Childhoodtake2!

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on strive.

There was a time when I strived to be something.
I strived to be someone.
I strived for some respect for my accomplishments.
I pushed, I pushed as hard as I could for as long as I could.

And then I broke.
And I broke up with myself because I had to.
And it's different now because it has to be.
Things are different, I am different.
I strive for different things.

Like a lot more rest.
Like a lot more comfort.
Like a lot more space.
Like a lot less.

And I am privileged enough that I can give myself all of these things.
Rest, comfort, space, less chaos/worry/concern/stress/busy.
Not very many in this world can do that.
Not very many are handed the space to figure things out.

I didn't live in a world of chaos out of survival.
I chose to live there.
I didn't live in a world of complicated and proving my worth because I had no choice.
I chose to live there.
I didn't live a life of constantly pushing to the next level, and who even knows what that was, out of greed.
I did it out of choice.

But I have been living a different life and way for three years.
Some peaceful, some not.
All by choice of what I now strive to be.

Dear Fall in upstate NY, it is the time of year when you gently remind us, silence is a sound.
Because you never enter too loudly, you quietly make your way around and settle in.
You tip-toe your way into our world at the very end of August, but never too loudly, never with too much sound.

You start off so warm, asking us to hold on to summer for as long as possible.
You linger in the warmth. You allow us to linger in it too.
You like to remind us, silence is a sound.

As the leaves start to turn and the mornings get cooler, you allow the sun to fill our days with warmth.
As the rain comes down and shakes the leaves off, you tell us how okay we all will be with letting go.
As the wind calmly blows pine needles down, you remind us, silence is a sound.

Dear Fall, each year we turn to you and your colors.
We turn to you for your reminders.
We bundle ourselves into you for warmth.
We fall into hot water to take the chill off our bones.
And all the while, you are reminding us, silence is a sound.

You are the beginning of what can feel like the end.
But in your true beauty, you are also our start.
You are the start of hibernation.
You are the start of slow.
You are the start of gorgeous.
You are the start of seeing our breath in the morning.
You are our reminder, silence is a sound.

As I walk in your shed leaves, I hear the amazing crunch under my feet.
As I take in your color wheel, I catch my breath at your beauty.
As I see how low the sun hangs and paints everything in your gold, I am reminded that light matters.
As I see how quickly things turn to dark now, I am reminded that we all need our rest.
As I hear nothing during my walks, I am reminded, silence is a sound.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on anticipate.

You imagine quite a life for yourself.
Quite a world.
You will be married, there will be babies.
You will live where it's warm.
You anticipate very little trouble.
Just an open world for you.

You too imagine quite a life.
You will be playing basketball for Syracuse at first.
You will move on from there.
You have this dream, and sports are a part of it.
You never anticipate trouble. Why would there ever be trouble?
You have this heart of gold so how could there ever be trouble?

I imagine a life for you both too.
One filled with things you have dreamt of. One filled with things you never even imagined.
I anticipate there will be laughter, joy, love.
I anticipate there will also be heartache, goodbyes, and times of extreme loneliness.
I anticipate there will be times of trouble, but you will both navigate them, albeit, differently.
You are both so different.

I imagine a life for you both too.
And at times I picture it quiet, little, like ours.
And at times I picture it big and loud and full of life, like ours.
I anticipate this life you create, just like we did.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on attempt.

In an attempt to calm the stress, I created a different life.
In an attempt to live a life with more balance, and more parts of who I am, I found out who I really am, a gentle lover of love.
In an attempt to be more gentle, I stopped proving I could do hard things.
In an attempt to be softer, I retired my fighting gloves.
In an attempt to figure things out to be more realistic, I found my breath.
In an attempt to breathe, I found my way back to my mat.
In an attempt to create more space, I found room.
In an attempt to cultivate beauty, I focused on my home.
In an attempt to be surrounded by beauty, I focused on the love in our home.
In an attempt to remind myself that my time is my choice of how and who it is spent with, I found my voice.
In an attempt to move beyond the past, I found forgiveness.
In an attempt to remember you with love, I found forgiveness.
In an attempt to heal, I found time.
In an attempt to make the most out of my time, I found my priorities.
In an attempt to make myself a priority too, I found some self-respect.
In an attempt to work on myself, I found all of the love I have ever needed.