WORTH MY SALT (MY FAMILY'S PRIDE AND JOY)

 

The River Basins of North Carolina surrounded by a prayer by Adrienne Maree Brown doodled by me.

Before the car even stops,

they burst out of the back door

arms wide, teeth sparkling.

Love demands we mimic their movements

mirror their joy.

We must transform our anxiety into hospitality,

our lack into abundance,

our vulnerability into armor.

We must welcome the grace dumped on our heads

unless we want to be ungrateful,

cast out, or ugly.

It's a dance we've always done

since birth or maybe before

so with a few cues, we join in.

The crescendo of nicknames pour forth, 

lighting our hearts up,  

pumping our limbs until

we find the familiar rhythm.

There's no room for ambivalence

 in the urgency of right now, 

we are all together,

 once again,

hallelujah.

The jubilation at laying eyes on slight bodies,

wrinkled hands on smooth cheeks,

grips on necks and arms wrapped tight-

it's so much.

Too much too look in the face.

Too much to wrap your lips around.

Your pride and your joy have come home again.

Did anyone ask the prodigal child 

where the hell he'd been 

or what he'd been thinking?

How he could abandon them

to silence and withdrawal?

How he could take all that they loved 

away into the chaos of his whims?

No.

They feasted.

The Bible tells us so.

So we do the Lord's bidding.

With biscuits and black-eyes,

new potatoes and first tomatoes,

some ham, sliced thick and fried.

Fair trade for the gifts she's toted with her.

Whispy blonde heads and swaggering smiles

 cover for lavender shaded eyes and skinny spines.

The questions are begging but there is pound cake

and cool-whip and sugar-laced wild berries, 

steeping in their own blood.

If there are answers to be given, 

I can surely keep them until we're full up.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

What did I want them to ask her?

The coffee is dripped and the cigarettes are lit.

The ring around the table invites confession.

Now is the time-to see what is real.

To notice what is missing.

To show them who she is when we are apart.

If only I wasn't so heavy.

Weighed down by dust and lard and sour-smelling shame.

If I could take a breath, I might steer them

towards the sickness.

If I could clear my head, I might know how to

explain to them her riddle.

I am almost able to live up to my birth.

Almost worth my salt.

I look at my brother, long eyelashes brushing

freckles as he struggles to lift his lids on Grandma's lap.

Her arm patting his back begs him to rest with her

where the shape of love is a seat at the table.

He will hurt himself to get even one more second.

Me too.

Belonging is the payment for our pain,

gluttony the balance of our sparseness,

rest the cost of mania.

I force myself to forget my queries,

stun my brain until it gives way,

close the door on the scales I just can't

make balance.

No questions tonight.

No righteous judges or hung jury.

Just three generations holding the knife's edge-

shared bread to tide us over.

The breaker masquerading as my mother

will decide to exile us all again.

This tide always turns.

Hissing sands still allow the withdrawal.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

On reunion nights like these,

I learned to forget the questions

that would lead us dangerously close to the truth.

I learned to forget the bad decisions

and misplaced concern,

forget that it takes (at least) two to tango

but that a whole mob can get away with murder.

Forget the hunger, focus on the weight.

Forget the chill, eyes on the prize.

The big hello, the belonging and smiles.

The pride clutched tightly as if it is an honest reward

 for a job well done.

Those big greetings, bombastic starts, and outsized

moments always felt like the promise of a lifeline.

Until my grandparents were planted in

darkness.

Until my brother met them there.

Until the breakers stopped coming back to shore.

Until I was smooth as glass on the surface,

all my waves buffered in my depths

all my salt heavy on the floor.

I am the smartest of us all-

they made sure I know it-

so that I know it is my job to learn and learn well.

I did (I do).

It turns out, we mostly just live up

to the expectations of our origin stories.

Mine had expectations so high

that it destroyed their pride and doused their joy.

I tried several iterations of a life

lived the way I was told it had to be.

Then...almost on accident...but mostly because

I became who they wanted me to be....

 I decided to remember the questions.

To pull it up from the deeps

the things that were heavy and twisted.

I pulled a lot of muck into the light,

spread it around and bleached it in the sun.

I have a lot more answers to some of those questions

and I have been at sea ever since.

Unmoored but not adrift.

Saltier some days than others.

The questions I wanted to ask them then

are the ones I want to ask all of us now.

Are you proud of yourself?

Sorry.  Sorry.

Don't answer that.

 I know you aren't.  

That's not the real question.

