I used to live in the air. The air that is crisp and cool and catches you when you step foot outside. It makes you pause - breathe again - and again - to let it fill your lungs with its sharpness.
In this air, I wrote. I let the coolness envelope every aspect of my being - it reached every piece of me - and with this full air, I finally breathed the words that I had been trying to say every breath before it.
This air gave my lungs wings and my fingers moved in its every dance. I was free.
Free to write, free to breathe, free to sit for an entirely too-long of a day in the sunshine that is everything, and with a pen in my hand, spelled out my freedom with each scratch on the page.
I wrote my life out. I wrote my air out. I wrote it all until I had nothing left.
And then the cool, crisp air was too heavy. And I was swallowed up by its every angle.
I lost myself in those words, and in those pages and in those breaths. The air was too tight and too much for me.
The freedom, a facade, for I was in reality, trapped in all of that air.
No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation.
Unscripted. Unedited. Real.
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In between tweeting, reading books to my daughters, and [not] burning mac n cheese, I am the Founder + Creative Director of Blessed is She women's ministry + community.