Two Things

Today, I had an appointment to get my nose re-pierced and to get my sixth tattoo. I loved every minute of each appointment. There was minimal pain (I have a high pain threshold) and I got a chance to have some great conversations with both artists. My piercing tech was Leigh and my tattoo artist was Nick. Both are at the infamous, Art Attack, here in Winston-Salem, NC. I’ve gotten a leg tattoo from this spot 3 years ago; the owner Mark, did it.

The facility is clean. The environment is a welcoming one. The service is quick and your ideas come to life in their hands. They take care of the art you have in mind before they modify your body for the rest of its life. Below is the latest addition; a lotus tattoo. Why a lotus, you ask? Because I always feel like my best self when I come out of the muck. And the nose re-piercing needs no explanation–it’s self-explanatory. It was time that I get it redone. I missed it. I’m just giving you guys a bit of silly with my satisfied smirk.

Lotus Tattoo Photo #1. Photo Credit: Nick at Art Attack
Lotus Tattoo Photo #2. Photo Credit: Nick at Art Attack
Selfie . . . In the car, headed back home. Silly Tre w/ her re-pierced nose.

Here’s hoping each of you is having a great weekend so far. I am hoping to rest for the bulk of the remainder of it and breathe in the goodness it will provide. Peace and blessings, good people.

Unwell

10 Words

Jernee, sitting near my workstation–my brave girl

sweet, sweet girl
battling digestive issues
ever close to me


Jernee was having a bad day yesterday. The poor girl has a history of hemorrhagic gastroenteritis, so her belly had been acting up from the early morning hours until a little after 1:45 pm. I am so happy she’s feeling much better now.

Why I Write and Why I Need To

It Is Air

Writing Tools. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

When you step outside and breathe in the
world around you, do you not feel alive?
Living and breathing and embracing a new
day is a tangible gift we often fail to unwrap.
I love this present. I love its presence.


It would be easy for me to simply say, “Writing is the air I breathe” or “I can’t not write,” both would be true, their cliched existence notwithstanding, but there are other reasons why. I am a person who believes in expressing herself in the most honest way possible. Oftentimes, writing is the preferable method for me.

I have been in the deepest, darkest holes and have written my way out of them.

I have found, over the years, that words when harnessed tactfully and with the proper intention, can persuade, uplift, entice, coerce, engage, hurt, destroy, and magnify. We have to choose how we use them — why we’re using them.

Writing moves me toward positive outcomes. It pulls me out of dark spaces and shows me the way to those where the light shines. I have been in the deepest, darkest holes and have written my way out of them. This isn’t to say that everyone can do this, it is my testimony to you about what I have done.

A pad is my canvas. A pen is my brush. Words are the masterpiece I paint. The outcome is art. I can choose to be intense, shy, witty, actionable, lifeless, desirable, and so many other things in my writing. I design the beginning, middle, and ending. This is a freeing reality and I hope I never lose the ability to do this.

I need to write . . . My mind is a busy place. There are characters roaring loud enough to move me toward sharing their stories. There is no way of silencing them — they demand to be heard. My own voice stomps its feet occasionally, reminding me that if I think it, I should probably write it. After devoting time to the characters in my head and my own voice, I am often relieved.

And what a great release it is.

A pad is my canvas. A pen is my brush. Words are the masterpiece I paint. The outcome is art.

I find solace in writing — in making my thoughts known in a more public arena — unleashing them only when I deem the timing to be right. Just as one can escape within stories or a plot found in their favorite book, I can escape via writing.

I wave my writer’s wand and I can be a shift-shaper, a bodybuilder, a princess, The Vice President of the United States, or a violent wave landing ashore. I choose the setting. I set the tone. I maintain the props. This is my favorite world in which to live.

When I am writing, everything seems peaceful. Nothing is amiss. There is a divine pull that creeps in and within its grip is where I can be found. What better place is there for a creative who dabbles in literary pièces de résistance?

I choose the setting. I set the tone. I maintain the props.

At age forty-one, I still have it in me to share what words can do and have done and have done so since I was nine years old. At this point, I believe it is safe to say writing is definitely my air and I am grateful for every breath I take.


When you step outside and breathe in the
world around you, do you not feel alive?
Living and breathing and embracing a new
day is a tangible gift we often fail to unwrap.
I love this present. I love its presence.


This essay is in response to the C.R.Y. prompt, What’s Your Relationship With Writing? hosted by the one and only, Kern Carter via Medium.

Spring’s Mighty Grip On the Cusp of Summer

Musical Selection: The Isley Brothers|Here We Go Again

Another shot of my best friend’s plant therapy room. The Healing Space. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

An Audio Poem

Bugs, blooms, and birds are wild
with life, each pressing through their
own way of being.

I am gifted by the heavens to
open my eyes, spread out
my arms, and let the rain wash
over me.

Chirping pummels through my
windows, louder than I can
tolerate, but the harmony
is mesmerizing.

I won’t complain.

The dog and I walk around
our neighborhood at a fast
pace, picking up speed as
the wind howls on a subtle
spring day.

The sun plays hide-and-seek
with the clouds and every other
day is a race to beat the
grip of Winter while waiting
on the cusp of Summer.

“I have no fight left in me”
is what I tell a friend who
asks how I’m dealing
with death.
 
Death of a season
Death of a job
Death of a hobby
Death of family
Death of a friend . . .

“I have no fight left in me.”
And it’s part true and
part lie but she doesn’t
ask a follow-up question
and for this, I am grateful.

I spend most of my
vacation time away at my
best friend’s house lulled
by nature in her
plant therapy room,
losing who I was — 
finding who I should be.

I am changing with the
season and with every breath
I’m given, I look forward
to shedding this skin.

I want to see the person
under it.

I’ve been waiting to
meet her.


Originally published in Where Wild Things Grow via Medium as a response to the May the Seasons Change prompt.