On moving.

Another email, I don't hit reply and you are important, crazy so.The kid's haircuts, forgot. The middle one can't see past his bangs. The exit, drove past it, dreaming of fantasies in my belly. Piles of dishes that would devastate me if you walked in the kitchen and saw.

The stuck takes over the impulsive woman who runs her business and family on her desires and whimsy. .......

You run out of gas but decide not to put any gas in so you can just sit there, in the middle of the open road that stuck took you towards and be the eyes of witnessing.

You watch the other cars drive by and hold the power to join them, but you want only to sit inside of the truck with your windows rolled down, naked and longing and feeling the warm air soothe the bits of you that try to infuse the guilt.

The guilt will flow through and the child who grew into the words that defined her life become a pulse of story that plays on with new words and so she sits and watches.

And this is what we say to her...

Hey sweet love.

It is time now. It is time.

Get out and place your feet on the warm ground.

Feel it, let the heat go from pavement into soles.

Lift your head up to the sky and thank the Goddesses who hold you who know you who become you.

Now without thinking love, start to move.

Dance or run or skip or fly or devour another, but move.

Go.

It is time now. It is time.

Don't worry how. I will show you why.

As soon as you move.

.......

From Thursday morning love letters, dropped like feathers into your inbox before your coffee starts to brew.