“I hate leaving home. I love what I do, but I’d love to go home every night.” ~ Charlie Watts

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This one time, back in 2015, I thought I had it all figured out.

I finally “lost the weight” after trying and failing for 25 years. I became a runner. I wrote the sh*t out of that and every other subject under the sun. I was suddenly an expert, I suppose. We all feel like experts when we’ve “done the thing” that historically eludes us, no?

In doing the writing writing writing, I bared my heart and soul to the universe. Completely. I told my stories. I spoke freely about my dark human struggles, which somehow resonated with yours, and I received the cascading dopamine hits of validation (in the form of likes and shares on social media) I was undeniably seeking.

Still do, apparently.

Why else do we reveal our secrets? Why else would we expose our tender vulnerabilities if not to absorb the soft echos of others whispering, “Yes, yes, me too, me too.”

The writing writing writing helped me on my journey toward “happy, whole person completeness.” Yes, I just barfed right along with you after writing that last sentence. Whatever.

But, because I’ve figuratively felt like a rolling stone (with no direction home) most of my life, the writing writing writing pushed me to a pivotal point where everything seemed to make sense. I had solved my own puzzle! In other words, I found my place and I took up space, and it was damn glorious.

I figured out how to take care of myself. I successfully squashed my demons. I regularly batted them into the nose-bleeds, and I felt happier in my skin.

I wrote some mad, righteous poetry! I showed you myself in a seemingly fearless way. Yes, it was scary. No, I didn’t hold back.

I also wrote relatable pieces about motherhood and parenthood and womanhood and the entire spectrum of “other hoods” I felt qualified to blab away about. I posted affirmations and uplifting quotes. I talked about Buddha and meditation and some of my newly formed freaky-deaky spirituality. I healed. I did the yoga. I looked for answers to the many questions I had simmering on my stove. I found a few and I thought I was so cool. Self-serving? Of course!

I looked for truth and raw beauty and I felt enlightened as f*ck. Empowered and at peace with myself for the first time ever. I churned out article after article, my words like a blasting faucet I couldn’t turn off. My need to drop and drip and drizzle my thoughts will always be part of who I am.

Seemingly, I had all my ducks in a row. They floated around for a bit all nice and organized. They quacked at me once in a while, but for the most part, they were corralled and controlled. In their spiritless existence of “doing the right thing,” they grew bored and restless. They went out looking for a rumble. The election of DJT offered the straight up, fiery, fight club my ducks and I found impossible to resist. We went all in! We pecked our way through. We swam across the steaming swamp of ignorance and arrived on the other side battered and bruised, with a few less friends (and feathers). It is what it is.

Then, of course, The Covid descended upon the land. Super fun times for all. A jammed, bumper to bumper clusterf*ck on the Misinformation Highway. Suddenly a lethal, airborne virus has become a political weapon, and my life, like yours, has been turned on its head.

Keyboard scientists speaking in tongues, coupled with bloated Fox News talking heads lead us away from education right into Conspiracy Nation. Who gives a flying whit about anything if you’re sick? If your friends and family are part of the growing number of casualties? Who can care about anything at all amid the worry and gear switching and spikes and lockdowns and cancellations? The virus has shifted our priorities. We’ve become activists and empaths, which is a good thing, but we’re still masked up, disconnected, and angry. And tired.

I’m so tired, ya’ll.

Also, the most decent Rolling Stone of all just died, so there’s that. There’s that! <insert sad face>. The good ones always leave first.

Now I’m at that point in my life where I’m just trying to live happy every day. I want to live in the moment, enjoy the present, forget about the past, and let go of the future. I want to keep writing writing writing, so here I am, doing the writing. Writing keeps me sane.

Aside from the writing writing writing, I’d like to keep fighting the good fight. For the world, and for myself. I want to work for change. For the world, for myself.

Finding my little place on the planet has always been simply a matter of finding a comfortable place within myself and truly living inside a few pulsing truths before I grow old and die:

I’ve learned a lot, but I’ve got nothing figured out.

Yes, I really can let go of all the stuff that no longer serves my spirit. I really, really can.

I don’t owe any part of myself to anyone but myself.

Exercise and eating healthy will always be a boring, lonely, daily grind especially for someone like me who uses food as both a weapon and a pacifier.

My experience is not your experience. There is no one size fits all.

Honesty takes practice, especially with myself.

I can’t always get what I want.

I am here to love and be loved. That’s it.

Most days, seeking a bit of raw beauty inside myself is the most important thing I can do to find happiness.

Jealousy is common, and I’m done being common.

No matter how great my life is going, there will always be an unexpected Frisbee to the head. And no matter how many Frisbee’s (metaphorically) hit me in the head, there will always be hard choices that lead to solutions. One of which, quite frankly, is to avoid all the Frisbee’s.

Good old rockers may bid goodbye, but rock n’ roll will never die.

Even a fine wine turns the corner eventually, but I’m not ready to give up yet.

When I try sometimes, I usually find…I get what I need.

Peace today and every day, my dear friends. Thank you for “doing the reading.”

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