June

My legs are scratched and bruised, my shoulders are brown, just like when I was eight. I've almost fallen off a trail's edge several times now, usually in an attempt to pluck a strange wildflower or thistle. Along the way I see beetles and fire ants and rabbits and Queen Anne's lace and honeysuckle and jasmine. Earbuds in, I choreograph dances in my mind, like that time I was drunk and leaned up against our fireplace mantel, hands fluttering patterns for both themselves and the feet. You all laughed at my silliness. I kept going. 

I eat grapefruit while standing, gazing out of my kitchen window. It reminds me of my mother and of her mother. I eat California strawberries and avocados and I drink red wine and bourbon. I am happier more often than I'm not. Sometimes I press both hands into my door frame and whisper a thank you to my home for being here. Like that childhood game where you push push push then release and your arms float up like an angel's. 

I don't have the answers, not yet. And I feel guilty and uncertain and less than and too late and a failure and I apologize too much and sometimes I still cry myself to sleep. 

But then I awake. 

And I keep going. 

Little Talk

I blame it on the dancing.

What? 

The need to control, to constantly remain composed. To hide any hurt or pain and to be beautiful, always. 

You know what I've found to be a suitable, perhaps superior replacement?

What?

Yoga. 

I'm teacher's pet in class. Which is bad for those other issues. But I feel safe as our eyes lock in the mirror and I recognize approval. I can look as shitty as I feel. I can breathe and realize what those feelings truly are. And I can be ugly ugly ugly. Because it doesn't matter. The inside is becoming beautiful. 

The saddest girl to ever hold a martini

A very kind soul has pointed out that I seem, perhaps, a little sad. 

Well, that internet Heather has seemed a little sad.

I forget that these entries are viewed as a representation of myself and can be taken quite literally.  Oftentimes I'm trying ideas on for size, and that's simply all it is.  I do know that inspiration can strike when times are tough.  I'm unsure of why this may be.  I have only found that comfortability doesn't breed creativity.  At least, in my experience.  If you're too busy snuggling into your lover's armpit, that is the best and only thing in the world.  Perhaps you'll pen love sonnets galore, but, more often than not, you'll be gazing into each other's eyes and ordering Thai food.  Not saying that's a bad thing. 

I've been thinking a lot about creativity and productivity.  I've been wondering why I'm drawn to more solitary mediums lately.  Wondering why so many authors seem so very sad.  Wondering why, from day one, I'd been interested in being directed and molded, the muse and not the maker. 

It's that last little query that has me going today.  I've always been willing to place my trust into everyone else's hands.  I do very little trusting of myself.  And I think it's maybe the kernel of my unhappiness.

So that's what's going on here.  I'm taking control and I'm taking charge.  I'm asking for what I need, and maybe even sometimes for what I simply want.  And I will not be sorry.  This, to me, feels very bitchy to write.  But it's not.  It's absolutely not.

This is one of my very favorite days.  Let's go out and live it, yes?

Happy

I think the universe is trying to test me today.

It's nine o'clock on a Sunday night, and I received an outside phone call (a.k.a. from a non-guest, not even staying in the hotel) asking for a barber, right now, for his boss.  Ten minutes later, another gentleman called asking what I had to do to get an acoustic guitar in his room by tonight.

Le Sigh.

Earlier this afternoon, I was snapped at for something I had done according to standard procedure.  This was immediately followed by me sobbing alone in the bell closet.

Rough day.

These are the times that lead me to daydreaming about working with small animals or children.

Or running away to Italy.

It can get overwhelming sometimes.  And perhaps other people deal with these things differently...better...than I do.  They can keep a positive outlook, and never struggle with the Chicken Little mentality.  And I try to be cognizant, I really do.  Just a slight tweak, a shift in thinking that reminds me of all I have to be grateful for.  Most of the time it works, and I come out on the other side, still a touch sad, but ready to keep on keepin' on.

I was ready to count this day as one of those unsalvageable, just no good, roll up like a burrito in my comforter when I get home days.

And then my sweet friend brought me a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar.  I'm tempted to crack it open right now at the desk but that is so not standard procedure.

Moving onward, here's to dancing and practicing that ukulele and being kind to others and being kind to myself and listening to music and maybe making some music and falling back in love with acting and traveling and exploring the possibility of teaching or dogwalking or anything else that might bring more happy days than not.