My ancestors are made with water—
blue on the sides, and green down the spine;
when we travel, we lose brothers at sea
and do not stop to grieve.
Our mothers burn with a fire
that does not let them be;
they whisper our names
nomenclatures of invisibility
honey-dewed faces, eyes sewn shut,
how to tell them
the sorrow that splits us in half
the longing for a land not our own
the constant moving and shifting of things,
which words describe
the clenching in our stomachs
the fear lodged deeply into our bones
churning us from within,
and the loss that follows us everywhere:
behind mountains, past oceans, into
the heads of trees, how to swallow
a tongue that speaks with too many accents—
when white faces sprout
we are told to set ourselves ablaze
and this smell of smoke we know—
water or fire, or both,
because we have drowned many at a time
and left our bodies burning, or swollen, or bleeding
and purple—this kind of language we know,
naming new things into our invisibility
and this, we too, call home.
I am always moving towards you.
On my bad days, I say to myself: “then you”.
Sure, this now. But then you.
I will keep tossing myself life lines.
I will keep writing myself afloat
until I don’t have to write a poem for every mile marker
from here to California.
You and I together is the most foolish thing
I’ve ever hoped for. You and I apart is more foolish.
When I can’t sleep at night, I dream up
conversations with you. I never call. I never push.
I try not to whine. I just write it all down.
Sometimes I want to apologize for wanting you out loud,
like too many people know the reasons
I am going to have laugh lines.
Sometimes instead of distanced pillow talk,
I want to curl up with the phone
and read you poetry.
Instead, we just talk about it.
You say, “honey, how was your day?”
And I say, “today I wrote another poem
about your coffee cup mouth
and all the ways you still keep me up at night.”
I hear a sigh in your smile.
You make a sound that reminds me of
fighting with my bags at the airport;
but you’re still too far away.
Part of me has always wanted to believe there’s an alternate universe where poetry is the universal language. Everyone speaks it to varying degrees. Writing is taught in couplets and tercets. We live in stanzas. Free form is the new novel. Sonnets are the only way to give people a reason to believe in life after death. There is an eternal repetition of people shouting from street corners how to exist. Can you imagine?
Can you imagine a world where poetry helps us understand where we have been? Where we are going? The space in-between the two are the margins–the blank spaces on the page where invisibility exists and becomes universal, too. We become something different when the text is on the inside and we are not.
Can you imagine a world where poetry is mostly what we use to understand ourselves and others? It’s a tool that is used to wrestle with our disagreements; a wrench for the tight bolts, a needle and a thread for what needs stitching afterwards, a shield for the protection we are looking for every time we meet someone new.
Can you imagine that you are as you are right now without changing at all? Thoughts and skin and abilities all the same. Habits and writing unequivocally unchanging. We change not; we move for the sake of moving as we always have, we adopt nothing for the sake of changing nothing. Can you imagine?
Late last year, Rainn Wilson (most notably, Dwight from the TV show The Office) tweeted this:
We live in an age without poetry.
— RainnWilson (@rainnwilson) December 23, 2016
Considering it was almost Christmas, I felt it necessary to give him something that he doesn’t know is there. That hadn’t manifested itself until now.
National Poetry Month comes around every April. This month, I’ll give you some of my favorites. I hope you can get something from this art–some written, some spoken, all touching and heartbreaking and capable of making you, too, start to see something that you hadn’t known was there all along.
I will present you with an opportunity to engage with pieces written by writers who are doing the same thing that we’ve all been trying to do. To live–exist, perhaps–in a space that values our right to do so. To breathe. To hope. Feel, although faint at times, a sense of belonging in world that doesn’t seem to always be the softest.
Though I’ll have much to say, I’ll leave that to the voice inside your head.
“Hey, are you not doing your monthly blog post anymore?”
I’ve gotten this question a handful of times and I’m unsure how to answer. On one hand, it was only meant to be a year-long adventure; it seemed sustainable (and in all reality, it is sustainable) but moving into 2017 with such uncertainty towards to state of things, I didn’t know how to make that commitment again. On the other hand, I learned more about myself in 2016 through the writing. How could I not continue on?
As writers do, I backed myself into a corner and resolved to not write at all. Bits and pieces of writing came out at times but nothing coherent. I wouldn’t label it “writer’s block” as much as I would label it purposeful lack of practice.
I thought maybe it would be good to not write. Maybe it would make sense, instead, to explore different things: human emotion, what we do when nobody is looking, art in times of chaos, and so on. These things that everybody experiences but nobody wants to talk about.
