into existence.

A few read what I wrote and somehow found more beauty, light, and grounding coming into their own lives. They asked me for more.

This is why I write here. This is why I publish books. You have asked for a part in this beauty that I bring into being with my words, and I respond with open arms.

Come in, be nourished. Read my words and learn to write your own so that you may bring beauty into every corner of your life and the lives of the people you encounter.

Learn to write your own beauty through this (free) mini-course I’ve created for you. Brew some tea and join me each day for the next week — it will only take 15 minutes or so. Read a prompt and the poem I’ve written in response, then write a little something of your own. No pressure to share it, no worries of being judged or graded; simply write.

And in writing, create beauty.

using writing to create the reality you want

The sun hasn’t risen yet.

I’d rather go back to bed, cuddled up with my love until obligation forces us to throw off covers and go to work. Instead I settle into the cozy writing space I’ve prepared, blankets keeping me warm and soft glow from nearby lamp mimicking the light of the sun that will join us eventually.

I do want to be here, writing before dawn. I am happy when I make this a habit. Even when it means fighting the emotions of the moment, the impulse to do what feels good now.

My alarm went off at 6am. It has for weeks. But the snooze button is easy, so I use it… over and over…day after day.

Not today. Today I am up and writing.

Why? What changed?

Yesterday, I wrote down my goals. I took my neglected bullet journal planner and recorded in black and white what I wanted my day to look like. I wrote down what I would be writing about this morning. I wrote down that I would write before sunrise.

I wrote it down, and I did it. Not perfectly (I hit snooze three times). Not without complaint (the floor is cold!). But I’m not going to write down the imperfections and complaints in my journal.

I’m going to write of my success.