I sometimes can't help my home-training.

I'll try again, less directly, more softly.

It's not your fault, it's the ocean we swim in.

We all learn to drown even while 

they say they're teaching us to swim.

Let me come alongside a minute

and say this without even accidental sharpness.

What I really want to know

is whether your pride was worth the price?

Does the reprieve last long enough

to hold the anxiety at bay?

Will you hurt yourself to get one more second

of that beautiful lie?

Or have you found a different way to be free?

This is a message in a bottle.

Some water is living and some water is dead

and the only way to know for sure 

is to taste it.

Well seasoned is well fed.

 

LESSONS ON CHOICE (LETTING MY ORCHIDS DIE)

My brain is a weird twist of bad science metaphors 

delivered to my conciousness in a fever dream.

I spend a lot of mental capacity trying to chase down these threads

and turn them into something useful but many of them just 

evaporate once I understand them.

A year ago, I started working with a Spiritual Director

and one of the 'fruits' of that connection is that

these ideas 'stick' better.

Our recent session started with discussing orchids.

She has a beautiful one in her new office that was really showing off

and she was understandably proud of it.

I shared that I have recently killed all my orchids and 

I am also proud of it.

Yep, you read that right.

I killed my orchids.

And I'm proud of it.

What?

Not my orchids....

I'm going to explain but before I go further,

I want to be clear.

If you are an orchid owner, if you delight in them

and choose to include them in your space,

I support that one thousand percent.

There are hundreds of varieties of orchids,

they grow all around the world in a lot of conditions.

They highlight the infinite creativity of the Creator

and how much GOD wants us to thrive,

even in conditions that are tough.

Nothing I say next should minimize that-ok?

A benefit of #quitting is I spend my time differently than I used to spend it.

Almost accidentally over the past year, I have managed

to cultivate a robust indoor garden.

I have cuttings in the windowsill,

clusters of old fashioned houseplants littered around every

room that I spend time in, and a running

list of botanical projects that means I spend several

minutes almost every day interacting with this indoor garden.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I have loved plants

my whole life and I've never had a season where I wasn't

growing something, tending to some green tinged space.

I *think* this is at Fairview Garden Center in Raleigh but I can't remember for sure

But if you're not a hort nerd, you might not

realize that I was barely cultivating this joy of mine

-choosing to focus my energy on outdoor efforts because

our modern spaces are NOT designed to support natural life.

Indoor heating dries out plants, air conditioning does the same

but often keeps them burning energy to buffer the chill.

And the light-good LORD the light is insufficient

for all but the most efficient photosynthesizers.

Our homes and offices are dark caves when we aren't present

and we put film on our windows to block out spectrums of light

that plants need.

It's pretty hard on us too if we're honest.

root cutting from a christmas cactus

Orchids though-

many of them can hack it inside our spaces.

These plants have evolved to thrive in conditions that are pretty

harsh and require them to pull moisture and nutrients from the air

with little direct sunlight while grasped onto the side of trees or rocks.

After living on a diet of air,

they produce a dramatically articulate bloom that 

lasts for weeks, sometimes months- a bright flag

waving on a stalk to attract a pollinator.

When the bloom is done, the plant will go back

to a haphazard mass of woody roots and waxy leaves-

unattractive by human standards but a smart use of resources

for a plant in such inhospitable environments.

Sometimes people throw them away after the bloom is spent,

trade them in for a new model that is already blooming

and avoiding the 'ugly stage' of 6-9 months before they 

have enough energy to send up another thin stalk topped with colorful flags.

We've had a few orchids in our garden over the years,

getting them to rebloom pretty often by ignoring them just right.

But last week, I noticed that both of the ones remaining

are on their last leg.

And I decided not to rehab them.

Can you spot the slmost dead orchid here?

In my current iteration, I'm actively working to create a life

that celebrates being nurtured and cared for.

A life that shines light on the black mold of shame.

That actively celebrates abundance, generosity, fulfillment.

I have made great strides in shedding many elements of diet culture

but I am nowhere near at peace with it.

The disordered relationship I have towards my health, my body, eating

and exercise may always be a challenge-an attitude

I have to cultivate actively because the passive protocol is so destructive.

And (for me) every time I look at an orchid, I am reminded

of how our culture has tried to convince me (and every other woman)

that we need to be the most glorious and beguiling

on the thinnest of margins.

How everyone else's joy and delight

is expressed most fully in our ability to bloom in spite of 

denying ourselves sustenance.

