Ten.Twenty

1. Morning that is dark and brooding. The sound of trains off in the distance. Coffee for one. 

2. The golf course sounds an alarm when lightening is present. I've heard it go off twice already.

3. This is the kind of weather that pulls you back in. I light the candles on the tray, nestle into the corner and watch the rain come down.

4. He has forgotten. Calls me right as I've left the house, children half-asleep eating breakfast with the babysitter. I get a sweet drink through the drive-through and then sit in the rain. This may be the only time I get to be alone.

5. There is a tenderness in parts of my body that waxes and wanes with the cycle of the moon. Despite its consistency, the arrival of this tenderness still surprises me. I don't know that I want to get used to it. 

6. Now that the skies are calm, I take the plants back outside, picking off leaves of peppermint to chew on. This is so satisfying. Last night the big kid says to me, "This is your first real success." I chuckled. It was the way he said it without the scent of judgement in his voice. 

7. To be able to say out loud all that I've been processing. The new truths that are begging to be underlined in the skin. I'm really trying.

8. Keep it pointed to where you want it to go. [Or something like that.] - Danielle LaPorte

9. I'm ready for the rains to come back again.

10. There's something to be said for learning how to be alone. I remember when I craved closeness, afraid to be with only my self without the distraction of another body, any body. It's a tricky kind of hunger that I'm learning to feed by trying to understand the ways in which I can be all the things I ever I thought I needed. Maybe I already am all the things I ever thought I needed.