Tired of this,

this transition.

Moody,

blurry-eyed,

and creaky bones.

Menopausal,

I bear it.

Insecurities rising,

like the tide,

drowning me,

not the least bit like

the stunning moon,

a moon no longer inspiring me,

beauty fading,

swiftly aging.

Jealousy.

Angry sit-ups.

Furious cardio.

Punching the air.

Eleven nested within my furrowed brow.

Trying to bend

sighing,

leaning into it now.

Life coach quotes

and Rumi, where the f*ck are you?

I need you more than ever.

Do nothing.

Hear nothing.

Say nothing.

Trying to be strong,

“leave me alone,

now pay attention to me,”

the message of

every last, sad, little human song.

Alexa, play Van Morrison.

Just help me remember.

Oh, these tears.

Oh, these fears.

Damn it, these years.

Again, switching gears.

In a funk.

Hungry.

Struggling.

Getting a little drunk.

Because, why not?

So, back on the bike,

in the house with 3 mantels,

singing in the shower

with a shampoo mic,

then smile for the world,

for the webs,

for the perfect la-la lands.

Breathe.

Try some yoga.

Make the dinner.

Fold the laundry.

Do the things.

Be everywhere.

Be too much.

Be enough.

Perhaps bravery comes inside the surrender, the submission, the acquiescence, the letting go, the loss.

Grasping at straws.

Now, pause.

Remember how far you’ve come, sweet girl.

Yell truth into the wild, into the canyon, into what can only be called a yonder, a reluctant thereafter, a peaceful hereafter, what can only be called “next.”

Feel it.

Let it echo through the trees,

Hear it in the wind,

the wind whispering your name,

calling you, let your fighting spirit bring you to your knees.

Let it.

Then, sweet girl, let it bring you back.

~