I’m writing again. Not blogging … writing. Writing to me is putting pen to paper and opening my wounds for the linen beneath me to change. For the tree pulp and water, for the little blue lines to make sense of.

How appropriate that our last address was on a literal dead end road. I was so scared to leave it, so scared to change it but I was clawing my eyes out trying to convince myself that it would get better.

Life in a fish bowl, in a box that is taped shut, isn’t living.

Here we are in a 2nd floor apartment with a view of trees and buildings and it’s breath taking for me. Healing in all kinds of ways to change the present so we can change the presence. It’s small and the kitchen has absolutely no counter space but we have blankets and chairs and food.

But really, it’s larger than anything I’ve ever had. It’s full of possibility and chance. It’s waiting for me, for us, to make the first move. It doesn’t ask anything of us. Not to mow it’s yard, not to take care of it’s cracks and it’s leaks. We just have to be here.

We just have to breath.