See, the truth is that everyone expects writers to have it all together. How could they not? How could we not? We carefully craft words in such an arrangement that makes people nod their heads and clutch their cups of coffee tighter. We string together sentences that make people feel things. To some, us writers have it all figured out.
There are days when the writing doesn’t come. When quiet takes over. When silence is louder than the taptaptapping of my keys.
There are times when the writing is pouring out of me, most of the time it’s a jumbled mess, and there are times when I’ve become inspired to explore wonder. Any given moment, I’m transitioning between feelings–from thought to a held feeling–and it’s typically something I’m trying to make more sense of. I compartmentalize different thoughts or emotions, placing them in neatly-organized boxes on this shelf of my mind so as to bookmark my place in each of them and come back later.
I laugh when I’m not supposed to. I cry when people are watching. I fidget when I don’t know what to say and I appreciate the silence that others give me when they are struggling to find words.
“I really enjoy your monthly articles. They give me hope.”
I’ve been struggling with what this means.
In a time when this world is shifting so quickly into a place where hope cannot easily live, how do we become hopeful? How do we commit to making things better if we cannot fathom tomorrow being filled with hope and wonder?
With my writing, I’m often practicing my existence. I’m exploring areas of myself or my world that have come into focus in one way or another. These are usually things that I’ve felt deeply about but can’t always make meaning out of. More often than not, these are things that scare the shit out of me. And they should.
I’m not trying to live my life clutching tightly to the railings. I’m intending to fall a number of times, to fail, to disappoint people so that I can learn how to get back up again. Feeling deeply will likely always be a part of me and I intend to embrace that.
At the end of any given day, you can find me collapsing exhaustedly into my messily-made bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, checking my alarm, and clutching a book. Some days I don’t actually open the book. It’s there to motivate me to read a bit before bed but on the toughest days, just holding the book is enough. I’m holding a world in my hands. A story. The lives of characters, of people, of lives already lived that are trying to teach us something. I wake in the middle of the night and the book is usually beside me. The bookmark is nowhere to be found. I’ve lost my place.
“Are you writing at all?”
I can make a case that I’m always writing. It just doesn’t always show up on the page or the screen. We all are writing. Every day, it’s something new, even if it’s not. It’s a new chapter or a new place to start, even if it’s the same place you always start in.
I have a place to keep fragmented thoughts or sentences. More often than not these fragments are poems. It’s just how my mind works; how can I tell a story or narrative using fewer words? How can I tell you all about a thing without mentioning that particular thing? It’s not that I want to do less work, it’s that my mind has been trained as a creative writer to evoke thought or emotion via enjambed lines, couplets of information, and rules thrown out the window.
To answer the questions, yes. I’m writing. It’s not a monthly post, but it’s writing. It’s not published routinely or on a schedule, but it’s writing. It jumbled and mixed up, but it’s writing. It doesn’t flow well or seems out of order, but it’s writing. It’s not published on a big platform or with strong following, it’s not the featured opinion piece, it’s not a string of researched-based thought.
But it’s writing.
When I tell folks that I’m from Flint, Michigan, their heads turn sideways much like a dog’s head does at the sound of a high pitch. Eyes widen. This is what I’m used to, especially since moving out of Michigan in 2014 when I started my graduate work in Ohio. I try to imagine what it’s like to meet someone from somewhere I’ve never been–maybe a place that’s always in the news–and what my initial thoughts are. This typically helps me understand where people are coming from, although I will say that many have struggled to hide their reactions to the words “Flint” and “Michigan” coming from my voice.
“Are you really from Flint?”
“The same Flint that has the water problem?”
“What’s that like?”
Most people I’ve met haven’t been to Flint before. They’ve seen things in news articles and on some of the same screens that you’re probably reading this article now. Most people don’t know what they don’t know. I smile and politely answer their questions.
“Is your family affected?”
“Why do you tell people that’s where you’re from?”
“By Flint, do you mean a suburb?”
Some questions are honest. People are trying to understand where I come from. I’m more than happy to illuminate the dark spots for people’s understanding of what’s really happening in the city I hold close to my heart.
It’s hard to understand what a home is to people. A place where people are born, a place where much of one’s identity is shaped, where bonds are created and destroyed, memories of better days behind us–these intersect and create a definition unique to each of us. We are the culmination of everything we’ve been, how it has impacted us, and what we choose to see through the tall grass.
