Spelling Love with an H

I thought I would wield the poet’s pen.

What I am finding is that healing your life doesn’t usually have one step, or 7, no matter what the books say. Sometimes things domino and healing your thoughts heals your body. I lead with my mind, and find my footing by scrawling on paper.

Thirty seven days and I haven’t written out my answer. Not even after nearly 30 days of not being able to write. Nearly 60 days of blank pages.

This time around, I haven’t exactly figured out what my last completed portfolio truly says but it is done. It hung on a wall and now lives in a box in a storage unit in a town I don’t live in anymore. How’s that for removing myself from the situation?

Healing has been shoveling snow. Unpacking the past. Recycling love (letters). Even editing negative files has been necessary. No worries. I don’t entertain the notion of being Vivian Maier, and know enough about the art to edit with a trash can as needed. (Stumbling upon her work at Blue Sky on a recent trip was a superb detour!)

When your dropbox account looks like a teenage boy’s closet, the chaos isn’t just a reflection of a busy schedule. At least mine wasn’t. It was evidence of a mind that didn’t know where to put anything–from excel files to the stories of my life. I didn’t know that a folder labeled “the past” could be just that, a system for housing what has happened, not a label for who you are.

The cleaning, physical cleaning is done. The mental cleaning, that type of healing love isn’t over. Which is why I keep writing. I’m ok with the writing through layers. It is the lack of living through anything else right now that leaves me feeling stuck. Feeling as though my year of love has gone the way of most people’s New Year’s Diet Plan.

I should save the recap of the year for a December post and leave with saying, for now, the most pronounced love is for the friends I have, the family who made me and cookies. There will always be love for cookies.

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