A Letter to Myself

Do you want to run?  Let's hold hands and run with coyotes.

Do you want to sing?  Sing until light lifts from your skin like an easy sunrise.

Do you want to sit quietly and watch?  Then grab your blankets, watch those tiny lizards in the grass, and narrate their funny, busy pace to find each other.

Do you want to walk among the ones just like you?  Then go.  Go to where you feel them, hear them, see them.  But don't walk.  Run.  They might be leaving soon because it's getting hot and one of them forgot sunscreen.  Run toward the ones just like you because that's a start.

Then turn the other way and bump into all the rest.  Be uncomfortable and green.  Nobody cares if you're not where you think you should be.  We all have a parallel me - the one we planned on and the one who says "that's horsesh*t" to her children.   Push yourself to stand there - all there - every stretch of your 5 foot 6 inches without hunching like a scared kangaroo.  Honor your expression as much as theirs for both are valid.  This place won't last forever.  Three years has already turned into one down, two more to go.  There is rich, exciting fabric to weave yourself into where some won't notice and others won't forget.

Go and be here while you still can.

Because you still most certainly can.