Dear Mister Big Man,
I know you are especially busy this time of year, what with all the wayward humans giving thanks and hoping for moist turkey, but if you could fit me into your schedy I’d be oh so thankful. If you could pinch my cheek ever so lightly and remind me of my vibrancy—JUST BECAUSE I AM ME—that’d be lovely. And if you could pick me up, gently, from the tops of my ears and whisper into my brain that YES everything is good enough that would be sublime. But mostly, and not lastly, could you beckon my heart to open and expand in a way that keeps me moving forward and letting each and every one/thing in? I know it’s a tall order but I think it’s what I want Amen and A-Ha you may be seated.
Yours In Semi-Impossible Striving,
Very often, it’s the sky that reminds me that my worries and troubles are nothing to be concerned about. Looking up—at the colors and hues and expanse, I recoil in the face of my tiny anxieties. If I could wrangle that grandeur, that magnificent gloriousness, I’d most definitely forget all my little foibles and idiosyncrasies and I’d burst forward like a sunset that leaves everyone breathless and I’d leave all the lonely grievances behind and I’d float away on a magenta cloud, weightless and determined.
Try Not To Sweat The Grey Stuff,
Mister Master Rainbow Society
I careen around corners with reckless abandon and boundless hope. Hurtling headlong into something gorgeous or something horrifying, I keep my foot on the petal, anxious to see what’s around the bend. How is it that I haven’t flown off a cliff up until this point? How is it that I’ve kept my bearings long enough to arrive, semi-unsettled, at the point where I had envisioned myself being? I’ll never know the formula that keeps me forging forward. I just know that I catapult, sweetly, toward what I imagine will help me be more me, regardless of my endless and furious doubt that accompanies me along my lively journey.
Keep Your Eyes On the Road,
Serena of the Steely Fingered Steering Wheel Graspers
Dear Mister Big Man of All Things,
Hey listen I know you’re just about as busy as the person in charge of keeping Victoria Beckham waxed and all but if you could find it in your schedy to remind me of my majestic parts I’d be forever indebted. And I’m not talking about Nobel Peace Prize winning or Astronaut To the Moon Riding kind of stuff—I’m just talking about those days when I wake up feeling full of light and I am able to carry that through until at least late afternoon. Or when I am able to carry on a loving conversation with my mother without taking the bait she propels out to me like some smarmy fly fisherman. I’m talking about how I wiggle into my majestic strength and serenity. How, at certain times, I am capable of letting the storyline go and I just drift along, unencumbered by grief or anger or resentment or tumult. Can you remind me of this? Can you help me notice those times when I am a heavyweight in my own corner, ready to take on the next challenge like some weightless angel in search of something plain and gorgeous, thank you amen you may be seated.
Yours In Selfie Selfersonism,
Teresa Tries Very Hard
Feet steadied directly below me, I raise my head and look out far, far beyond my immediate landscape and I can see the infinite beyond. What seems small from where I am standing is, I realize, large beyond my imagination and in my heart I find this compelling. The what ifs and how abouts and if onlys tend to fade away when I put them into context of the great wide expanse and when I do this it comes to me: I don’t know much. I may worry and fuss and wrangle with what I imagine to be truth but when it comes down to it I am just an observer looking up and out and wishing for cohesion—wishing and wondering about what the heck is in store for me.
Over the Hills and Far Away,