When is it too cold to put my feet in the ocean? When is it too hot to go outside?

When did I outgrow that dance move, and why do weeks go by before I hear my own voice sing–or speak?

Is it ever inappropriate to drink wine from a blue tin cup or eat an entire chocolate bar, lick by lick, ‘stead of bite by bite, hell bent on not sharing it at all?

When will I stop explaining and disclaiming my work with “well, you know, my childhood was painful,” then dismantling it all before a better truth can ignite?

Oh, everything is by degrees. What was pain in my youth isn’t so troubling now. What were those things I feared, the musician I hated, the heart I loved, all changed by degrees–wisdom by degrees–they’re in their proper place now. I suppose I’ve substituted some of my fears for others, but they are not equal: I stand in the rush of oncoming tidal waters and I feel a herd of horses run through my chest. (Is it fear of being swept away or just the fear that I am in love with the ocean?)  I sleep through storms now because I gave my fear to someone else to worry for me. Most of my fears are negotiable these days, existing, manageably.

Roller coaster? Hornets? Get published?  Oh now there’s some walls of resistance. My feet are in warm sand, my body rests on a lush navy blue beach towel, journal perched on my knees as I contemplate. I write until it’s too dark to write. I think about my perfect life (walls of resistance included) then compare my fears to those who suffer everywhere. It humbles me, a reminder of all the things I take for granted. I gain perspective.  There are people in the world who don’t have time to be afraid of the tide–they’re too busy trying to reach the shore and save their lives. I’m not saving my own life here, I’m just nursing my procrastination habit. Every time I drag my heels a demon gets her wings, so what’s it gonna be,  Krissy Teen?

Fear. Pain. Emotions. Challenges. Degrees. Perspective. Focus.  Breathe. Receive. Let Go. Give.  Write. Write. Write.