Tag: raw

Soul Talk.

Three years ago.

I’ve always liked to write, especially around my birthdays.

Usually whatever age I turned, I’d write a list of lessons with that number or a list of things I was grateful for.

This year, I didn’t write anything until now because my mind wasn’t in a healthy place.

However, the theme was different – it was 28 truths instead.

I had to really sit down and dig deep for this one. It was truths that I didn’t want to address, but had to in order to change my own narrative.

Some can be changed with simply working towards different, others are going to be more emotional in nature and require forgiveness, healing, and a changing of mindset.

But writing out my truths show me that I’m not done. I’m not stuck. I am capable of changing my life – one truth at a time.

Next, I wrote 28 things that I want to let go of and they all seemed to be false ideas that I’ve been carrying around – about myself and my capabilities.

I’ve always thought of the ocean as a vessel for pain and trauma and grief, but also healing and recharging.

It’s like the ocean holds for you what you need to let go of, so you can be free like the salt water is.

So, I folded up my 28 statements of letting go and dropped them in the salt water and the ocean swallowed them up for me.

Obviously, it’s not as easy as soggy wet printer paper.

But I have intention now.

I’m ready to do the soul work necessary to get to the next level and chapter of my life.

–S.

Party of One.

Several years ago.

Loneliness comes from not knowing your own heartbeat.

You should sit with yourself and your own thoughts.

How can you be lonely when there are so many adventures to be had in your mind?

Some of the greatest moments that I had this year were by myself. Eating out by myself for the first time. Going to the movies by myself and not caring who was wondering when my date or friends might show up or if I really had the balls to come alone.

Working out by myself.

I fell back in love with myself this year – and it’s the greatest relationship that I’ve ever had. Finding comfort in my own skin.

When’s the last time it was just you and you had the best conversation you’ve had in a long time?

–S.

When my brother turned 9.

2013.

I think even when you turn 36, or 82, or 117, I would still call you baby.

You were born the day before I started eighth grade.

I was worried about which of my best-friends were going to what high school, my whole life ruined and in shambles. How was I ever going to pick where to go?

Mom already told me that she wouldn’t fill out the transfer papers. Do you think I could have forged them?

And then there was you. Little, but big at the same time.

With a head full of brown hair. You peed on the nurse. That’s when I knew you were going to be trouble. You were so…so baby. And I was scared to hold you. What if I hurt you? Or if I didn’t hold you correctly? Or you started crying?

In time, you became my little, but big at the same time best friend.

I think the most important thing that I have learned from your nine years on this earth is just to breath. Life isn’t about marking up a calendar to next year and back of things that need to be done. Life isn’t about constantly making lists. Life is just about living.

Sometimes you take fifteen minutes to say something that could have been said in one sentence, and you remind me of our mother.

Sometimes you get frustrated really easily and shut down, and you remind me of our father.

Sometimes you nod your head to a song you don’t know the lyrics to and you close your eyes, and you remind me of myself.

I know that there will be a day when mom and dad won’t be on earth with us and it’ll just be the two of us. Life won’t always be fort building, ramen making at midnight with melted slices of cheese, waking up to Nerf guns, cannon balls in the pool, ice cold cokes on a summer day, Halo 4 campaigns before going to sleep, Teen Titans at 3 am, or scavenging the refrigerator for two items that are possibly edible together.

People move away. They have their own families. They stop talking. They start again. They love. They get hurt. They love again. They never stop loving. These are also parts of living.

These are things we don’t write on our list or our five-year plan.

I remember when we had to put Whoopie to sleep, I think that was your first real loss.

You lost your best friend. The dog that you’d known since birth. You were eight. For a long time we were worried because you were really sad, and you stopped telling jokes and laughing as often as you used to. Your spirit wasn’t as bright as it had always been.

And then we brought Ringo home a couple months ago, and you didn’t want to tell mom and dad, but you whispered in my ear that it made you sad although you really liked Ringo – he just wasn’t Whoopie.

My heart broke baby.

I want you to know that if I could somehow ensure that a part of you stays innocent forever, I would. That a part of you still cries when Sarah McLaughlin comes on and they show the commercial with the animals. If I could somehow make sure that your heart is always big and always full of love and that you never get tarnished, I would do that for you. Even if it meant sacrificing any amount of happiness of my own. I want you to never be afraid to be yourself. Even if kids laugh. I want you to wear clothes that don’t match, if you want to. I want you to do the robot to a song that the robot ‘shouldn’t’ be done to. I want you to mouth lyrics you don’t even know. I want you to still hug mom and dad and tell them that they are your best friends. I want you to keep laughing. Keep dancing. Keep dreaming. Keep loving. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Keep wishing. Keep being goofy. Keep telling stories. Keep telling corny jokes. Keep living. It has been an honor to help raise you, to love you, and to take care of you.

I hope you always remember a time when we laughed and played together, and the world seemed a little simpler.

–S.

Life begins again.

The winter in Texas seems slow to come like molasses and then somehow, all at once.

Winter has always been my favorite season.

The sounds are clearer and the smells crisper.

It’s more than pumpkin frappuccinos and Christmas lights.

It’s a way of life. Comfort.

Winter is the smell of something crunchy and gooey in the oven,

an extra throw blanket or two on the bed,

the dog at your feet,

leaves crunching under your boots,

body heat warming you,

your breath in the air,

never waking up early enough to scrape the frost off of the windshield,

shorter days,

naked trees,

intimate gatherings,

layers,

laughter,

love,

and light.

It’s been said that life seems to begin again in the Summer, but the opposite must be true.

Life begins again in the winter.

–S.

A Letter to my Dead Grandfather.

What if you never left?

I saw a picture of you holding me as a baby.

But I’ve never felt that.

My mom says that you talked to me as a baby.

But I’ve never heard that.

You’d have more than a little to drink every night.

But I’ve never smelled that.

Word on the street is that whatever needed fixing, you were the man.

But I’ve never seen that.

If you ever cooked,

I’ve never tasted it.

You died. I have no memories. How can I feel a connection to you?

When we visited grandma eleven years ago, I found a box of pictures in the room I was supposed to be sleeping in. As everyone slept, I lined the pictures up on the carpet. Some were of you when you were younger. Some were of grandma. Some were of you two together. They were all in black and white.

I wished that you could reach out to me. Say something. Anything.

Let me know you are here. I wonder what kind of life you imagined for me.

Life is confusing and complicated.

When grandma died, your daughters stopped speaking to one another. I wonder if my aunt even knows about the box full of pictures. I wonder if they are collecting dust underneath the bed. I wish she would have sent half of them to me. I know that I would’ve stared at them for hours. I would’ve wondered if your smile was real. I would have searched for clues. I would’ve run my fingers down every picture.

Mom sometimes tells me stories about you that she remembers.

I know what it is like to love a person you’ve never met.

I know what it is like to miss a person you’ve never known.

Grandpa.

Where are you?

–S.

Do you have these in a size wide?

I’d hated their width and length most of my life. They were anything, but feminine in my eyes. I never got to be obsessed with high-heels or sandals, the way some woman are – because they were so difficult to find.

Now I realize how far they’ve carried me.

How they never failed me.

No matter the circumstance.

–S