This is my hundredth blog. 3 years. 2 states. 2 countries. 1 heartbreak.
I wrote to you, with the Indian Ocean outside, and the way it shocked me with it’s blue.
I wrote to you, back home in NY, when Fall turned to winter. And we took our bon-fires inside. and shortly after, how I would go.
I wrote to you to tell you about how I was driving across the country, for what, I didn’t know. Other than, I knew I needed to get to the ocean. I needed to know how small I was, in this big life, because my time in Kenya, put a globe inside of my heart, and taught me the dances of small villages. And taught me, that I want to live always, spinning on my own axis. That there can never be enough dancing, or language, or space in between.
The space between NY to CA, it’s been 2 years now, and I’ve been writing to you to tell you.
About all this love I found.
And about the love I lost.
So I wrote to you about that. And when I did, so did you. You told me your stories, and you do that, whenever I tell you about a big truth, you always do the same.
What was left.
And oh my, if that sweet little girl, did not leave me more open, if she did not with her rain and her thunder sweep away. that which I could no longer hold onto. you know, like a storm does.
And I wrote to you, to tell how she wrapped her little arms around me, and dangled her feet above the ground, and put her cute little face all close to mine and said. ‘I am faith, and I am so big.’
I wrote to you when a few months back, when I went home to NY. And what happens when you return to a place, that knows everything about you. And people…who knew you when. When you return to a place where most people have never left.
And I wondered, in the comfort, and fought the globe in my heart, against my feet on the ground. Which I think I always have. When you are born to a momma with stories from around the world, and a poppa who had a tendency towards long drives and long stories.
I wrote to you, about a past that goes far past this lifetime, far past what I was ever meant to understand.
And I write to you, because it heals me. Because it frees me. Because I can see then, I was always meant to be seen, we all were. Are. And because you let me, I’ll never stop telling the truth.
I wrote to you about how I had loved both women and men before, and ooo that one took some courage, and turns out, you loved that one the most. Because, we all have places we hide, and all anyone ever wants to do, once we stop being so afraid, is to be. And to love. and be loved.
I wrote to you about my 10-year vision, my life, as I see it, and so deeply crave it to be, creating, and making, and loving. a full-life, with a view of the ocean, history under my feet, abundance, and plenty. Kids with messy hair & pajamas, Sunday mornings. and pancakes and eggs by the person made who adores me, and who.
Has made me whole.
The new york times, and lemon trees in the backyard. I wrote to you about wanting to not feel in a rush, and surfboards on the top of our old land cruiser.
Extended cups of coffee.
Lots of making out. Dancing barefoot in the kitchen, all of us together.
To throw my head back, to let my hair down, to no longer wonder how to do it alone.
I wrote to you about this life I so clearly see and deeply desire.
And when I am afraid that it’s slipping away, I write then too.
Because I am certain I need to keep saying out loud.
About this life. That was never meant to be quiet.
Every time I hit publish. I put more of my life at stake.
Because you cant go back.
And you reach a certain point, where you don’t even want to.
Where the globe in your heart, and the comfort of home, conflict.
I don’t edit.
I rarely delete.
My ideas come to me, almost always, outside, and while I am in movement.
And then it becomes, that I must say it out loud.
Sometimes I am disappointed.
Rarely, do I regret.
Mostly, I am in awe.
Of what’s happened in 3 years, 100 stories, 2 countries. Ago.
100 bows of gratitude for you.
because it’s you that keeps me telling the truth.
It’s you that sends me your own message at 2am, that I see the next morning. It’s you who pulls me aside and says that I have shared something that has moved a storm through you, to share to.
Of what remains.
Of what must be told.
And I am so very honored.
We have laughed a lot, and we sure have cried. We cant go back now.
To the next 100.