Friday Nightbirde

Hi friends! Welcome to Favorite Things Friday. On Fridays, I typically keep things “light” and I list three favorite things or songs or TV shows or books, etc. that have added sparkle and excitement to my world. Please check out previous Friday postings for loads of my favorite things. Today, however, I only have one favorite to share. Lately, while trying to get my son’s epileptic seizures under control, and yet also trying to keep things as “normal” and as “sane” as they can be at this time for myself and for my family, my mind hasn’t been focused on the fluff and stuff of life. We are keeping a simple, quiet, uncluttered routine here in my realm, lately. We are taking things ODAT here (One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus). ODAT is what always works for me best in any crisis period.

So without further adieu, my favorite for today, comes from a post on Nightbirde’s Instagram. I have listed Nightbirde on a previous Friday Favorites blog post. Nightbirde is the insanely gifted and inspirational singer who is currently struggling to survive her third bout with cancer. While Nightbirde is a wonderful and talented singer and songwriter, I believe that her prose writing skills are devastatingly good. This post of hers is one of my most favorite pieces of writing that I have read in a long time. Enjoy:

A journalism professor in a long gray sweater taught me the difference between a story worth writing and a public relations stunt. A real story still has meaning even if no one ever hears it; a PR stunt only matters if people are watching.

And that became a new item on the list of promises to myself: That I would never let my life become a public relations stunt. My life would have meaning, even if no one ever knew it. I wanted to write a story I was proud of, even if nobody read it.

I used to dream that I’d grow up and dazzle the world. But time and disappointment chipped away at me until only the real stuff was left, and it wasn’t very dazzling. I just had some sad stories and a sack of regrets, and a new reverence for the pieces of me that survived.

All of these shipwrecks have stranded me in desolate places where I stared at my hands and realized that I couldn’t offer the world what I had hoped to. Dreams shatter, and eyelashes fall out, and lungs aren’t big enough to carry the song sometimes.

But I still wake up in the morning and draw my hopes on the sidewalk. And every time so far, they’ve been trampled over, or hosed off, or the rain rolled all of it over the curb.

But I pick more flowers, write more stories, dream more dreams. After all that’s been destroyed, maybe it’s foolish to still be speaking this way, but at least I’m a fool with a soul alive. I swing open the doors on my chest and I offer to the world the only thing that I can: myself. I get it now.

We are not all we wish we were, but we are here, and we are trying, and we are awake. We are not public relations stunts. We are stories worth hearing, even with no crowd in the stands for us. We are the heroes. We are the poem, we are the song, we are the gift.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.