The Longing For My Type Writer.

I miss my typewriter. there was no expectation for perfection because mistakes were inevitable. perfection wasn't possible, so there was no point in trying. and everything always came to life. even the messy. even the ugly. that alone made it beautiful. computers and posts are missing that compelling ingredient. i will continue to try. but still, i miss my typewriter. i gave it away as soon as packing, moving, and unpacking became an unwelcomed trend. besides it needed a tune up, and i thought i needed to leave it’s stories behind. it felt necessary to begin again. but now i miss it and would gladly invite back all those stories to have it right here, when i’m stumped before i’ve ever really began. but now i’ve begun.

with no reason or rhyme or learned desire to fit, surely my suitcase heart would unfold, one unplanned line, at a time.

good things happen on tuesdays. it’s always been tuesday.

quickly, fully, deeply, proudly, abruptly. i feel (it all.) quickly, fully, deeply, proudly. 

two voices quarrel beneath my ribs, under the abyss of mysterious details. somewhere inside there, reason is forbidden and feeling is welcomed. i have found this is strangely unfound among the masses. and so i wonder why. 

i wonder.

my girls. oh how glad i am to have girls. to build an infrastructure of curiosity, leaving truth for inquiry, and choice for empowerment. 

today my hair was good. wind blown, sexy, messy, muffled, haphazardly lovely, with a mind of it's own, just how i like it. on the cusp of a planned change, it happens. always. now i must cancel my appointment. sigh.

nostaligia has always been a dear friend. i thrive in the ache and desire for what once was. it's less of a sign of discontentment and more of way of extracting every last drop of beauty. 

i miss everything while simultaneously already missing the here and now, the future, before it's even begun. 

i miss Denver. those simple days. just us and a babe in my day dreams. and then soon, a babe on the way. the snow. the malbec. the music. the food. the dedicated practice of yoga. the walking, the biking, the finally living the way i always wanted. the gut wrenching beauty of beginning. the strange comfort of being alone. our dear friends, their love and heartache. their divorce and devastation, it split me wide open, teaching me something too profound for words. and the way those sunflowers would hang and wilt, and lift toward the sun. ray lamontange, the forever soundtrack of those days. i ache for it all again. and yet i remember my ache for home. for portland. for my dance community and friends. for my sister. my mother. i ached so deep and so wide, not fully realizing everything i had right then and there.

this is how it goes. 

i miss nyc. i miss the wild freedom and indulgence of self discovery. the ache for love, all the while finding what it means to truly love (myself.) the bruises and growing pains, emotionally and physically, from a body that danced 40 hours a week and a soul that searched, wake to slumber. the freedom, that i had no idea was mine. 

i miss casper, wyoming even they all told me i wouldn't. i often spoke harshly unfair on that season, but i think it was my rupture. it was my deepest practice in making the most exquisite lemonade my world had to offer. I did a damn good job, or so I would like to think. That's where i planted roots deep inside myself. where i learned the art of taking my time. the desert might have been my greatest gift. it's where i embraced going against the grain, not out of spite, but out of my deepest heart cry, out of staying true. and the homemade bread, the homemade everything. And those women i met, their faces still imprinted in my heart and mind. Their love for a God i find harder to know and understand these days, it was so real to them and for them. If I believe, I want to believe with all my guts, just like them. I often feel one foot out the door. Not in faith, not in understanding, because i don't even need to fully understand.  But it's the language used and expressed. it is not my own. i am still searching...

and now this is every last ramble. 

just. like. my typewriter. 

 i must buy one tomorrow. 

or maybe tuesday. 

i am coming to an end. and i feel the urge to edit and revise. but i can't. i won't. this is the integrity of my long lost typewriter. this is why on tuesday i will put on my gray boots and walk to that sweet shop on the corner, the one next to octaves favorite art studio. the shop i saw that typewriter i was once afraid to spend the money on.

my soul needs it. 

enough said.