The other night, I was at an open Mic night for poetry. Sitting around that poetry circle, passing the mic and listening to poets of all ages share their works and bare their souls, I was reminded that at their age, I didn’t have the courage to do that at their age. I was always writing, but I would slam the notebook shut if anyone tried to read it and if someone did get ahold of something, I’d all too often end up abandoning it and throwing it away.

See, I told myself over and over that it wasn’t good enough, criticizing myself out of even trying to take part in a critique group or a workshop, or anything that would leave me exposed to comments or criticism, or even praise. I still blush when someone complements me or my work. I still feel like there were things I should have done to make it better, places where things fell apart, and so many ways in which me and what I do will never measure up.

Then I go to something like open mic, or the writing workshop I attended over the weekend, and I am reminded of how much fun it can be to not worry about being judged and just do something because I love it and because I want to do it and because it challenges me and makes me happy to dabble in. One of the things the presenter at that workshop did was remind us all about the dangers of talking ourselves out of things.

Wow did that hit home. I can’t tell you how many things I have talked myself out of over the years, or allowed others to talk me out of. I still haven’t seen Berkely, or attended an art class in New York City. I’ve still never taken that coast to coast train ride alone where I could simply sit by the windows and write while the country drifted past. I’ve still never been to Scotland, or Paris, or any one of a number of places on my bucket list.

As I write this, I’m reminded of the fact that our time here is limited and therefore precious, and that limiting ourselves just might be one of the cruelest things we can do to ourselves. So, if you take anything away from this ramble of a blog post, let it be encouragement to take chances, reach for the stars, follow your dreams and never let your inner voices silence you.

And now for my bit of positive, a glimpse into Gypsy’s Rogue

“What. Happened.”
“He told me Mom wasn’t going to talk to me, that she was tired of me making trouble between them and that she was done with me. I got pissed, told him he should tell her what really happened to my arm when it got broken, or my ribs, because I didn’t fall off the roof of the house ‘being stupid.’ I called him a coward, and he punched me in the mouth. When he swung the second time I shoved him. I didn’t mean for him to go through the door.”
“Stop blaming Dad for you being clumsy and forever getting into trouble trying to copy shit you saw on tv.”
“I’ve never liked wrestling, Randy, ever, so why would I climb up on the roof and try and do a moonsault onto an old mattress?”
“But…” Randy sputtered, at a loss for words.
“But what, Randy?” Rogue said softly. “He’s a great dad to you guys, I know, I’ve watched. I’ve been jealous my whole fuckin’ life. But he hasn’t been that way with me since he found out I wasn’t his. After that, he’s never wanted anything to do with me unless it was to yell at me, laugh at me, call me names or make me feel like shit. But I didn’t try to hurt him. I’ll swear any oath you want me to if it means you’ll listen to me for once.”
Gypsy glanced back at their ex, watched him studying his brother, then looked up into Rogue’s eyes to see the hurt and desperation there.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Rogue said softly. “All I want is to be left alone. If Mom won’t answer my questions, fine, I’ll stop asking. It doesn’t matter anymore, the only ones who ever gave a shit were Uncle Cairan and Aunt Em. So fuck it, I’m not ever going back there.”
“Well you can’t stay here,” Randy declared.
“Gypsy?”
Gypsy’s heart felt like it was breaking when they saw the devastation etched into Rogue’s face. It was in his voice, and to their shock, he fell to his knees, the knife clattering to the ground beside them.
“Please?” Rogue asked. He was hugging himself, maybe to stop the shaking, Gypsy wasn’t sure. They wished they could see his face, and almost as if he heard their unspoken plea he raised his head, let them see lines of tears, and the pain reflected in his eyes. “Please, please let me stay.”

Layla Dorine