One more thing.  The caveat of good writing (from me): it must stem from true awareness, which can only come with an open, grateful, heart.  So He is indeed, still The Vine.

So it seems, which makes the past ten years feel wasted
That the only way for me to learn is to reflect
And the only way to appreciate what you are making inside of me
Is to write
So
I'm sorry for the last ten years.

I'm sorry I didn't write when I learned to love.
I'm sorry I didn't write about the sweet and slow breezes in Waikiki
Where human body met human body met stars
When my brother was still alive and I could hold him
When everyone I loved had a home, and the biggest struggle was hitting it big or getting a car or graduating high school or gaining the respect of a boss

How ironic, right, that those were the years that considered so carefully, surrounded by piles of dusty photobooks, the magical 20s, where my parents were beautiful and almost cool looking, where I didn't exist.  What will my children see?

This MBA program is not a writing program.  It's something else, it's interesting but not a purpose.  It's something else.  But I don't want the next ten years like the last.  I know now, I want to write.

And it is powerful to know a thing that is ingrained, predestined
But it is a north star, a map, and not an airplane--I still have to travel on my own.

I hate it when people call themselves writers.  Maybe I'll get there. I don't think I have to, though it may come.

I am really tired of reading bullshit, fb posts, news.  But I very much want to read something meaty, and of the heart, something poetic, rough, and real.  And not white.  I'm sorry, just can't right now.

TIL 1/4/17:

That love feels like grace

That love is a kind of faith

Or faith is a kind of love

Though I trudged through downtown

In 'feels like' 16 degrees F

Wide rubber snow boots stomping out a path

With a loud swish with each swing of a arm or leg underneath my double layered grey parka

I noticed, I was warm

I felt like I was floating, like I was gracefully sweeping a single 1' above the sidewalk, never touching

There are moments I feel like I am Mary

Where I understand the sweetness of the gift you are blessing me with

Monday Jan 2 afternoon in the diner downtown

Empty because it was a holiday

And it was freezing outside

And in those teal blue bucket booth seats

The white winter sun shone blinding bright through our section's window

We smiled at each other, fearless

Like that second date at the hamburger place in Kahala

With more faith in letting go than per usual, per ever, save a few religious holy-spirit moments of knowing

So if there is a baby, there is a baby, and it is of God, and be it unto me as you have said

Nothing is ready except our hearts.