I'm not going anywhere

Today I both felt and resisted the urge to heckle a strange man walking by my office window, just for the hell of it. Where did that come from.

My six-year-old nephew follows up with me several times to confirm that I have written a reminder on my phone: Prior to December I am to fly to him in Los Angeles so we can visit a local dog toy store, where, he assures me, I will be able to purchase a hat specially made for dogs, with holes for the ears and a jingly bell on top. He thinks it will be the perfect Christmas present for Hanna.

In the past 48 hours I have determined that many of my life's decisions and inclinations originate from guilt. Thankfully I had dance class tonight, and I knew just what to do: punch and kick and gyrate my hips and torso around, getting all that shit out out OUT. Down with the oppressive letters and up with the liberating ones! I am allowed to do what I want! I am allowed to do what I want! I am allowed to be myself!

I do not have to be perfect. Lord has had mercy on me. By that I mean I have finally—finally—found mercy for myself.

And yes I know the talons will come out; they already seeped in the dark edges of my mind as I sat with legs crossed and forehead pressed to the wooden floor at the end of class. But I'm not going anywhere.

Remembering now pedaling hard and fast down the side of that mountain, tears flying off my cheeks into the wind-vortex behind me, begging I just want to be okay as I am 


What do you know. I accidentally wrote Angels.


I'm not a root. I'm a rose.