I have been preparing: 
Hands in the soil.
Conversations with friends. 

The birds and bees return. 
I dance and sing.
I chant when I wash my hands:
I must not fear.
I appreciate food in my cabinet. 
I go to bed early.

On fiction and poetry.

I want to write a lot of poetry and I want to write novels. It feels like a problem, a conundrum. The ghost of Malcolm Gladwell (someone pls exorcise me) whispers in one ear about how it takes so much focus to get truly good at something.  But that part feels scared, angry, threatening instead of supporting.  In the other ear, a friendlier ghost says it all matters. All of it folds in together into the same life; nothing is wasted. That voice feels gentle, loving, supportive. And so....I choose that voice. I don't have a problem; I have an opportunity.

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