wakeful

i search for words all day. I am passionate about communicating, i think communication is amazing and i like to do it. My job is talking, and I talk a lot to the people in my life who will listen. and yet I search for the written words all day. it's like there's something that's buried in my head, each morning i wake up and i can physically feel it. I can feel it just a little poking at me. It's hurts in a way, like a dull tooth ache.

As the day goes on, I try to dig at it, work at it, what is it? My fingers itch to uncover it. What are the words that I so desperately want to share with people? I open up my blog and sit and stare at the screen. I want to scream - "words come out! Stop being buried. You're in there. I know you are." Yet all that screaming does (other than frighten the people around me) is loosen another layer of whatever is holding those words down. I get home and that little nut, that's what i think of it as, a little nut buried in my soul and me clawing at it all day, that little nut, it's still stuck. My hands are raw from clawing, my fingernails bloodied and torn.

And then i get in bed. Usually past my bedtime like tonight, and the minute my head hits the pillow and i pull the chain on my bedside lamp, the nut cracks WIDE OPEN. the words and the thoughts literally pour out of my head. The sentences come together like nothing during the day. The words are all there and there are words enough to write letters, send cards, and post several blogs. It's at this point i start to toss and turn, I can't get up to write, it's past my bedtime and i need sleep. I already struggle getting up, I can't stay up and write. But oh how i want to. So I end up hoping and praying that the words will stay, the sentences not leave and the creativity that isn't there all days remains focused.

It's doesn't. It's buried once again. At times it seems buried deeper. The words have left and the sentences are gone. Yes, I can remember a glimmer of what I "wrote the evening before. I can see the fragment of where those words were taking me, but the flow and natural ease is erased.

Tonight the wind wails like a train shooting through a small town, my body physically hurts and my soul is tired. I know there's a lot to this person that I am that hasn't been discovered. I am an artist, I am gifted. The roots are there buried deep, now how do get them to burst forth in flower? To crack open in a way that's cemented rather than tossed and thrown away with the passing of night?

thankful: gortex

What do you think of when you think of Gortex? Do you think of anything? I'm sure the most common response would be to think of Raincoats. Living here in the Northwest there's a great need for a quality, waterproof raincoat.

But for me, gortex reminds me of my little raincoat, my patch covering the hole in my heart. It's amazing to me that the material that makes raincoats also makes patches to repair the hole in my heart.

I'm so thankful for gortex. I'm thankful that I live in a time where first, someone would think to use gortex for fixing heart holes and two, the procedures and operations exist to "heal" someone like me.


As i walk around today in the rainy northwest I'm thankful what i fondly refer to my own little raincoat, protecting and covering that pesky little hole in my heart.