From the Hip

why am i a teacher I'm like no one else yet I want to blend in and be like everyone else Accepted for fitting in but trying to find a voice. Angry but not at the right things. Knowing there is more but not able to read the map or compass or program the gps. Not comfortable with wandering or wondering. Wanting to set sail yet not knowing how to pull the anchor and accept help from the crew. The moment right before the light gets turned on or the click of seat belt or the moment before the swish of the net and the crowd goes wild. In the blocks legs bent ready for the gun to sound.

minutes slide away into a space that cannon be reclaimed. i'll call you let's meet up call me- like leaves on a spring moving river carried away floating into the wild like a scrabble box dropped on the ground this is worth X if only paired with Y. scattered ideas, dreams scraps of fabric laying on table waiting to be assembled into something bigger better grander.

every day for a month is hard..... this of things that i do daily sleep eat brush teeth brush hair wash body drive to work drive from work pick up kids cook dinner drink coffee put on earrings breathe

Spring Break Blues... Back from a warm road trip with two girls under 5. Bare feet no showers lots of new things to see. Spring has sprung in the south but now in the cold dark never ending winter of the mitten state i dream of flip flops and sipping wine in the back yard the sun dancing off the budding leaves.

Georgia on my mind i met my spirit animal today a wiry old lady who raises horses and write left handed and tells it like it is. what a spring break to meet a person who lived a life saying and doing and being what she wanted.

rules for sister on 2nd birthday an interview with big sister. cut the cake. know that things are dangerous. make sure you don't cut yourself make sure you don't smash your face or get paper cut. make sure you don't fall down the toilet. wear fancy dresses. that is all that is in my head.

April. National Poetry Month. Goal: Write a new poem each day of the month if ya going to be a writer...you need to write ode to Jason Reynolds who reminded me that ya just gotta do it.  dusting off the cobwebs of my blog I remember the younger more hopeful self who loved to write and play and dance with the words.  hope ain't no big dream or take over the world plan or ceo office. it's a splash of cream in the coffee and 3 am mama cried out in the dark. it's pushing back the piles of laundry and papers and unread books to find a blank space that can be labeled  mine.