IMG_2857.JPG

Hi, I'm Liz.

I write stuff, and I can help you write stuff. 

Learn more about the editorial services I offer.

When Dreams Die

  Photo courtesy of  Unsplash

Photo courtesy of Unsplash

I drove through fog like this ^ on Saturday for about an hour. I was traveling from Seattle to Portland for another tattoo, of course. I've always loved the fog. There's something about the way it sits in the air; something about the way it masks the things we see every day--you have an idea, but you don't really know, what is on the other side. You expect to see certain things when it clears, but sometimes those things are nowhere to be found. It can induce cramps, a deep ache of emptiness, but it can also revive forgotten hope.

Lately, I've felt a little like I am re-appearing ... after having disappeared for so many years. I've always been me, I just haven't always allowed myself to be me. 

Driving into and out of the fog is, quite accurately, my life these days. I find myself in a constant state of grief, but I can't help but move myself forward. There is beauty in heartbreak. And I'm learning to love myself again. Like, really love myself.

I want to know what's on the other side. 
I want to be surprised.

Sometimes we abandon our dreams.

Sometimes our dreams are taken from us. I've had a few stripped from me. Dreams taken without our consent feel like knives in backs, and band-aids are useless. But sometimes we willingly abandon the dreams we've watered and nurtured.

I've chosen security over possible failure; safety and comfort instead of risk and adventure; good enough instead of great; easy instead of hard. I've chosen to believe there is only one way when, in fact, there are many.

Many of my current dreams require death. There are new dreams waiting to sprout in the soil fed by that death. I don't even know what they are yet, but I know well the pain of their fight to grow. These dying dreams weren't mine to begin with; they were manufactured by the loss of myself. I'm not saying they weren't real--they were, at the time--but they were created out of necessity, for distraction. I didn't want to acknowledge that I felt ... stuck. I didn't want to say that I didn't like my life as-is.

I don't want to live in an Airstream.
I need doors. I need space.

I've made promises I don't know how to keep anymore.
My finger is naked. I want my name back.

But I still love. There is love.
What do I do with that?
What kind of love is it?

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”
— Eleanor Roosevelt

In other newsI experienced the most beautiful show with an amazing human being on Saturday night. My heart surged.

People-watching

My Third Tattoo