I'm small today. Not small in any sense of the word that would imply being mean, or petty. I'm not those things. (Not petty anyway)
And I don't mean small in the literal sense either. Even though I'm short.
I'm small today against my own self. Small inside the memory of who I used to be.
When I was an angsty teen I used to go to the ocean and sit on rock piers with a journal and a pen. Just to feel that littleness. To measure my distress against nature's vast expanse.
Cliche. Overdone. The girl with the journal looking out at the sea. And the funny part is I never wrote anything down. I brought it why? So anyone looking at me could categorize me? "See there. Over there? Yeah, that artsy girl with the journal." I think they'd call me emo these days....
Or maybe I brought it because I hoped the words would come. But they didn't. Not then anyway.
I took three steps back today. I finished something that I started a lifetime ago. I got up early, in the black morning, and drove away. And in the car I had the quiet time to revisit so much of what I've done.
I was little. I had a baby. I was scrappy. I figured it out.
She was brought up with candles and music and life all around her. I looked at her and felt small. She was the ocean to me. And I began to write in her presence.
And then my world got caught up somehow with life. And busy successful things. I morphed quickly from the "artistic disappointment" to the "capable success story."
Yawn. How did that happen?
But today, I began to right it all. Back on track to eccentricity. Fantastic....
Shhhhhh.... I'm going back there now. Back down to that place where nothing matters more than my face against the sky. It's been a good day.