to soar

I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly
Though it’s not easy to tell you goodbye…

About a year ago, I took a little shack deep in the woods —

And turned it into my playhouse — and my alter.

Here, chandeliers of question marks hang from the ceiling and on the menu every day —

Plain and simple —

Alphabet soup — or sandwiches, pancakes, cupcakes, truffles —

“Julie-anned” — if you will — which means whatever I happened to be in the mood for — or moved by at the time.

From my magical window in this worded den, I took in the ever changing vista and occasionally even stuck my head out the door. 

I’ve tried on a truckload of shoes — and a found a few pairs I could run in that maybe even looked —

Hot.

Yeah, it’s been a nice place to grow a pair of wings — and well, I’ll leave it at that.

Cause if I go on much longer, I might just cry a —

Metaphor.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

But it’s time for me to soar, I believe.  I hope.  I trust.

What’s next is yet to be determined — but hey, keep returning for awhile —

Wouldya please? 

I’ll find a way to keep the archives circulating so you have fresh water on the front page — and when the manuscript is done —

You’ll be the first to know.

God bless.

 

Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won’t forget all the ones that I love
I’ll take a risk, take a chance, make a change
And breakaway

 (Breakaway lyrics — Kelly Clarkson)

the silence of the line

It came from two stories up wearing cartooned pajama bottoms —

A “holy crap” that broke the silence of the line now a couple of blocks long and winding it’s way down Oak Grove just 24 minutes after the polls opened.

My Dunn Bros. is still steaming, the morning is shut-up-and-kiss-me gorgeous, and I’m idling about a block away from my destination feeling slightly — well —

Giddy.

Oh, it’s not the election —

Or the end of the campaign —

Or the expected outcome —

Trust me.

It’s this line.

Barely moving on the surface — alive and crawling with as many ideals and statements and dreams as there are arms and legs —

A breathing mosaic of energy and color that opens every last hatch in my house and pulls me outside — and into it —

With not a word —

Not an invitation —

Or an intention —

But a flow unto itself. 

I am here.  And this is now.

And that’s enough. 

*********8:41 a.m. Voter #259 MINNEAPOLIS W-7 P-05

colonel mustard

I added a “pop” of color to my wardrobe this fall.

Nothin too flashy — just a tone to break the black and grey zone —

Up the contrast and say “updated” —

So I acquired “bronzed ochre” matchstick cords and a “golden cypress” cardigan — and “pop” —

Today I was branded —

“Colonel Mustard.”

This, of course, means I will never ever wear these two articles of clothing together under any circumstances again in my lifetime — or yours. 

And more than likely — I will give them away before the next full moon.

But don’t hold your breath for another glimpse of the kernel — 

It’s highly doubtful anyone holding a sign saying “homeless will work for food and diapers” would be caught dead in mustard from head to toe.

Shudder.

comfort-fit

(Part 2 of ‘room to grow’)

If, indeed, I “pulled it off” —

And I’m not convinced I did — but if I did — in any way — as the comment implied —

What I did — was tear off a layer on a very complicated topic I am way better at being clever about — than doing.

So far this “practice stage” has held up pretty well under the weight of my musings. 

And thanks to those who have come along for the ride — on their own or by my dragging — I continue to learn and grow by addressing myself and sharing it through this forum.

Because a writer without readers is —

Well — like losing “The Contest” —

You know — doing the best thing you can imagine doing with someone else — alone. 

Sure, sometimes the elastic snaps you in the gut and other times it leaves you hanging —

But when two people are sharing a waistband — well —

A comfort-fit is bound to be tricky.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about it —

For now.