How we need to preserve this bloom for as long as possible

or we will be disposable since that's the only

benefit we bring to a space.

Brains are such bizarre things-it is obviously not the entire

Orchidaceae family's fault that I attach human meaning to their biology.

Orchids are truly glorious.

But for now, I don't want them to take up space in my physical

or mental garden.

I only want to see wild orchids, free 

in the environments where they can actually be pollinated

and have a chance to make something else

from all their courageous striving.

I let mine die-so that something new can take up that space.

Finally, I may cultivate orchids again-I may not.

There are no wrong choices really-

just decisions about what takes up space in your 

 (physical and mental) garden.

Since I get to make those choices,

I'm going to surround myself with reminders of the life

I intend to live, ruthlessly editing out anything that inhibits my own

ability to thrive and play.

What are you editing out or pulling into your life?

I'm leaning a little more towards joy every day.

My friend Melanie gave me this cute little ensemble

 

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR ENERGY (GIFTS OF TEENAGERS)

 Between working with our youth group and moonlighting

at a coffee shop, I've spent an inordinate amount of time with

teenagers this year.  

I love teenagers.  Really.

Like toddlers, they remind us of the magic and intensity

that is always surrounding us but that we've learned to ignore.

Everything old is new again,

we get to relive and reimagine our first semi-adult choices

through the lens of their fresh perspective

including our fashion, music and slang.

Teenagers get a bad rap and one of the reasons is that

they reflect our weaknesses back at us  

through an emotional megaphone.

They're are feeling everything and sharing some portion

of that intensity with their words, actions, and facial expressions.

Of course, adults experience all the emotions that teens do

but most of us have learned to shut up about it.

No one needs to hear all that even if it's screaming as loudly

inside our heads as it is in the teenagers.

Right?

Art made by my daughter (Trashpanda with a duck)

Don't think so?

I guarantee you have intrusive thoughts running around

inside your head during most of your waking hours.

Let's see if I can remind you.....

Are your jeans fitting well after the holidays?

How about your arms-bingo wings tight or flying free?

Maybe it's your hair (or lack there of) that sparks your insecurity.

How about the future?  Worried about your 401(k) performance

or the stability of your industry or 

whether your boss thinks you're a slacker?

How did navigating the holidays go 

with your family of origin?  

I'm sure one or all of those reminded you that

even though you're an adult,

you're not impervious to insecurity. 

After all, we're all human, with brains designed

to prioritize negative thoughts so it's

practically impossible to remove them.

Most of us adults don't voice this never ending litany

of anxieties out into the world.

It's just not acceptable behavior to move through the world

verbally cataloguing every feeling or emotion,

reacting like a pinball on the events of our lives.

But being with so many teenagers has reminded me

that a lot of us could use a refresher on effective and ineffective 

ways to manage these thoughts.

Teens say it out loud with words but a lot of adults

are still letting their anxiety seep out

sideways in moments where they think it doesn't matter.

If you're someone who is absolutely triggered

by teenagers and all their loud feelings

or reactive nature,

I would like to suggest that you might 

need this lesson too.

After all, the keys to the lessons we need are 

often in the things that frustrate us.

What am I talking about?

I'm talking about how many adults I interact with who are practically

suffocating themselves with inauthentic behavior

or lack of presence in the real world.

How do I know?

Oh honey.  It's so obvious when someone

is struggling, it's barely less noticeable than teen angst.

I bet you know too.

When the script doesn't follow the expected path,

when the car won't start or the washing machine leaks

or the waitress got your order wrong or 

your colleague asked you that question you'd outlined

in three previous emails...how do you feel?

I'm going to bet you feel frustrated or disoriented

but I'm also going to bet that sometimes you shove that down

and wait for it to leak out into venting with your best friend

or the silent car ride to work.

A few of you might be actually taking it all out on strangers,

blaming them for confusing you with harsh words under your breath

or vicious glares as you pass by them

or having righteous tantrums in the comments/review section of that business.

I get it.

I do it too.

Many of us learned to shove these thoughts down,

to lower the volume externally

and leave the gremlins to do whatever damage they want

to do in the protected prison of our minds.

Instead of healthy reframing, we learned performance.

Instead of direct communication, we learned to appease.

Instead of saying what we need, we learned to avoid.

Instead of navigating conflict, we learned to bully or complain.

This can be a fine short term strategy but it 

ultimately lets you (and those you are around)

down in the long run.

There's a better way to move through the world

but it requires good boundaries

and a rested soul to pull it off.

