I feel like writing

Its funny that I don’t have anything specific in mind. I’m just going to begin typing and see what comes out.

Dance. I joined a contemporary class and its challenging. If I walk into class with heaviness in my heart it shows up in my movements and in my patience with my progress. Last class I was pissed. The instructor was moving too fast and I didn’t remember much as I was expected to run through with a group of two- the other two in my line.

I was irritated. I didn’t remember. I needed more time. I wasn’t ready and I hadn’t mastered these moves, so why on Earth would I want to “run through it with my line”? I struggled through after two suggestions to “feel the movement” and do what I could remember. Still sounds absurd, but I’m trying to apply that to life.

 

  1. Feel- be in the moment.
  2. Cast off the concern of perfection.

Story.

Of.

My.

Life.

 

One day I’ll get there. I’ll dance like no one is watching. Like the steps are mine to create. Like each movement is perfect without rehearsal. And until then…I’ll check the mirror but look at it less. More feeling, less thinking. More in the moment, less planning. More living, less analyzing my life.

Starting now.

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I’m crying.

Will.

Did I tell y’all I don’t do that often. So when I do. When I start to cry, I take time to feel that emotion that caused me to break through my stone wall of guardedness to the point of tears.

I need a minute.

I could see why you didn’t or wouldn’t have respected me 10 months ago. When we first met, how we met. Who I was when we met. I was me, but a different shade of me. So I could see how you could think this treatment was acceptable then.

But we’ve spent time together. You know me. I know you. I shared me. You shared you. I thought I feel in love. Enough to demand distance. To be hurt by the distance I demanded. To second guess my decision to put me first and cover myself and protect my heart. The one thats patched up from the pass. So its just not okay for me to be treated this way. Will, you know me. Or I thought you did. And if you know me, enough and this is acceptable to you. This is true to your nature. You’re okay with your behavior then I was wrong. And the worse pain is the kind you realize you initiated.

I have no words. I’m so sad that I can’t get angry. So angry that I’m only really sad. I’m depleted. I’m empty. I’m worn out. And I don’t understand how things can go so South so quickly and so clearly.

But you still follow me on Snapchat. Do you know I can see you watching me on Snapchat. I’m irritated that Snapchat has made it into a very serious very deep very real blog post. I’m crying. And part of it is because you would rather follow me, watch me, admire me, see me from a distance than get close, stay close, be close.

That is some bull shit. And I hate to cuss in a post. I just can’t identify if its me or if its you. No, its absolutely you. But if I thought I loved you, then its also completely me. So now I’m over here sad. Do I delete, block, ignore, agress, assert, retreat, suppress.

He is showing you. Believe him.

Stop having access to me and not being accessible to me. I’ll control that.

I cried and showered. Seems appropriate. Now I’m listening to worship music. This is the only way I get empty and full at the same time. Its an hour past my bedtime and I just want to cry more. Feel more. Lean in and on God even more.

I’m not mad anymore. I’m still sad. But that will pass. I was supposed to grade papers and uber-plan for tomorrow. Plans are done. Grading is not. Its okay. I need this time. This is necessary. I deserve to feel this. To feel and then to be over it.

This thing happened. And I realize that I am just really tired of settling. And I’m uncomfortable giving my energy in empty places that cannot reciprocate. I want to forgive and let go and then not repeat the pattern of prostituting my gifts, and my calling, and my encouragement and my love. I am not cheap. Nothing about me is inexpensive. I’m costly. And that’s okay.

I need a top 5. Pourers who pour in. And they need to be real people.

The pourer-intoers are never lacking. I’ll be choosy this time.