confession: i have four cousins plus an aunt and uncle who love me as a sibling and daughter. i’ve foolishly deceived myself that i don’t have a blood-related family i belong to that i can count on. these people love me. more than i comprehend. i’m irrationally blessed.
confession: because i’m stronger than i know, and i know that, does that mean that, in fact, i do know how strong i am? i’m stronger everyday. i know that i’m stronger today than yesterday. i know i’ll be stronger tomorrow than i am today.
confession: i am happy. finally.
confession: the friends who are my chosen family remind me each day how well loved i am.
confession: the one i affectionately call grandpa sends me daily love text messages. thank you, grandpa. i love you.
confession: (in singsong voice) someone’s getting married! actually, two of my chosen friends-as-family are getting married in the next year. i’m cheek-aching happy for them. their love-happiness adds to my happiness.
confession: two more babies are baking and entering my life in the next six months. i love babies. i had a couple cuddle sessions with the newest baby godchild that was born last month.
confession: my life bubbles in rainbows of love and new life and family belonging and happiness. actual rainbows inside bubbles. not kidding.
confession: if there is a mechanical bull nearby, i’m riding it. there are a surprising number of mechanical bulls in minnesota.
confession: it is easier to ride a mechanical bull after midnight and a couple shots of tequila. sober at noon on monday the ride is a bit more challenging, but i got-er-done.
confession: the joy that is responsible for the dorky cheezy nonstop grin on my face is the real and lasting kind, because i am awake and aware to fully appreciate the abundant blessings in my life.
confession: i write haiku. i’ve written haiku since high school. haiku is the only poetry i write that doesn’t mostly suck. i don’t share my poetry. or at least i didn’t. until now. and now i only share with one person. a poet. and she gets me. and she sends me origami dinosaurs. and origami is poetry. and she gets that. someday i’ll write a poem that honors the refuge she offers my isolated alien poetic soul with her origami dinosaurs. i know how the poem begins. i know how the poem ends. rawr!