Here’s where I am today. I slept poorly and woke with a yuck stomach. It’s my Slow Down, Girl stomach. I think the weekend tuckered me plain out. First thing this morning, before the alarm even, I had to do a lot of Mom-ing. D2 threw a big ole fit and I had to ride it out with her right there in bed. She pulled it together, though, and we were able to talk about it, so I felt pretty good about my mom-ing, especially since it occurred before it was even light out. And the girls got to school on time. Score two for Grownup Me. Got some birthday party plans locked down, did some bills, walked and listened by the creek, and now I have this cozy house all to myself and can listen to Allison Krauss and Union Station loudly while sipping my gypsy cold care tea. Currently got “The Lucky One” on repeat.

I’m proud of myself for slowing down. Self-care is hard. It requires some degree of belief in yourself, and I am chronically low on that. One thing this year of poems has taught me, though, is that pride is not a sin. Pride is delicious. Pride is necessary. In the act of creation, there must be many moments of belief in myself. Little inaudible moments of “Fuck Yeah, I Rule” must occur for for the courage to arrive. I’m going to write a poem about that and go do yoga. Yea Me! I Love Me!. Lorie wrote it, and even though she probably felt a smidge like I do right now, like I’m talking myself into it, I bet a large part of her finally believed it.

Pride in the Mind

They say it takes five positive thoughts
to outweigh the physical effects of one negative one.  
I’m screwed.

But in the finding mind, the making mind,
the mind where the words are daylight in a dark place,
each keystroke is valiant.
Each phrase I own is the battle cry of an outnumbered army
with conviction in its roar,
and every attempt is a surprise upset on the battlefield.

Soon this war against the darkness and its demons will be won.


Why has it taken me so long to figure this out? I blame ‘Merica.