Here's the basic idea:

You are responsible for your energy.

You.

No one else.

You decide (or fail to decide) how you're going to show up.

It's a choice.

It's 100% on you no matter what excuses or

circumstances or trauma or triggers

or other people's bad behavior you encounter.

One of my favorite teachers, Laura McKowen

has a great set of phrases to remind us that it's not our fault

but it is our responsibility that you can find here.

Last time I saw my car before the great wait for parts 2022 (and 2023)

This feels obvious right?

Most adults will admit on the surface that of course

they are responsible for their actions but few

of us actually think about the energy we're bringing to 

those actions or how they might ripple into the world.

It can get hard in the chaos and relentless tempo

of this world we live in to remember to choose.

We remember to behave (which just means to perform)

in the stable moments that go as we expect.

We know our lines.

We hit our marks, do as expected and we call that success.

Owning your energy is a different level

that is clear and tangible to other humans

whether we want to admit it or not.

I guarantee you know if someone is authentically

present with you in an interaction

or if they are acting.

You are probably just too polite to call them on it.

And you might be hoping that no one calls you on it either.

Have you heard T-swifty's latest album?  There are some gems there.

I'm aware that even bringing this up sounds both smug

and a little too woo-woo for many of you.

As a teen, I learned to behave a certain way and that behavior

 is the most important thing for an adult to have.

I am an excellent performer

and I thought for many years that 

the performance was more than enough for this thing called life.

Even now, after working on #quitting this fakery,

I have a gazillion moments a week where 

my attitude threatens to run away with my intentions

and I find myself acting instead of actually meaning it.

I have to work on choosing my energy

daily.  Sometimes hourly.

Anybody else feel that way?

Want to stop?

Everything is better when you're authentic,

even if it's not perfect or instagramable.

Our washer recently broke and leaked this onto our downstairs ceiling.  If you're not laughing, we probably can't be friends in real life.

Which brings me back to what incredible teachers teenagers 

are for us adults.

Because they look like adults instead of big-eyed

adorable puppies anymore, we tend to 

 forget that they actually aren't mature yet.

Teens are drowning in hormones, growing and changing

in front of our eyes so fast it can be painful.

They get hungry, tired, and overwhelmed 

with the same predictability of any toddler.

When they reach their breaking point, they need to be hugged,

need to eat and rest and play a bit before they can 

do anything too serious again.

Their expressions of frustration or exuberance

are opportunities to remind us what it looks like

to be healthy, not just behave as if we are.

That the choices they make will impact our reality.

That there are better options than simply behaving

but that it requires intention and support.

Because as much as we'd like to deny it,

adults need all those things too in order to show up fully.

My dog Curry hiding out from the teens in our life.

Adulting is super hard-

because we are responsible for our own damn selves.

And when we aren't, there are consequences

the ripple past our own lives.

Barking at your children or your spouse

for little minutiae will bubble around your house

just like a bad stomach bug.

Biting off that waitress' head for a mistake

instead of asking for a remedy will get passed along to the next

exhausted, poorly supported person in her path.

Yelling at the car in front of you the whole way to work

will probably take minutes to dissipate once you reach your destination.

Minutes where you try to greet your colleagues with something

that doesn't come close to matching actual friendliness

even though you are 'behaving' by saying all the usual things.

That energy will roll out into the world

until someone chooses to hold a boundary with it.

That person should be you.

Choose your energy.

Choose your behavior.

If you can't align your energy and your behavior

then take a walk,

have a snack,

or a nap.

Once you're centered, take a deep breath and decide

how you're going to move in the world.

Intentionally.

My favorite teenagers cooking waffles on Christmas morning.

FAIRYTALE INCINERATION (REMAKING MY STORY)

 A week ago I finished the first draft of my first book. 

It's a love story, the only kind of letter that I can give

to the mother I am no longer connected with physically.

It spans about fifteen years of my life, starting at age 5

and (I hope) will give readers insight into what it's like

living with chaos as a constant-the impact

that has on children, the kinds of limitations people

who are raised in that system live with, and the unhelpful, predictable

ways that shame encourages people to behave

when faced with something that can't be 'fixed'.

While it would be absurd to claim that I knew the impact 

tacking my story down would have on me,

 my intuition started gently nudging me and then yelling at me

that it was the next right step and that I would regret not taking it.

So I listened and wrote several thousand words

to describe my experience.

I'm glad I did it but there have been some surprising results.

