Last night, the Book of Alchemy’s prompt was “what else?” In this case, I needed to examine frustrations and ask myself that driving question.

I have plenty of frustrations. The list could easily be ongoing.

What else?

I also know that right now, my life is good. I am writing, for the most part (like in the high 90th percentile), on a daily basis. And not just journal writing about my emotions or my experiences and how I’m processing them. I’m responding to creative prompts from The Book of Alchemy because my journal writing was starting to feel dry and repetitive. And then I started chasing Sad Beige’s idea of a poem a day. And I have started that undertaking as well which is great because I’m also reading The Poet’s Companion everyday and writing from their prompts at each chapter’s end. And I”m stretching myself. Before, my poetry writing was pretty much get a cool line and chase it. Or snag a pretty image and….chase it. But now I’m writing with purpose. One chapter was about how poets witness and write about the world and the pain that is caused. And so I wrote about the dead deer lying beside the drainage pond along my dogs’ walking route. And I’m writing in my novel “Homeleaving” too and though this is such a rough draft that it leaves me digital paper cuts, I’m still exploring how to write or practicing my writing craft. As in not using the verb “look” anymore.

What else?

Spring is steeping in my veins. And with that has arrived my yearly awakening. But this year comes a new impetus. For the last five or more years, I have been trapped in my insecurities. What if I am harvesting too late? What if I’m harvesting too soon? What if the vegetables are sour or spoiled or don’t taste good or will give us food poisoning? Somehow, catastophes and apocalypses have inhabited my brain and my frontal cortex’s filters are all about destruction and causing people pain. Ummmm..WHAT THE ABSOLUTE HELL? I used to garden like a champ. Bringing in everything from overgrown zucchini that were caveman clubs to tomatoes with bottom rot and we ate everything. But now…oh my dilly dally? That tomato doesn’t look vermillion enough. It might kill us. No more. I’ve started my seeds. And I usually don’t have a helluva lot of success with seeds. But I did it. I planted my wildflowers. And my vegetables and herbs are next. And I’m not going to stop either. And if I fail, well, I’ll either plant mature plants or give us all food poisoning.

What else?

The last nine weeks is two and a half weeks away. And I can feel the need to plan out next year already humming in my veins. I look forward. Because when I look backward, I have a tendency to see too many mistakes and failures. And I’m tired of the creeping Smeagol shame that likes to look all sweet and cute with big doe-eyes and creepy cute voice until it Gollum-izes and leaps on my back and bites off my finger. Regardless, I see my past in the rear view mirror (hey, notice I didn’t use look?) and reflect on my….successes. And my mistakes. And I’m looking forward at the road. I can’t tell how it bends. I can’t tell if it forks. I can see, though, that the road’s surface is shifting. And maybe that’s because I have grabbed my confidence and given the guilt0-Smeagol the heave-ho and chucked it…well not Mount Doom. But maybe down a valley in the Misty Mountains. It’s still there. It still rides on my shoulders when I give it leave. But I poke it in the gag reflex everytime it nibbles on my fingers.

Regardless, I am reaching for my future. Two hands. Ten (nine and a half) fingers. Grubby, calloused palms covered in ink. I am not going to be placatory. I am not going to be passive. I am chasing the elusive shadow ahead of me.

What else?

Publishing.

Printing

Reading

Writing

Cleaning

Gardening

Hiking

Walking

Running

Dreaming

Putting dreams into motion

More. Always more.

Re-growing my life. One day. One step. One moment at a time.