This quote so fits this letter-c journey. “Difficulties are just things to overcome, after all.”― Ernest Shackleton I couldn’t agree more.  The letter-c  doesn’t define me, it doesn’t control me nor will it ever be the end of me. Positive outlooks are key for any health battle. “Superhuman effort isn’t worth a damn unless it achieves results.”― Ernest Shackleton

On that note, I’m going to take you to my song choice for the day by Pink, A Million Dreams.  I think all the time about all the dreams I haven’t accomplished yet. I look at all the things I’ve collected a long the way but there’s still those missing elusive ones I want. Letter-c won’t deter me.

Writing has always felt elusive to me because I was guilty of looking at myself through the eyes of others, judging instead of appreciating every word I did put on the page in spite of the situation. Many of you aren’t aware of  the darker times of my life, the demon aka my first husband, who took great pleasure in undermining me. He wrote his name on everything I wrote. When I’ve told people that, they looked at me like I have three heads but then when I hand them my journals they hang their heads because they had no idea what kind of man he was.  It took a lot for my muse to gain the confidence to break free of the toxin. Now, when I look at these journals, I see documented proof I wasn’t diminished by his actions instead I became stronger.

I put the words on the page. They’re not perfect but they’re mine. I said to a good friend, “Art isn’t clean… if it is then you have a blank canvas, you haven’t painted yet.”~ Lyn Crain. Occasionally, I have gems.  Or in my case, my pages aren’t written yet. I know how destructive that self-critic is, but thankfully the letter-c has given me a nudge. Writing the vignettes isn’t always fun but then I’m reminded of Hunter S. Thompson’s quote, “writing is the most hateful kind of work, I suspect it’s a bit like fucking, which is only fun for amateurs. Old whores don’t do much giggling.”

I didn’t understand love when I  first began writing poetry but I knew it offered me a means to express my fears, my dreams even my anger. This one is from 2003 when I was feeling conflicted about the direction life was unfolding.

Love denied me,

 offering instead sharp and bloody thorns

hidden behind fragile blooms.

 Its flattery prose was spoken softer

than a petal’s caress teasing

my smoldering heart to waken

before dousing it with

despair.©

I’ve never chosen a name for it. There are times when I simply think Reality Check works as the title but the less skeptical me knows love exists but at that time I didn’t believe it was possible.