I didn't expect it to change and settle the pieces of my soul

in such a profound way.

I mean....it's my story right? 

I was there!  It happened to me!

It shouldn't be new or have layers that I didn't see before.

Right?

Whelp.  Turns out that is wrong.

Much of it happened around me or to me

before I had language or perspective or choice.

Pinning down the details, doing the research to confirm places, dates

and artifacts helped me sort out the things that felt more

fantastical than real.

It let me see the contrivances or caricatures that 

were presented as fact to explain heartbreaking disappointments.

It let me see the patterns and inevitability of repeated

behavior that went unaddressed because it would ask

bigger questions of the family system, the players within it,

and the structures that are supposed to protect or support.

Bringing everything into focus-abuse, trauma, mental illness,

poverty, pride, familial shame and systemic struggle-

helped me kill off the villains and superheroes that have

existed as shadows of the real people in my history.  

Instead of black sheep and angels, 

saviors and devils, 

main characters and bit parts, 

I have living breathing humans who wander my memories now.

Each of us is imperfect in our choices,

doing what we know to do in order to get our needs met

and failing in small and large ways along the way.

It's remarkably healing to count the cost and forgive the injuries.

To see the humanity within each family member instead of 

limiting them to a series of heroic acts or destructive choices.

Transformative even.

It's almost like Jesus really knew what he was talking about there.....

I'm not the same person I was when I started writing this book.

I like her-this newer, less reactive version.

Finishing the first draft is not the same as finishing the book

but it is an important milestone that deserves recognition.

I find celebrating personal milestones difficult-

particularly when the achievement is mostly going to be an 

internally recognized event.

If a tree falls in the woods and no one videos it or gets paid 

for the lumber, did the tree really fall?

Reward for a performance well done is mother's milk to me

so unlearning that as the point of everything I do will 

probably take 22 more years.

I may never make a dime off of this book.

It doesn't matter.

I've already earned more than I expected before writing it.

That lesson alone deserves a candle or some confetti or at least

an extra hike and a pumpkin spice latte.

Taking time to celebrate is holy ritual,

as important as broken bread dipped in grape juice

or heads bowed around a table.

As the boss of this life of mine, 

I ordered myself to take a week off from the work of my life (writing)

to let this milestone settle in my bones.

Much of being an adult (I've learned) is making yourself 

do things that no one else really cares if you do

FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

and by doing those things, we actually turn the world

into a place that gives two sh*ts about our own health.

We become the safety, security, and nurturing 

that we need in the world first.

Then we can do it for others.

When our cup is filled up, it will spill over.

During my work hiatus,

I had several shifts at my new paid service project,

smiled and laughed with strangers and new friends,

searched for and found GOD in the birds and the trees and lattes I served customers.  I had spiritual direction and therapy.

I organized a few life details that I'd been ignoring

like covid boosters and started watching Grey's Anatomy 

for the first time ever with my best girl.

As the kids would say, it's been FIRE.

(apparently 'lit' is oldschool now ya'll-keep up.)

Today, I will start the next phase of this book writing business

and for me that means I need to have the tangible 

paper copy in front of me to read from start to finish.

I have thirty four chapters and 134k words.  

I need to tighten that up to somewhere around 27 chapters and 100k words.

I'm looking forward to the artistic/business part of this effort even though

(or maybe because) it'll be a different kind of hard.

Yesterday I sent my draft to a local print shop so that 

I can be prepped and ready for reviewing the draft.

And I hit a brick wall.

The print shop lost my order, then lost their whole database.

It was a little chaotic and disorienting to send this work

of mine out into the world and have it be lost immediately

so I understand why I jumped into minimizing my need

to have this book printed on actual paper.

It doesn't matter after all...not to anyone but me.

I could probably still do the next necessary step if I 

just contorted myself a little

into something that made this easier for all of us.

I could do all my editing virtually, inside my docs.

Except it didn't feel right and I knew those first thoughts were lies.

I need the paper version to read it instead of trying to fiddle with it.

I need to know what the reader knows.

I need a physical copy to hold in my hand.

When the print shop manager called me 'baby' the sixth time, I smiled.

My working title for my book is 'Dollbaby' and I realized all this struggle

was God asking me a question.

Do I want this enough to push through the discomfort?

See, a very common fairytale that is alive and well in our world

suggests that if something

we want isn't super easy, then we should just give up on it.

If the boy doesn't lock eyes with you and forsake all other

possible women, then he isn't your 'one'.

