georgia life

It’s hard to believe that I have been in Georgia for over a week now. To tell you the truth, sometimes I still feel like I am visiting.

And then little things remind me that I do, in fact, live here.

Like when I ask Drew (my boyfriend) what our address is.

Or when I pick up medication at my new pharmacy.

Or when I see empty boxes that still need to be recycled.

Or when I remember that half of my belongings are still in Missouri.

The first week was hard–for reasons Drew and I expected, and reasons we did not. But I am so grateful for the ways we support one another. I am so grateful for the all the love I feel here in Georgia, and for all the love  sent from Missouri.

Drew often tells me that our lives are filled with joy, with some sad bits along the way. I think he’s right.

Since this is a shorter post (some things are meant for journals, not blogs), I’ve decided to leave you with this poem I wrote a few days ago. It was written for anyone who feels like hope is a little out of their reach.

Until next time, my friends. I promise it won’t be long.

***

We always wanted freedom

we wanted to run—

to breathe in and fill

our lungs with stardust

because we believed

we were too wild

for ordinary air.   

From this throne we ruled,

chasing galaxies, casting spells

until we wished for what

only gods could grant:

hope and

love and

life and

all the things

that cannot   

break.

But we put hope in useless things;

we looked to gold and palace walls

for our salvation.

We looked for love and never found

true love’s first kiss

or a happy ending.

We tried to live wondrously,

but there is such a difference between

breathing and being alive.

One lonely night

we looked to the sky,

asking ourselves if we could—

maybe—

catch the stars

in our blood-stained hands

and keep them safe

in our clenched fists,

for we could no longer bear

the weight of the world

we had destroyed.

Perhaps this, we thought,

was hope—

holding tightly

to those shining

pieces of the universe

we couldn’t quite

comprehend

and perhaps

our mistakes were not

unforgivable crimes

but an angel’s way

of writing stories in the sky,

like starry maps that could lead

us home.