The girl who was once from NYC unintentionally transplanted to the sticky trap of the CT countryside. Teacher, singer, writer. Dancer along the path through the dark.
~May words and music and laughter light the way to kindred spirits, kind of heart~
Also a Mommy. That's the most important thing that's happened along the way, but not what this blog will be about.
Words and music and more brought to you by merisongbird.
Sometimes we stay away not because we no longer care, but because we cared so much.
Fun Fact: I learned to fish in Jamaica when I was eight. My brother and I made fishing poles from sticks and fishing line, and my brother showed me how to put a hook on the end. We killed hermit crabs and used them for bait. We’d sit at the end of the rocks by the ocean and dangle our tempting bait into the water below. Often we would catch some fish and sometimes we would put them in the salt water pool we had at the house we were renting. Sometimes we would just throw them back in the ocean. I wasn’t as into it as I could have been if we weren’t killing the poor little hermit crabs. And I always felt bad for the fish.
I never really developed a taste for fishing of any kind. I don’t fish for attention, fish for compliments, or fish. And when I see people doing whatever they can to lure other people to be near them I can’t help but think of fishing. And some people are so desperate to catch something they want, they lose sight that what they want might not be theirs to catch.
Some days of divorce are easier and some are not. Just like with anything.
Some people fade in and out of your life but constant stars are constant and I love them for that. They pick me up when I am down. They are real and true though they burn so many light years away from me at times. I am thankful. I am grateful. Sometimes hateful, all depending.
At least I know I can always be there for people even though they all might not always be there for me.
The difference between your vision of something, the hope in your heart, the way you had thought, and the reality can be a very hard stretch to cross. And the grief circle keeps coming around.
Sometimes intense anger is like spoken word poetry; like being in a poetry slam. And I wish I had recorded myself, because it came out so perfectly in isolation.