For the Undisciplined

I’m not disciplined. Even though I have big ambitions and dreams.

I’m greedy and selfish. Especially when it concerns food.

I’m not understanding, I’d rather win the argument.

I’m an honest-to-God Capricorn.

I confess this because for the month of May, I’m going to post something every day. I’m going to discipline myself. By God.

I don’t know why the things I really love to do are preempted by an eye roll and replaced with Netflix binging. Writing, yoga, drawing; my friends. Sorry, dear friends, that you become my flavor of the month. I’m sorry, beloved books, that I read three of you in a week or three of you in four months.

The space between the ears becomes a busy airway in the sky. Interruptions- money managing, schedule making, the past, the future, what everyone else thinks, the fuckery that is social media- zip left to right like airplanes. East to West. Their passengers named Worry, Defeat, Fantasy, Anxiety. We’re too busy worrying about the ocean being blue and free of plastic bottles and the sky clear, sans the chemicals that rise up.

The junk always rises. Even when you bury it, which is so easy to do. But so does the good. It takes more work, more digging. It floats up slower, with a little resistance, like a feather to the sky.

It’s a miracle we even get through the day, loaded with the baggage that has stacked over our years. Each case dusted and teetering on top of the other with our stored memories, our emotions, our faith, our fears, our courage. Remember trying to walk with a book on your head?

Rumi asks, “Why are you so afraid of silence, silence is the root of everything. If you spiral into it’s void, a hundred voices will thunder messages you long to hear.”


There are four voice messages saved on my phone. One from my best friend from college, Emily, one from Mama, one from Meme’, and, for years until my number changed, one from my Papa who passed away several years ago.

I never listen to these messages. In fact, I breathe a little heavier just thinking about hearing them because of the feelings they would render. And not because of what they say, which is really nothing. But their existence thunders: you are loved.

It’s really just that One voice that we need to hear.

The One that says, Baby, you are strung too tight. Quit picking up what I’ve asked you over and over (and over) to put down.

I control the weather patterns, the cycling of your own orbit. The position of each and every single star. Like Donald Miller wrote, “There is something beautiful about a billion stars held steady by a God who knows what he is doing.”

I think I can handle the money you make, the doctor appointment you’re worried about, the regularity of your sex life, the well-being of your child’s firstborn.


May 1st.




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