On not writing

It's been a while since I've deliberately written anything. Even my magazine class didn't help. I've been afraid to write honestly, to write the truth. Afraid of hurting someone else's feelings. Now I find myself at a life's milestone . . . about to leave my career of twelve years, being forced to resign, my father ill with prostate cancer. The last six months, I have been wrought with anger, with isolation, with frustration, with anxiety. So much so that my own body has reacted violently.

A good friend told me that our thyroid has much to do with our inner Spirit. Clearly mine has been knocked down by Intimidation, Insensitivity, and Ire. They have had much to do with my woeful self. While my thyroid hormone levels have been high the last few months, they are finally going down on their own, and I am avoiding meds. I am ready to shout, Woo hooo! Let me out of this toxic prison that they call a worthwhile workplace.

Meanwhile my dad is doped up on painkillers, in pain from head to toe. On a good day, he takes his walk and meets up with his buddy at McDonald's for free coffee refills only for seniors. On a good day, he's got his golf club in hand practicing the sport that he's picked up in his retirement. On a bad day, he's lying on his back in tremendous pain, feeling guilty that he didn't see a specialist initially when he should have.

I'm writing because it's the only way I know how to cope, to heal my Spirit which has been broken for so very long.

about time

time has a unique way of telling us . . .
it's time to move on
it's time to let things go

it's time to just be . . .
with the ones we love
because time might be running out
when we least expect it
and we wonder,
how much time do we have?

and instead of trying to figure out
how time has played us
she alarms us

to live

and teaches us

to live