My Sea Glass Shards

It’s 4:39 am on the East Coast. I can’t sleep. Sometimes when it’s like this I like to pretend that I’m on Pacific time. That it’s only really 1:39 am. That I just left a club in LA with confetti in my hair and all night yet to sleep.

I was a wonderful sleeper until the Fourth of July that my life fell apart. It’s all a little less like fireworks now and a little more like cannons fired in the dark. I wish I could go back to before, so that my heart could be made whole again AND so that I could get some ocean deep sleep.

Tonight my wide awareness led me to think about finding the perfect silver shoes to go with my newly purchased hip hugging skirt. From there I slid down the rabbit hole.

I am Alice. {Which is factual since I was named after my great grandmother Alice} I am Alice. But the shrunken down one. The one where she drinks the potion and she’s a fraction of the size. Tiny Alice. Plopped down in the middle of things that don’t feel quite right.

I’m surrounded by the reminders that it’s all a mess. The IKEA bench across from my bed is stacked with out dated magazines that I’ll never read. My bank account isn’t quite balanced {because of that fitted skirt AND a late night Amazon Prime spree}. This blog post?  It was on the to-do list from three days ago. I didn’t make enough eye contact with my loves before bed and the RV needs a new alternator.

These are the things that keep me company in the middle of the otherwise silent nights.
 
I’ve spent a lot of them, these lonely nights.  Wishing I could balance it all better, or balance it at all. In the starless nights, I lie here cursing the choices I’ve made and the mess that I am. Wishing I could teach my teenage self some self discipline and how to plan better.

Can you see this theme? This Me, wishing the real away or at least rearranged and placed nicely on the shelf? This mess. Me. A mess. A room temperature disheveled mess?

A Hot Mess.

It’s not as glam as it looks on the t-shirt.

Well. I’ve decided, here in East Coast time. I’m owning it. Or at least I’m beginning to own it.

I am done cursing my disorganized heart and my cracked windshield dreams. I want it all. The ALL that I already have.

I’m staking my flag in and claiming it as my own. All of it. The stories I carry on my stretch marked hips and the seaglass shards that I sweep under the bed. I can’t deny these things their place anymore. Because these are the scattered things that make me who I am.

I am a hot mess. Standing here in the desert sun. Owning my Desert Queen-ness. I am lifting my head and standing tall in the midst of these scattered bones and deflated pool floaties. This is mine. This is me.

No more Hiding in the Shadows Girl. No more Bury Your Story Girl.

I am no longer going outside of myself to make things pretty. No more target trips before the get together to make our space a little cuter. No more editing my life story to make those around the fire feel less of the flame.

I am going to take what is, the overflow and the emptiness. The broken records and the smudged eyeliner. The twisted stories the scars and the stains. All of it. All of me.

This is cave dwelling and torn hems.


Because really isn’t that what it all is anyway?

The other night, when I was wide awake. {It’s a pattern I’m trying to allow} I lie in bed and the woven words ran thought my mind, I thought about the power of going first. Into the unknown and the unplanned.  Flag held high and ready to run like my life depends on it. First. Ahead. A nomadic pioneer queen.

What if you go first? What if you take the scattered bones and the torn fragments and own it all.