thank you

i say it alot. i mean it. i'm grateful for everything. for the love of friends, for the kindness of strangers. for the bump in the road that makes me pay more attention because my mind wandered.

so i'm finding myself in a place where i look to the multiplicitous effects of gratitude. the a few loaves and fishes points in the road where we must share what we have and trust what we need will be shared in turn.

that is always the trick, not hoarding. not amassing stuff.

i am acutely aware of this place, this crossroads in my life, the tin can outstretched and me holding my last coin. do i drop it in or hoard it.

sometimes i drop it in, sometimes i don't. but i always get the chance to face the can again. to make the choice.

times like now make me wonder if this kind of feeling, this kind of angst in my life is what fuels my writing. do i need trials to write. is it part of my process. is that gritty sadness all i will ever write about. i hope not. i want to progress. to change my stars.

the only way i can conceive of doing this is to be grateful for what i've got. the bad and good stuff. the lonely nights and the overabundant days. they are where i'm at today. and so, when i drop into bed bone weary, and rise before i want to, i trust it is for a reason. there is a point to this dance.

i don't understand it. i don't pretend to.

but i come again to the point of letting go. of resisting the urge to cling.

there are poems i must write, but i've never been the kind of writer who formulates a plan. and so, i've watched through my days for the whispered words in my ear, listened for the glimpse of a poem, but none has come.

i understand in some ways i have been afraid of what will come and that has never been the case before. i have always let myself just go with it. but i'm not going with it anymore. trying to change my life. but maybe that's the problem. i'm focusing on it too much and getting lost in the process of change.

i have sat down with my journal a couple times. jotted down a few things, nothing poetic, just my thoughts. but it's nice to not have to force myself to poetry. poetry must be allowed to come of its own accord. poetry must flow. no grasping. and these are the moments i wonder if i'll ever write again.

i know i will. i look at this last book and remember when it was just a title in my mind. i told her the name of it and she said,

yes.

i told her the name of this next book and she said,

wow.

it will come. and i will be grateful when it does.