There's been a lot of....stuff...going on in my life lately. I've made the decision that I'm actually going to write my book, though whether it will ever see the light of day, is the question. I spent MONTHS agonizing over this decision. When I say agonizing, I mean full on anxiety attack provoking, not sleeping for days, crying and shaking , so you know, your usual thought provoking decision making process. I was (and am) terrified over the ramifications of what skeletons will come pouring out of my closet. I asked my father a few months ago if I should pursue this. His answer, "If this is what your heart tells you to do, then yes." I've learned to take his advice over the last few years of my life (and consequently, his). I thought on it for a long time (hence the period of panic attacks, etc.) and decided that if it was causing me this much stress and anxiety, that it just wasn't meant to be. I put the idea out and began working on other things.
Two weeks ago, I hear from my stepmother after repeated attempts to reach my father via text (we texted everyday) to no avail. I was afraid he was pulling away from me as his disease progressed. He has always been very open and honest with me, but I have always feared that as his physical body fell victim to the ravishes of this bloody disease, that he wouldn't want me to know by how much. My step mom replied to me letting me know that he wasn't pulling away, but rather he physically could no longer type or easily read his text messages. I asked if I should come out there, and she said yes. My sisters and I all coordinated to catch a flight out there. That night, knowing I wasn't going to sleep anyway, I stayed up, packed, cried, ran out for coffee, cried some more. As I was out getting coffee, I looked up at the stars and saw them as I had when I was 6-outside on a frigid night with my father, learning what all the constellations were, shivering hands trying to hold on to too-big binoculars (we couldn't ever afford a telescope), and I loved every second of that time together. I tried so hard not to cry because I was terrified that I'd never stop. I wrote my father a letter then, unsure if I'd ever actually give it to him, but I poured everything I wanted him to know into that letter.
After that, I couldn't seem to stop writing. On the plane out, everyday I was out there, on the plane home. When I came home, I felt compelled to finish writing about everything I experienced out in the desert, but I felt a million miles away from my real spirit. It dawned on me then that my father had read my heart so well, he just neglected to realize that he was my inspiration. His happiness and pure love opened my heart to accept all the possibilities that my writing my bring about, not just the negative ones. I had become so focused on the bad, I had forgotten that my writing may inspire, help, or grab a giggle or two. In the end, that's what really matters, not the skeletons themselves. They've done their damage already, where I am now is the positive result of said occurrences. It's not how my life began, but what I've done with it since.
So, what does a moving sale mean? You're clearing out the old and getting ready for the new-new possibilities, new memories, new chances to find more of yourself. In the spirit of new things, I will post my one and only self-picture (I don't do pictures, unless I'm BEHIND the camera).
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