who does she think she is to believe in herself that much?

"small flowers crack concrete" -- what a perfect tiny poem for today

Thinking about a life worth living, and I’ve got a quick write this morning — I like how this regular blogging practice gets me to type up workshop writes a little more often!

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Body Empathy (this Saturday, 11/13) still has a couple of spaces available! We’d love to write with you!
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Here’s a prompt I offered this past Monday, and the write I did in response.
I gave these two phrases:

– “Who does she think she is?” (or Who do you think you are or Who do I think I am)
– I always knew that given half a chance… (thanks to Maggie at this weekend’s retreat for that one!)
Let yourself write for about 15 minutes in response to whichever of these your writing self has already affixed itself to! Follow your writing wherever it seems to want to go…

Here’s my response to this prompt:

Who does she think she is, wanting so much time to herself, walking around with clouds in her ears, asking for time off like picking apples from a tree in your own backyard, that free and easy?

Who does she think she is, expecting to feel good in her body like its her birthright, expecting to walk proud down any street, wanting to be well-slept, kindly fed, gently tended to every day — I mean, really! Where does she come off wanting an affordable place to live with a view of the ocean and a living room big enough to hold workshops in, wanting a dog that fluffs its ears under her lips when she tells it good night, a series of uninterrupted days just to write — honestly. How greedy can you get? Did you hear? She wants to work less and still have safe housing! She wants time for gardening, tending to raw honest herbs, she wants time to stare at the ocean, she wants time to wander through eucalyptus-lined, thickly green paths, and she doesn’t want to have to wait til she’s 65 for the privilege.

She wants peace and writing days now, she wants belly-aching laughs during meals with friends now, she wants to overhaul the possibilities of her quality of presence now, she wants ocean-thudded mornings and cricket-lined nights, she wants color slating her roof and eyes, she wants whole days devoted to glitter and glue guns (or at least glitter and construction paper and collage) — days to wander through thrift stores hunting for writing prompts, she wants enough sleep that she can slip out of headache and into her body, into her fingertips and heels, back into the backs of her knees and into the palms of her feet. She wants time to do the writing that hurts, writing that tears her open, tears at her heart, tears up her eyes and lips and who does she think she is to believe in herself that much?

She wants to be a writer, can you imagine? She wants to dash pepper and poetry on her eggs, she wants weekends and months where all she does is soak into other people’s new words — she wants nasturtiums trailing and calla lilies pushing their broad green and ivory realities into her backyard and she says that’s all the bouquet she needs. I mean, who says things like that? She says she wants the radio for company and she’s turned off her computer. Already her fingers are looking more like typewriter keys or calligraphy — have you seen her? Already she’s moving her body like she has some right to be loose and free. Already she’s dancing when everyone knows it’s time to go to work. Doesn’t she know it’s time to go to work? Who is she to say she is working?

Thank you for your words today, your work today, all the forms it takes, for your dedication to your vision, your desires, to what you wish for from this one life…