Some habits are hard to break—waking three minutes before the alarm, having to fall asleep with one foot left outside of the cover cocoon, pushing the strand of hair that won’t stay behind my ear back behind my ear for the thirteenth time in a morning.

Lying in bed before sleep, thinking about the state of my world.

My before-sleep thoughts are now  more of my own spirit these past few  weeks. Ninety days to peel away the hardened shell  of my heart in search of the girl with the ebony-brown eyes who ran free on her father’s farmland. The young woman who kissed her baby girl’s warm, soft skull. The seventeen year old who first felt the power of a pen and the freedom and responsibility that words afforded her.

Dried hot tears and broken hope and a crushed spirit are falling away and becoming renewed and resurrected by the power of—what power? The power of resilience—desire, connection, transparency, truth, escape, authenticity, faith. The woman-girl who laughed and touched skin-to-skin and had a story to speak is still here.

My night fear is that there will be no one who desires to truly know me—to the same depth with which I hunger to know him. What if I uncover my soul, and there is no one there to join with it?  What do I do with those stories I still have not shared—the heart eager to listen to another’s tales—if there is no matched beloved with whom to whisper the beautiful words?

Evening fears.

Morning freedom. What Lazarus will walk the day anew tomorrow?

By Julie Schwarz.

Julie is a semi-adult writer/reader/friend/thinker/project manager. Favorite things include her daughter, books, spending time outdoors in North Central Washington and eating food with big wooden spoons (an obvious indication of the semi-adult status). Continuing on her quest to make this one simple life spectacular.

Sound Off

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s