Some questions aren’t actually questions, but poor-intended jokes. Jaw-clenching. Unnerving. A number of encounters begin with the pursing of lips to hold back what they’re actually thinking in favor of a more respectful response. Some go like this:
“How’s the water?”
*Laughs at own joke*
*Turns to see if others are laughing*
*See me not laughing*
Think back 500 days ago.
Since then, how many times have you turned on your faucet and clean water came out? How many times have you filled a cup with water to drink after a run or before bed? How many times have you bathed? Watered the plants? Made coffee? Brushed your teeth?
Now double the days.
How many times have you done all of that in the last 1000 days?
Now imagine having to do that with just bottled water.
Now imagine still getting a water bill–imagine having to pay for water that is unusable. Filled with lead that can cause serious harm to your bodies.
Flint residents have lived this reality since April of 2014. Young bodies and old alike have been exposed to a reality that they didn’t want, and they’re paying for what they don’t deserve.
Officials have estimated that bottled water will be the way of life for Flint families until at least 2020. A thousand (+) more days of unbelievable hell. An unfathomable reality to those who don’t have the think twice; something these people are forced to live with on a daily basis.
If you can’t imagine this as a reality, I invite you to live the next 10 days without using the faucets in your home. 10 days. That’s it; a small sample of time for something to become normalized.
Buy bottled water. Use it for everything. Everything.
Visit Flint, Michigan. Talk with residents. Educate yourself on their experiences. Live in their shoes for a little while.
And when someone tells you they’re from Flint, let it serve as a reminder that a hometown is more than what you see in the news. Real people like you with honest stories like yours inhabit that space. And they’re fighting for a reality that’s different.
Though the focal point has shifted, know that there are still ways you can help make a difference. For more information on how you can help, visit www.helpforflint.com.
SOURCES & FURTHER READING
Tomorrow, Donald Trump will become the President of the United States.
Let that sink in for a moment.
For 2921 days, Barack Obama has served this nation’s people to the best of his ability. He has given his energy and expertise to the people looking to heal, to fight for what’s right, and to be better than who they were yesterday.
And tomorrow, that chapter ends. Dog-ears from saved pages unfolded, that book will be neatly closed and placed on a shelf of stories that have only been memories to us.
I don’t know where exactly to go from here, but what I can tell you is this: one foot forward, one step at a time, one stubborn staircase after another as we stumble for strength. Forward is the way of hope.
“Change only happens when ordinary people come together to demand it.”
Barack Obama taught me that behind policy decisions and speeches given at important dinners, behind debates and addresses at states of the union, behind politics and partisan leans, there exists a profoundly evident truth that no matter the spotlight or wreckage, the character of a person is greater than decisions made. The integrity of the love someone has for others is deeper than fear. The drive for excellence is rooted in being genuinely good.
He is proof of this.
With every step, he moved with such an awareness of human dignity. More than anything else, he embodied what we all look for at some point or another: the spirit of hope. The idea that we matter, that we’re important, that the work we do is important. The idea that our identities are valid and real and transforming. The idea that we can be the light for others without taking their shine away; we can be the flame to ignite others to think and do better, to take stubborn steps into love every day.
Many will remember him as someone who accomplished very little. If you are one of those people, I implore you to reconsider. I encourage you to extend yourself outside of party lines and think bigger. Dig a little deeper. Get uncomfortable with the fact that it’s possible to not staunchly disagree with every little thing that came out of Obama’s lungs.
To those who are losing hope with each passing day, I echo Obama in his farewell speech: “Show up. Dive in. Stay at it.”
It’s not enough to sit idle and wish things were different. It’s not enough to fill the world with a pessimistic view that things will not get better. Use Obama’s legacy as a blueprint to creating your own framework. Find progress to build on top of the progress so many have already built.
Read often. Soak the words from the page into your mind’s eye and allow them to change you. Listen intently and with sincere curiosity. Allow yourself the gift of changing your mind sometimes. Allow yourself the humility to admit when you’re wrong, or to agree with people who are different from you. Write yourself into an existence that the world has no option but to smile at. Because at the end of the day, there is a beacon of hope in the distance that we are all begging lighthouses to find.
Be that light for others. Let others be that light for you.
This is what Obama is talking about when he talks about hope. Soon, we will hear less from Obama. Maybe not at all. So take this moment, breathe it in deeply. Close your eyes and look into yourself. If you’re looking for a reason to have hope, this is it.
Now let’s get to work.
