And then. . .

The things about friends is that, well, it's complicated. Family can drive you crazy, but you can't get rid of them. You can say mean, low, evil things, (as can they) and usually, they'll forgive you, at least after while. When it comes down to it, at least in my case, you fight and love with a passion, because as the saying goes, blood is thicker than water. With friends, there doesn't seem to be the same weight, I suppose. Because you can get rid of them, you can say mean, low, evil things, and they don't have to forgive you (or you them), and friends break apart, grow, and drift away like icebergs from one another. Although friends are the family you get to pick, sometimes it's best to let them go (or them you), because as in a romantic relationship, in order for it to work you both have to make an effort. I'm blessed with having many great friends in my life, the kind who drink away heartbreaks with you and let you cry till there's no more tear...

This summer has been hard, bumpy, and filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions: tired, grumpy, angry, embarrassed, shame, self-doubt, happy, confident, relief, loved...when everything seems to be shifting, the world feels like the proverbial earthquake, and you feel like you can't find steady ground, it's important to remember change can't be controlled, forced, hurried, slowed down, it comes when it comes and forcing just makes everything along the way a little harder and a lot less sweet, a plump peach with no flavor. Along the bumpy road it's important to remember: You can't make everyone happy. Sometimes it's hard enough just making yourself happy. Running away means you'll just have to deal with it later. Smiling all the time is tiring; sometimes you just need to be. The people you have in your life, the ones that matter, won't always be there, enjoy them. It's okay to be comfortable, sometimes what we need is comfort, I'm writing thi...

Yesterday I submitted a story for a contest. As I typed in my credit card information for the entry fee. I said a prayer over and over in my mind, "Please God let me win something. Please God let me win something." After the culmination of days and months rolling down a hill and snowballing into years without stepping foot into a church, my Catholic upbringing of spending every Sunday on a hard wooden pew with my grandma Ita, has not left me. I sat in a noisy coffee shop quickly rereading a story, I've read 100 times, one more time to make sure it was really ready to send out. I attached it quickly to the email, exhaled, let my fingers hover over the keys and finally hit enter, sending a piece of my heart into cyber space for someone to look over, read, and hopefully connect with it. The heart of a writer is both tender and calloused. We pour pieces of ourselves out onto paper for people to judge. Perhaps I should say the heart of the artist, but I can't think ...