Response to the Recent Violence

We are our brother's keepers. We are not islands to ourselves. We, human beings, of all colors, creeds, orientations and such are connected as one species. We share hopes, dreams, goals, determination and a need to be better than the generation before us.

We are not equal though. We are not all on a level playing field. And while we can give endless compassion and love, we can also fall to seemingly bottomless depths of hatred and cruelty. But we are one. We feel, think, cry, laugh, and bleed the same.

We are one. And we are hurting.

Right now, we are shouting. We are fighting. We are lashing out and finding blame. We are looking to hurt as we have been hurt. But we instead need to be silent. We need to stop. We need to breathe. We need to listen.

We are all hurting. We are all scared. We are all wanting safety, security, and peace. We all want to live without fear. But to move closer to that reality, we all need to listen. We need to understand and realize that we are more alike than different. We are one.

We can find solutions. We can create change. We can make this country, this world what we want it to be if we listen. If we stop seeing different, other, not me, wrong, sin, against this or that. We need to stop. Listen. Hear each other.

If you want to throw something, throw away labels. If you want to burn something, burn down the walls that divide us. If you want to destroy something, destroy the prejudices and quick judgements that pop up in your minds when you see someone not you. Unity. My brothers. My sisters. We are one.

Down Day

I'm just tired.

These words fall from my lips so often that they can be called my negative mantra. There are days that I am physically tired. Lack of sleep and pushing myself to much to do this thing or that.

But most days when I utter those words, it is because my emotional and mental state is to the breaking point. Perhaps you've heard the new catch phrase of "I'm so odd, because I can't even." That's me so many more days than not.

I have stress points that start to ache. I feel blue and down. It's clearly a depressive state. And frustrations. So many frustrations.

Some days I deal with it better than most. But the hard days are when the troubles seem to pile up and there's no clear path out. Those days I stare out the window. Those days I feel tired the most.

When I was younger and with a lot less responsibilities, I joked about running away on such days. But that's no longer an interest. It just seems like too much of a hassle. How funny is that? Running away seems like a hassle.

I'd rather just be home, watching my kid play and snuggling with the dog and the husband. That's what I find comforting now. My small universe of three beings.

They are the ones that get me through the days when "I'm tired."

Writings

At this moment, I'm being thoughtful and full of memories.

Last night I rediscovered a treasure trove of writings spanning from my high school days through college and ending perhaps six or seven years ago.

I feel like it was all done by another person in another lifetime.

It's strange looking back at the person you used to be and seeing the things that consumed you not long ago.

In a week, I'll celebrate my third wedding anniversary. My son just turned one. Our dog will also be turning three. And we've been in our house two years now. This has been my life. This is my world. It revolves around this new family unit we are building. And while there can be room for writings and words, I find little time for it all.

I don't write much anymore, and at times like now, I miss it. Most of my thoughts no longer reach the page, left hanging somewhere in the depths of my subconscious mind with a longing to be shared. I have so many, "write that down" moments, but when I grab a journal to do so I get distracted with something else and the page remains bare.

Seemingly random thoughts all connected back if I have the chance to explain the connection.

I was told that a writer should always have a notebook handy, so for years I did just that. In my cleaning last night, I found half a dozen spiral notebooks full of ideas, short stories, recollections of dreams, plans for the future and bits of poetry.

I didn't take the time to reread any of it, knowing that if I started I would be sitting in the same spot hours later still flipping through pages and plotting out how I should finish this long abandoned idea or contemplating how to write a hundred news ones.

Instead, I found an empty shelf and stored the books away, thinking as I did about what my son might think one day when he came across the words I'd written. I wondered if he might give the pages a few extra seconds, or instead toss them aside in a pile "to be stored" or perhaps even in one "to be trashed."

I suppose that's how life goes though. We struggle every day to find value and meaning and to be something lasting. Back all those years ago, I found those pages as a source of release. Each one fulfilled my need to get all that was bottled up inside, in my head, out into the world in some form. I shared some, and I kept most back from eyes other than mine. But I put it down. I captured a time frame in my life. A time I have to search to remember was me.

I know I am that girl still. I remember her dreams and longings. I remember well her fear of being alone. It's still there. Just different.

Perhaps I'll pick up a pen again. Maybe I'll continue words here.

Maybe.