Finding Rest

For years I’ve gotten to know myself as the leather belt that holds together the belt loops of other people’s emotions.

I carry bandaids with me.
A sewing kit.

It seems that in years past, I’ve found my identity in helping others. In being there for them. In having something to give them.

I’ve gotten up early and stood with people on days that scared them, watching for the tell-tale signs in their faces that I was needed – insecurity, doubt, panic. I momentarily carried situations, minimized details, and laughed to ease tension.

I got good at it, and pretty soon it became unconscious. Perhaps it was always unconscious.

One day I grew tired of the song and dance that I’d happily signed up for. It wasn’t such a happy thing for me anymore. I found that I had little identity outside of helping others, and didn’t feel valuable otherwise.

Time has passed, and I’ve been able to ruminate on my needs and desires. I’ve discovered that giving of yourself is a great thing, so long as you have enough to give.

There’s so much more to who I am than what I can give to people.

And it’s okay for me to be a bit selfish from time to time. It’s really the only way that I find rest.


Frozen Mid-Step

Blue oceans that you call eyes
Character in every movement
Strength and street smarts

And yet,
I’m not convinced.
That’s what Id say, if I could.

I don’t think you are either.
Don’t think you’re convinced.
Like a fox you play a game  
Maybe now it’s catching up

Tired of the game
Unsure of your next move
Ready for fast money
Though frozen mid-step.

I’m not convinced
But I could be.

Yes, I think I could be.

An Unlikely Duet


Anger surged instantly. Fingers became fists.
Ignorance like that is like using a spoon to eat an apple. It don’t make sense.

Lunging across to take his wind wouldn’t help. Nothing comforted me. Save the tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

Words of hate were forming. They sat ready in the darkness of my throat.
The understanding of grace flickered, and was then pushed aside.

Cobblestones, wax sealed envelopes, words on a page. These are the things that bring me solace.

Author anonymous

Well that’s different.

She attacked tonight with more ferocity than normal.
Got something wrong and it’s a game of finding out what that exactly is, it’s always buried somewhere. Skeletons in the closet.

That girl carries too much weight. She’s like the international strong man competition for burdens wrapped into a minuscule blonde-haired-well-kept little package.

The solution I deduced was good hugs. The solution usually is good hugs. And some classy tea coupled with a dead Victorian writer. Of course given that the geographic location was a dive bar with ACDC blaring, there wasn’t any way to salvage the situation.

She needed comfort and I knew it would not be coming from me

So it goes.


He hardly sees himself for what I see. Strip off the skin, the barbed wire around his heart, and you’d see it too.

Days are made of choices. He makes good ones. Not always. But mostly. He doesn’t let dust sit for too long. Always moving.

He’s a man who shows me kindness, kindness that wrecks me. I’m not used to it from men. It feels foreign and electric as it pierces me.

Sad though. That I can’t give him what his heart wants. Pain is not my weapon of choice.

We’ve got good rhythm now, he and I.

Scheduled Laundry in a Valley of Tumbleweeds

People are fascinating creatures.

Having recently started a new job, I have to say that I’m quite baffled at the level of contact that I’m receiving from my “friends.” I understand that life gets busy. I hear you. I’m busy. I’m tired. I have to schedule time with myself to do laundry.

Less than a month ago, I used to come home to at least two messages from solid “good” friends each day. Now, I hear crickets. I hear silence and I hear wind.

I suppose there are just those that make an effort, and those that don’t. If I was always the one to make an effort, and I’m hearing nothing now, what does that say about the people whom I saw as my friends?

What was it? Did you even like me at all? Or was it you? Were you the one who allowed us to get here? To this place of uncertainty and tumble weeds.

I can almost hear the sound of your spurs as you walk away from me, head downcast.

All I can say is that I miss you. And my fingers smell like tacos.