If the job doesn't fulfill every single one of your professional 

aspirations (and your ego) then it's time to move on to greener pastures.

If the car won't start or you spill coffee on your pants or

you forget your resume, then you should just give up on that dream.

If we have to try, particularly in a way that feels uncomfortable

then we are in the wrong place, wrong time, wrong body, wrong life.

This is a lie but since it's different for each of us

and since we HATE to be uncomfortable more than anything

it's a lie that we fall for regularly.

We get close to the thing that is for us and then a little speedbump

convinces us that maybe we don't want it that much

or that road is not for us after all.

We decide that we took a wrong turn when we actually

finally found the path that no one can claim except one person.

You.

Or in this case-me.

See, no one in my family wants me to write this memoir.

The family members that are usually happy to promote my perseverance

over all the terrible things from my childhood

 have either attacked the content (that they haven't read)

or forcefully reminded me that this is not a good idea, that I should just

leave it all in the past where it can't hurt anyone.

There are a couple that are insisting that their experience

with a particular family member negates my experience with a particular

family member.

No one wants to know what really happened to me,

what made me into this high achieving person who 

thought all emotions belonged in a box and the best thing

she could do for someone she loved was hurt herself indefinitely.

No one wants to understand why addiction was a viable choice

for a child who wasn't loved or cared for by anyone.

No one wants to understand why mental illness can't be explained

away as bad behavior or greedy choices.

Once again my family of origin is deciding to pick shame over vulnerability,

death over healing.

They are allowed to do that.

I couldn't stop them as a child and I will not be using

every ounce of energy as an adult to bleed out for their comfort.

It is more than enough to realize that silence on this story hurts me.

It killed my brother.

It continues to haunt my entire family.

I won't hold it any longer.

I won't eat the sins of my forebears 

or pretend that they were all one person's fault

or stick to the story they all agreed on long before I was born.

I'm going to push through and talk about my experience.

I've been very careful to tell only my side of the events

and corroborate as much as I can with public records.

There is way more that I can't confirm or talk about 

because it is not my story to tell.

But what is mine, is mine.

I won't let anyone else horde it or manipulate it

or intentionally misunderstand it any longer.

It will see the light of day, one way or the other.

Even if I get sued or kicked out of the family or 

if unknown bystanders think I'm a freak.

I owe myself that.

I owe my brother that.

Probably I owe some other lost and lonely people that I'll never know or meet.

I can't worry about things that aren't my business

including what strangers on the internet think about me

or what my third cousin has to say about people who are 

either dead or estranged from me.

I had four visits to the print shop.

I had to email over the entire book.

Twice.

They printed me 80 copies of one single chapter.

I had to get them start over and do it again.

I made friends with the sweet manager who really

wanted to give me something 'extra' for all this trouble.

I don't think I was successful in getting her to understand that she already had.

I am not worried about the time or struggle to get over this part.

It takes what it takes and I'll work on it until it's right.

My next right thing is already waiting on me and I'll be working through it

for the next few weeks.

That's the first draft of my book.  Isn't she lovely?

I don't want anyone to think I'm recommending throwing yourself

at something impossible until you bleed out on the field.

Lord knows I've done my fair share of that so believe me when I say

there is a time to throw in the towel.

Quitting is a holy choice that needs to be in everyone's toolbox.

I'm quitting the fairytales and remaking my story,

I'm quitting the 'easy' button that takes me right back to 

the jail of workaholism and cleaning up,

I'm quitting shaving off essential bits of my makeup in 

favor of other people's comfort.

This whole year is about quitting what isn't good for me

so if you need to quit, DO IT.

I'm just trying to say that if the path you're treading is always easy,

if you never have to struggle or question if you should take an exit,

it's probably not your path.

Four lane highways, paved and maintained by the social structure

rarely take us all the way towards where GOD means for us to be.

I may spend some time on the four lane highways of life again

which might include some corporate work or following some scripts

that have been set down by previous generations.

I'm grateful often that those shortcuts exist and I'm privileged enough

to be able to navigate them.

But I won't be making the mistake of thinking that four lane road

is the best path towards what is meant for me

or that small detours imply I'm going in the wrong direction

when I finally make it into the wilderness.

Fairytales exist on the page to communicate simplistic

ideas to us that keep us within the lines of social norms.

They shouldn't exist in real life, walking around and 

interacting with us or as a blueprint for a life well lived.

Happily ever after is vague hand waving.

Let's be wild right now.

A little corporate humor for you...