Rope from the daily tug-o-war has my hands burning.
Flag crossing closer,
A swift jerk.
White waving away,
fraying rope scratching inflamed palms.
It’s a process of becoming my truest and it’s exciting, intense. The highs aren’t as exhilarating as once upon a time and the lows bottom out at knee level.
Yet in this middle, constant tugging is taking on enigmatic intensity.
My days are so daily and I wrestle to find moments to write yet it’s the writing that eases the opposing tension on the rope. It’s where all feelings I can’t quite touch yet begin to take form as the flag slowly moves toward me.
Restlessness calling my heart out
from behind shower walls.
Words coming labored
dripping sweat and tears.
Feelings fearing self-indulgence.
cowering behind convention.
The fear that I’m the only one.
And while wireless words cheer with similar stories of battle, familiar faces stare blank with half-smiles of placation.
One day I yank, pull, tug and hit enter, breathing deeply with a exhale of completion. The next, I trip forward as almost words fill a murky puddle soaking into oblivion.
The tug-o-war is for authenticity and honesty.
It’s a collective battle.
I can’t be the only one.
If you’re yanking on the burning rope, would you consider sharing? You’d help me feel just a little less crazy.
I’m piecing together words to finish sharing about Ukraine. It’s a story to be told from a full place and today I’m a little empty. Thank you for being patient.