Broken Birdsong

I have a plant on my bedside table that makes me jealous.  This plant seems to have achieved more growth in the past four months than I have in the past year.  It's delicate, strong, and challenging all at once.  It's defying the boundaries I gave it, and thriving despite the fact that I didn't pot it properly.  I named it after Ella Fitzgerald, and honestly, it's hard to sit next to the pretty, successful thing.  I've felt this way next to people. Next to stories.  I've wanted to make myself smaller, invisible. Just because I felt I was coming up short, and ::ahem:: THIS IS WRONG, THESE ARE LIES. ::excuse me:: I keep on crawling deeper into myself, as if I'll find meaning or comfort there, and all I find is humanity, in all its lack; all its depravity.  Now, what to do, what to do? Where to go with all this need?  Up.  Out.  I have Someone safe in my corner who always wants to help me up, help me out.  So He

This is a funny sort of place to speak my heart now. I haven't done it consistently in a long time. It's something I want to change. I need to process in a healthy, productive way. But lately this blog has felt a little like a white wall. I know that's flawed thinking, but I could do with a show of hands. If you're out there, quietly receiving these words in your email If you check back once in awhile for new posts If you read my blog when I share it on other social medias If you're listening ... Click the title, open the webpage, get over here. And leave me a comment to give faces to this white wall. Maybe tell me when/why you read this? Share what you'd like to read more? Thank you in advance.