The Waiting is the Hardest Part…And the Most Revealing

Well after a self-imposed hiatus which included my moving half way across the states this summer and relocating my life – I am back to the show. I was almost getting worried there for a second wondering what I’d done. But I am starting to find that breaks from the show have never really proven to be a bad thing. Because when the muse returns, she returns in a big way… usually right as I’m drifting off to sleep. Like last night.

I started thinking of this one song and started having (HAVING) to sing it to myself out loud at about 11:00pm, (sorry, Neighbors), so I could remind myself how to make the changes I want. Of course that led me to other bits and pieces and before I knew it I was out of bed and into my trusty red little notebook to get it all out of my brain and onto the page before it disappeared forever.

I am so happy to be feeling the inspiration again. I don’t think I could have finished it before now.

There are also interesting coincidences, if you believe in that, or I could say synchronicities, that are proving very helpful to the storyline of the show. These synchronicities appear in the form of boxes.

Life in a box.

Life in a box.

When you move back near family, not only do you unpack your own boxes but you become the recipient of all the unsolicited shit that everyone has been holding for you; holding way more than you knew you ever owned. So now I am delving into the past through pictures and childhood items; artwork, reviews, letter, and tutus. What am I gonna do with the tutu? I can’t throw it away! It’s been waiting inside a box for 20+  years for me. How would you feel to live in a box for 20+ years only to be freed into a dumpster?

Tutus aside, the biggest discoveries are the letters. Letters from sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers. Wonderful letters written in a time when people still put pen to paper and stamp to envelope. I am grateful to have been born before the public school system decided to stop teaching cursive writing to grade-schoolers.

My father wrote letters. I am being introduced in part to the man he was before he was the man I remembered. This is more valuable to me than gold or little red tutus. To be witness to his handwriting which bears resemblance to my own brings me into a silent reverence. To see his lyrical, cursive, flowing handwriting stops the outside world. He is alive again – for the moment.

For once I am grateful to my mother for never throwing anything away.

The letters are why it was necessary to wait. The letters. Patiently waiting to reveal their life within. Waiting. The waiting was good.

Thank God I waited. The letters knew. And so, now, will the writing.

So – what are you waiting for?