Dear Lord

Dear God, am I ever a work in progress. Lord, I am doing my best. I am doing my best to be myself. When I am seeking to please everybody, I am doomed to fall short, to second-guess, doomed to to self-imposed doubt and lamentation. All I can take responsibility for are my own intentions. And when I begin - or continue - to worry about whether I'm meeting everyone's expectations - especially my own, when they are old and worn and heavy like a canvas cloack - I want to disappear. I want to go smoke in an alley and write in a journal and crawl under dark covers in the arms of the one who knows me best.

This is not about money, or fame, or success, or winning. It is not about image or proving or defending or being enough. It is, Oh thank you Mary Oliver, about letting the soft animal of my body love what it loves - the rain on my face as I run, the pitter-patter of little feet bounding towards me, that luscious extra hour in bed, stretching and drifting under soft sheets that haven't been washed in at least two weeks. It is about doing my work in this world, which is to be a mama, to write, to practice rising above judgment and perfectionism, to do my best to be a good friend, to love Greg unconditionally, to risk everything, to risk everything, to risk everything in the name of being true to this, all of this, these pure intentions, this tender heart.