I’ll never forget the day that I met you. Fall of 2009, freshman year. 7th floor of West Vandenberg Hall at Oakland University. Room 766. Derek and I had our door open as we usually did. You walked past our propped door, came back, walked right into our room, and introduced yourself to me. You had a class with Derek; he sat in the front, you in the back.
“Hi, I’m Joel!”
I had no idea why you walked in without knocking, and to be honest, I was annoyed that some stranger took it upon himself to walk in uninvited.
That’s what I get for keeping my door open, I thought.
“I’m Robbie. Nice to meet you.”
Seven years later, our first encounter replays through my memory like a skipping CD. Over and over again, your warm demeanor and loud personality would walk uninvited into a space that you would frequent in the weeks after. Had you not been the Joel that everyone knows you to be, maybe you would have kept walking past that door. Maybe we would have never met.
Over the course of the next few years, I would come to know you in an entirely different way. Here’s this incredibly shy and introverted kid who loves poetry and reading, and this other guy who carries a good energy with him wherever he went. We became the unlikeliest of friends.
We spent many nights throughout college watching football or playing video games, talking about the Illuminati (‘it’s real,’ you would say. ‘I’m skeptical,’ I would respond), or finding new places to eat around town. You eventually moved away from campus and that gave us a place to go when we wanted to get away.
We didn’t always see eye to eye. I can remember when we would get into debates about politics or sports, always on seemingly opposite ends but willing to hear each other out. Even when we frustrated one another, we found a way to not let it come between our friendship. At the end of each conversation, we resolved to love each other the best way we knew how.
As I graduated from OU and moved to Akron for grad school, you always talked about coming to visit me. And again when I moved to Muncie for my first professional job, you talked about making the trip out. You wanted to see how I was living, what my life was like, who I was surrounding myself with. You had a way about showing people that you cared about them even from hundred of miles away. I never had to wonder if you loved me.
The last time we saw each other was at Lauren and Billy’s wedding in August of 2016. As Derek and I were part of the wedding party, I can remember standing around waiting to be directed towards the ceremony and I was looking for you. I knew you were there; we had just seen you a couple hours prior at our hotel room but I wanted to make sure you were there. You were a familiar face amidst a sea of faces that I didn’t recognize. You were a friend that I looked up to.
We all danced that night. None of us had rhythm but we didn’t let that stop us from embracing the moment. We shuffled around the dance floor, we laughed, we sang, and in the end, we exhausted ourselves from our practice in withness–being present together and taking in every moment.
When we got back to the hotel, we dove right into talking about life. Everything from sports to politics to love, nothing was off limits. I can remember looking at the clock as it read 2:00am and wanting nothing more than to be asleep, but I stayed up talking with you anyways because who knew when we would see each other again? We go so many months between visits, how could I pass this moment up?
Who knew that would be the last time we would have a conversation?
I sat at your funeral in disbelief. It didn’t feel real, even after seeing you lay asleep–peaceful and in a better place. Your body was there but that wasn’t you. It couldn’t be, I thought. As so many people mourned the loss of your life, I sat shocked out of any words to comprehend the moment. There’s a reason why I’ve always avoided funerals. I don’t handle loss of life well.
Even now, I think about how you’re gone too soon. How you’re not taking any more breaths. How you aren’t experiencing joy or excitement or heartache, and how extraordinarily grateful I am that you were able to feel those things for the 27 years you were alive.
Amidst the hurting and healing that will inevitably come from this, your legacy remains. I resolve to live my life as myself unapologetically. I will not mutter the words “I’m sorry” for simply existing within a space. I will love deeply just as you would if you were here. Just as you would want me to.
“What are you going to do to keep on living?”
A friend muttered these words to me when she was telling me her story of loss, of hurt, of healing. And so I’ll resolve to hold these words close and allow them to guide me in my life each day.
Because isn’t it such a precious gift to be alive? Aren’t we all fragile miracles in our own sense? Isn’t it wonderful to realize the gallons of blood in our bodies that are in a constant state of motion just so that we can take more breaths?
Joel, I think about you every single day. Each time I write about you, I remember something new–something I often overlooked about you–and I come to a better understanding of the person that you were in this world. I know that you would want us all to be happy, and so that’s what I’ll continue to set out to do.
As I keep living, I’ll hold you dear to me and live a life that you would be proud of.
I love you, buddy. Sweet dreams forever.
