In a world of nearly 6 billion people, I seem to have found my tribe. You… you sweet delicious bloggers of life. You wonderous orchestrators of word-melody. You soul-deep conjurers of darkness. You Merlin-esque bringers of light. You transparent beings of humanities vast brilliance.
You set the stage for the dance of life. You pull us out of ourselves and into your worlds or worlds we dare not travel and tremble to imagine.
You… wait, now you are me. I am you.
Which hat shall I wear to this word-dance?
My warriors helmet? The dents and scratches of battle apparent I’m no sideline bystander to life.
My poets… huh, what hat does a poet wear? I see everything from an executioners mask ready to sever heads from Self and others, dying to be reborn.
To the Grey pointy-hat of that beloved wizard that arrives with a key for your escape, at that very last breath of despair, he brings hope & freedom.
To that Betty Davis black pill-box with the black net over her face that says “Be tragic, be brave, be sexy and muderous. Slay them with your words, annihilate them and grind that cigarette butt under those Manolo Blahniks and walk away Goddess because they’re not worthy of your words”
My faerie knit cap… the one that possibly houses the most authentic me. She thrives for winter when the world shows its bones of truth and frees you to hide under layer after layer. Yet there it sits on my head a myriad of colors, large and droopy like Arwen would wear if she was part beatnik and lived in an artsy town and did Tarot readings on the side but loved being in the woods hiking. No one hides in that cap, they simply hold more mystery and awe.
Or that hat a public speaker would wear if they did… yet they don’t. They’re usually mic-ed up and pumped up and ready to light a fire under your ass to better yourself. The most authentic ones having the biggest scars, and bigger stories and unafraid to share the mess they think their lives are and how they have all the tools though and if we’re on Self-care-survivors-island you know you want that one as your guide. The one who’s walked through burning rings of fire, allowed it to consume them and come out like a Phoenix. Those I get.
The cheerleader pig tails… a hat all the same. I see you and you go girl, yet I can’t relate, but somehow if life looks that rosy with blinders on to someone, it might convince the rest of us to form a human pyramid and scream… “… ” oh wait yea, nevermind. Keep going though. You almost had me willing to shout something that started with 2-4-6-8… yikes! lol
Betty Davis rolls her eyes at me and says let’s go get a drink honey, and maybe a real man. You’ve got some work to do behind the scenes, under the sheets and in front of that dressing-room mirror.
All that to say…
A writer finds home in other writers. The epicureans, the beer drinkers, the deep thinkers, the traveling CamperVan wanderlusters, the voices crying out, shouting out and whispering behind the virtual screen of real life. Fearlessly being seen in the unseen and putting ourselves out there.
You’re a tribe I’m honored to be amongst and if we were gathered around an actual Fire I’d be in heaven to relax and listen to you read your life aloud…. so thank you for doing it around the fires of laptops, devices, hot mugs of tea and cold brews of thirst-quenching inspiration. You, we!…are bold, courageous and brilliant! Keep that shit up!
What’s more… when it’s my turn to share, I’m open & comforted to do so and would simply be wearing my hat of friendship.
Write on you beautiful diamonds!
🙏🏼 …. and thank you, you’re all better than therapy.