{ very little } - yogi. writer. mama. austin, tx.

You said for me to write, to let things pour out.
Jack, I trust you and I'm writing.
You're right, it feels awkward and I stumble with words and running sentences.
You're also right when you say that I have to keep going.
Stories and memories mix up, what was real and what was my fantasy?
I guess that's where I always end up, back at my roots when my feet were filthy and I ran among horses and through fields.
I pretend to be there when I feel lost, I look straight up because the sky looks the same from here.
If I really bare all, I know the moment I began to question the earth under me.
There was one world and suddenly it was gone.
That's why I always go back to times before that.
I go back to the smell of the Guadalupe River and Kerrville, TX.
After back surgery I found that again.
Maybe the titanium really does make me bionic.
I sat in their yard and planned my journey back to myself.
This is where I belong, I feel it. My soul thrives here and I'm me again.
The thing about writing on here is how close I come to deleting every word.
"It's all rambling tonight" I say, "I should probably write a story."
You know I love memoirs the most and mine is pretty much a rambling prose.
I can tell you that I have played this life, I cherish my tribe, and it all matters...