“I fold the good days up and place them in my back pocket for safekeeping. Draw the match. Cremate the unnecessary. The light of the fire warms my toes. I pour myself a glass of hot water to cleanse myself for January. Here I go. Stronger and wiser into the new.” -Rupi Kaur
We didn’t really start off on good terms. On your first day, I woke up dizzy but surrounded by humans that I was sure would stay. Some of these folks stuck around. Others did not. I had no way of knowing then that this was a sign of things to come.
In retrospect, the dizziness never really subsided. You were tying my shoes before I had the chance to put them on. I rushed through parts of you and didn’t recognize the full gravity you carried each day, at least not until the day was deep into turning to the next. By the time I could see it, a fresh slate was before me and I was forced to move on. I’ve always lagged behind when it comes to letting go.
You brought heartbreak after heartbreak to some of my closest people, me included. So much hurting. So much healing. I don’t know if I should be fiercely abrasive and standoffish at the thought of you or grateful that you were able to bring such honest realizations to the people around me when they were least expecting it.
It often felt as if you tweeted my secrets to the world even after you swore to keep every last one of them to yourself. I should have known that sometimes secrets are meant to be told, even after promises are spoken into existence.
You were ripe with moments of conflict and clarity in my heart. Courage came and went (and came back). Love grew and dwindled (and grew again).
You brought a sea of change: a quarter of a century of life; a sustainable writing project; a Master’s degree; a new home; people coming and going and coming and going; a shift in perspective(s); growth that hasn’t yet been recognizable.
There’s magic in the things (read: people) you brought into my life. Several of these things (people) have taught me how to create a space for myself, how to allow grace in all moments, how to love despite reasons not to, how to choose myself.
Personal peace (“self-care”) became more prevalent of a practice. YouTube videos and Spotify have been mainstays. One-on-one meetings continued to give me life each week, not only with students, but with friends and colleagues. You’ve helped me realize that I prefer to skip the small talk and move right into the heart of things. The weather outside has never been as fascinating as the weather of our minds. Politics of the world isn’t as scintillating as politics of the heart. This life we live every single day deserves encouragement. Small talk is rarely the way.
In the span of your time, I realized that I’m giving away pieces of myself to every person that I love. I don’t give myself enough grace, or time, or space to be who I am and accept where I’m at. I sometimes want things to be perfect and so I’m trying to be patient and realize that one day at a time, while it’s slow, it’s worth the wait. It’s a journey that I need to be better about being grateful for, not just the end result of something.
Even when you persisted in the fight to tear my seams away from my skin, I worked to rise higher and learned how to sew stitch after stubborn stitch as I go. This isn’t a perfect practice for me–some of these stitches come loose, some fall apart, but some hold. I suppose this is a practice in healing.
What I now know is that, even when things seem to get really hard and it feels like I can’t possibly keep going, there will still be work to do. There will still be people to encourage. Still piles of love to give away to flight attendants, gas station cashiers, tire changers, brothers and sisters and fathers that we haven’t talked to in years, even ourselves.
Gosh, I’m really glad you’re ending.
But more than that, I’m grateful for the things you illuminated for me, the things you moved out of my purview, and how much you’ve allowed my heart to grow. I’ll take what you’ve given me into the new and continue to build this thing called life with hope on my fingertips and love at every step.
We haven’t met yet. I have a strange feeling that we’ll have a good opportunity to get to know one another in the coming days. Although I’m nervous for the mysteriousness you carry with you, I’m slowly learning that having faith, even with the unknown, is to walk confidently into every piece of darkness while never letting go of the light. Light expands when you give it the space to.
I hope you turn me away from any lack of love. In a world spinning a web of intention to grab at everyone’s throat, I’m coming straight for the heart. You will pass me by and will, at times, render me feeling hopeless, worthless, or questioning my ability to love. I’m here to tell you I’ll observe it. Like clouds in the sky, I’ll watch you pass through. And because of you, I’ll know what it means to love without an agenda.
If you bruise me, I will give myself grace in healing. I’ll allow the mess to show me how to come home to myself. I will embrace the vulnerability that discoloring presents.
I will sit in the joys you bring and I will cry harder when the tears come. In peeling back the layers of myself, I’ll learn how important it will be for my future children to see a father who is constantly working to understand his emotions, and the emotions of those he loves deeply. Even when others are intimidated by this, I’ll take it in stride. We are emotional beings; pushing that away from me will only make it more difficult to love deeper, I’ll remind myself.
