It doesn't matter who reaches the top of the mountain first because eventually we will all be buried beneath it. We're just racing towards death. If you're always trying to reach the top, you never really get there. There will always be another peak to climb, and you can't stay above tree line forever. Also, the hail storm in the valley won't last forever. So you hunker down and ride it out. Finally, if the journey is the destination, you'll always be on top of the mountain.
Taking back control of my life My food is mine I don’t need to weigh myself twice Don’t get me wrong I’m still not fine But I’m a lot better Eighty-nine pounds was my low Let me be a trendsetter Just take it slow One day at a time Don’t let that voice take over It’s an uphill climb It’s not a four leaf clover It’ll take tears Maybe years Not unscathed but you’ll get through Take it from from me it’s true
18 pounds ago I was at my low. It’s been almost exactly a year since I was there. A year since I decided that I didn’t like fainting when I stood up and wearing baggy clothes. It didn’t happen overnight and I’m not going to lie to you and say that I never wish I was still that thin but the price it came with was too high. The price of not only muscles being stripped away but also my joy
when you climb mountains you leave your footprints in the rigid soil that feeds into the ground we once laid on waiting for the sun to descend to take our guards down and prepare our fingers for pointing at stars
Time leaves us reminiscing Leaving behind bitter tastes laced with honey something you liked about coffee on these notes
I think about the distances between Who you are and what I hope to be And I see the mountains you said you'd climb
I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain. The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face - but I smile.
I have my compass, the North Star and the maps I made before. I can still climb this new stanza navigate past the memorials, through to the meadows beyond and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain and write again.
re-write of Navigating the hills, flexing my writing muscles ahead of a poets retreat