Still woke, or waiting to exhale? Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Life never tells me the whens or whys. As long as I have friends to wish me well, I'll still find the point when I can exhale. Right? It feels right anyway. I read a post that reminded me how artists have an antidote to life's let-downs and falters. We create. I tend to draw when I'm in need of consolation. Thumbing through my journal reveals how I unconsciously work out my unspoken unrest through pencil and color. We have built-in release valves. How clever-cool is this? And, I read.
This really is one of the greatest times to be alive. I remember my silly lamentations over having missed out on being a hippie, a bra burner, (the sexual revolution ?) a pot smoker, and a Black Panther, due to having been born at what I saw as the wrong time. Well, I was wrong. I got to go without a bra, and now wish that I hadn't ever worn one . . . Okay, maybe not. But I've learned to love my itty bitties; I used to have a tee shirt with "They might be little but they're all mine," silk screened on the front. That tee was my way of sticking it to all the friends and family who teased me for being less than endowed with fluffy mammaries. They tried to make me feel less than because of my small cups. So, I missed out on the sexual revolution. Big deal. I missed out on contracting a host of STDs, and birthing a small tribe of young 'uns born out of wedlock, back when such things mattered. My life has been grand and stellar in its own right though. When I think on the things I've seen and done so far . . . the places I've gone . . . Well, hear me now when I say "I wouldn't give nothing for my journey."
My journey isn't over either. Neither is America's. I am my own final frontier, and goodness, but the horizon looks spectacular! I cannot "science the hell" out of anything, but I can sure create some good stuff, love some great people, learn, and read/write some pretty amazing mail. And, yes, I do have friends to wish me well. There's no need to exhale just yet either, since I'm not holding my breath. I breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out. I'm still woke. My yoke grows lighter with each passing day. I am on my way. See? I wrote some good letters. I wrote a short stack of mail. I've gotten some good written words in return, as the world turns.