I will build stillness into the thick of the chaos that you’ll surely bring me. Stillness looks a lot like walks. Meditation. Reading when I feel I don’t have the time and writing when it’s the last thing I want to do, and daydreaming. So much daydreaming.
I’ll carry every year before this into you with a clear heart. Though I don’t yet know what’s in store for me, I will work to understand you and your relation to me with every step. I’ll remind myself how important it is to shift, to give thanks, to transform, and to let go of the heavy things I carry.
My life is a series of self-realizations sewn together. There’s so much going on at any given moment: work, learning, healing, connecting with those around me, retreating, recharging, loving with my heart and bones, listening, dreaming, remembering, and writing.
How exhausting? How fulfilling?
I’ve been reflecting on the video below for the last month so I can better understand what it means to be human.
What’s your take?
What a whirlwind of a month, eh?
Most of what prolonged November’s words was me not wanting to add my voice to the sea of noises that occurred once Donald Trump won the election. People from left, right, in-between, and not on the political spectrum at all have been adding their two cents. It goes without saying: we have a full piggy bank at this point.
Now, to rest. Then work.
I’ve had many thoughtful conversations regarding Trump and Hillary and America moving forward from this season of life. People from all across the spectrum of thoughts and values. Some heated debates, some head-nodding and silent agreement in one another.
The sun came out, just as I imagined it would, and reminded us what it means to live. To do this hard-to-quantify work on days when there is a deep void for some and a heart filled to the brim for others, this is what it means to serve. There is much work to be done and I’ve grown apathetic towards the chatter. It’s not that I’m unwilling to have thoughtful discussion, it’s that I’m positioning myself to do the work that is necessary for healing.
The chatter will continue. Tweets and timeline posts and phone calls will all exist next to one another. We will have the ability to connect via fingertips and glowing screens. Let us not forget the humanity behind putting down our devices, moving away from screens, and working together to stand for those who need it the most.
The more I grow into myself, the more I’m realizing that the wellness of my headspace often dictates the wellness of every other part of my life. If I’ve got a clear handle on something mentally, I’m more confident in my ability to move it forward, to watch it progress.
Two months ago, I began meditating in the morning before the day begins as a way of committing to the creation of an environment where my headspace is valued. 15 minutes a day, I sit cross-legged on a pillow and learn more about myself. I explore how my thoughts move from one to another, how to observe that as it’s happening, and how to let it go. I have in opportunity in each second to center myself–my body, my thoughts, my emotions, the spirit inside of me–with my own self.
I equate it to looking into the sky and watching the clouds pass by. My thoughts (clouds) move through my mind (the sky) and I have the opportunity to simply notice the thoughts intersect with one another before they slip out of view.
I still haven’t been able to sit without getting distracted. I imagine it’s due to how chaotic life can be, and the thoughts or reflections that are associated with that. I fidget, I think about what I have to get done, I panic, I observe it, I let it go. I breathe in and out and count each breath as blessings I didn’t know I always needed.
I hope to one day be able to write about the progress I’ve experienced. Until then, I’ll sit with my heart open and observe the world passing through me.
I often think of the scope of learning. To learn is to think, listen, respond, reflect, read, write, and by the end of the day, have something new cultivated through it all. Even old concepts deserve a second or third or fourth look. Even the loved ones in our lives have stories we can work to understand better.
Central to learning is the practice of rest. We live in a world that enables us to spend our energy on grinding days out, one after another, until we collapse from exhaustion. This isn’t bad, but it also isn’t something to romanticize. Being exhausted is not a badge of honor. We are not competing with one another to see who can elude sleep the longest.
Yes, there is work to be done. We’ve got a million and five things to do and places to be and people to see. Our work is cut out for us; we have the power to bring people together, to educate each other, to grow into the people we’ve dreamed of becoming for so long.
Some of my best ideas come to me when I’m not trying to make ideas come to me. Some of the best moments of understanding occur when I’m taking a step backwards and away from the crowd. It’s in these moments of solitude that I’ve found the quiet, which continues to breed inside of me the confidence to let go.
What have I learned? Give yourself space to disconnect from the world for a few moments. The work will still be there tomorrow. Your friends will understand if you need to take a step away. You won’t need to explain personal peace to anyone. Your energy is important, too. Your headspace deserves good things, too.
Allow yourself the opportunity to give your mind some color. You’ve held it in a chokehold for too long; let loose your grip, practice restraint. Bring some clarity to your heart.
U n w i n d.
Watch the answers slowly emerge and begin again.