Survival
Survival. That's my word for 2019. It wasn't a word given to me at the beginning of the year, but rather realized after its completion. For that in hindsight, I am grateful. I now see why truth and wisdom are sometimes delayed. Tragedy struck the year with vengeance. It grabbed the nape of my neck with a white-clenched fist and wouldn't let go. Tension headaches and shallow breaths were my friends. Organization and productivity became the cushions for existing. Crossing off the to-do list made me feel like a person accomplishing things instead of a wave-tossed ship. And that's what I was - a ship still floating, but battered and broken; still achieving the goal of staying on top of the water, but barely. After all, my plate was full - IS full of good things. I used to write. I used to love to write. It used to make my soul come alive. Then the electric zing became an annoying buzz; a fly I couldn't swat away. Pressure. Pressure to fill pages, to get more views,