Poetry 2-12-26

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve been writing a lot of rage poetry and journal entries lately. It’s a method of processing, a safe space where my feelings won’t be chastised or be cautioned to calm down. To be told, with shrugs, that this is just the way it is. To be hounded with others’ convictions that I’m being the irrational one (or worse, the powerlessness, of ‘nothing can be done’). No wonder women go mad. No wonder we quit our jobs and our relationships in droves. I think someday we’ll all probably wander of the grid and go feral. I hope that someday our leaving destroys the grid completely. I hope ‘feral’ is a return to what we were always supposed to be. In ownership of our own bodies, part of an egalitarian community, taking care of the Earth that sustains us, protecting one another. I hope for this.

Today’s poem is part of a project I’m working on, tracing philosophically through the roots of my own rage, and the collective anger of my generation of women. Raised to believe we could be equal from a generation that was slowly learning it themselves. As such, this poem is an exploration and an ode to one of the most influential albums (and songs) of my teenage years. And to the seeds that she planted in my soul, that have found a fearsome bloom in current times. 

The Jagged Little Pill (I can No Longer Swallow) 
(lyrical exploration of "All I Really Want" by Alanis Morissette)

All I really want
is deliverance

from the maddening hold
of the lesser sex’s self
inflation

Do I stress you out?

to remind you
that you came from a womb
and still she chose to keep you 
even after all
the repulsions she knew you would
own and 
call power?

I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land

when faced with pedophilic horrors
and the butchering of innocence
as if it were any 
other
expendable resource
men rape the land, why not us too?
why not our daughters? our sons?
we are fresh streams and 
teeming oceans
gold mines
and diamond fields
all for the taking
all for the discarding

Reel them in
and spit them out

calm down
there is nothing to be done
let the broader shoulders shrug
to end the matter

I am frustrated by your apathy

while you drink your martini 
and cast sunshine, between sips, 
that at least the stock market
is finally up
and I sit still, as prey
praying in bushes might,
cheap wine I feel guilty for
and watch blood run in the gutters
and remember my own, horrible
8-year-old truths
while the news blares
of babies being eaten
or burned
or buried by the ninth hole
water hazard and sand trap
thank fucking god
the stock market is okay

the sound of pretenses falling

is louder to me
but you were never listening
anyway, were you?
just for the sound of panties dropping
be a good little girl
for daddy
sit on my lap and reassure me,
I’m still a ‘nice guy’
right?

No.

I won't speak these lies
any longer
my lips have been sewn shut
needles in and out 
the thread of anger
trapping unsettled bees in my throat
and handcuffed wrists bleeding 
as I fight against 
the radiator of the American Dream

why are you so petrified of silence?

does it make you hear the echoes 
of your own dissonance?
A good man who still
sometimes
objectifies his high school students 
and calls it ‘American Beauty’

And all I really want is some peace
a place to find a common ground

but we aren’t standing on even ground
never was there equal footing
from the day I spilled out of my mother
my knees have been broken
by the bat of masculine ‘protection’
my voice scalded with the shame
this system gave me 
for a body 
that nature knew and named 
as more divine

you want me to calm down

all I really want is justice

Parenting, Eggs, and Dialogue Tags

Posted on by sereichert

Trust me, I’m going somewhere with this. It will all come together when I explain that the topic of today’s blog is about trends, “expert advice” and why writing (and often parenting and absolutely eggs) should be taken with an entire salt-shaker on the side.

What on earth could these three things have in common, you might ask. Well, when we look at a generational trend (ie 20 year increments) we see the advice, recommendations, and expectations of these three things swing from one end of the spectrum to another. Each time we have gotten used to one way of doing things, or our delicious morning egg and toast, or compassionate parenting, and then some talking head pops onto the screen (or a writing guru pens a blog) and tells us to scrap what we know and start doing it the opposite.

I have watched the constant wave of good vs bad hit eggs about three different times in my life. They’re bad, they’ll raise your cholesterol. They’re good, maybe nature’s perfect balance of protein, fat, and nutrients. You shouldn’t have more than 7 a week. They’re the power-move for non-meat eating humans.

Listen, my grandpa, who had his faculties and his strength into his eighties, typically had two to three eggs a day. Now, granted, he was a rancher and spent a lot of time outside and physically working, so I’m not saying that his lifestyle didn’t contribute to the balance of how many oves he was ingesting, but it worked for him beautifully. I love eggs. I don’t eat pork and not even beef if I can help it, so eggs are one of my favorite ways to keep a balance in my breakfasts. Do I have six a day? No. Would I? Maybe, if you let me.

In the wide and dumb world of parenting advice every idiot who ever sat in a room with a child, (or studied them in books) will freely give you advice on the best way to raise the most: compassionate, successful, independent, co-dependant, non-attached, attached, rocket scientist, artistic savant. Depending on what the latest fad is. None of them have had to sit in the middle of a minefield of legos for eight hours and continually be responsible for not only the little tike’s safety and life, but also making up story upon story to keep their brains busy all while bribing them with M&M’s to use the potty. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, someone will come along with a different bit of advice and assure you that you have, unfortunately up until now, been doing it all wrong. *sigh*

What’s the writerly point of this longer-than-necessary intro? Oddly, let’s apply it all to dialogue tags.

When I was first learning to write in the 8th grade, I was taught that constantly using ‘said’ all the time was boring and it was also a bit of a waste. A more descriptive tag would help the reader to picture how something was said or the mood of your character. So… I seasoned the shit out of those early novellas. People sighed, and bit, and growled. They laughed, and smirked, and carried adverbs along with them, gently and fervently. Then, as I was finishing up my first novel and had a few editors look at it, I thought they would need a fainting couch. What was I doing using all of these descriptive tags? They were cumbersome and distracting. And perhaps the hardest bit of advice, of all was that it was lazy writing. That if I were a better writer, the reader would know automatically how each line was delivered by the magic of…creating a character so known and predictable in a situation so well understood? I do get the idea. I understand what they were saying. I worked hard to take out the flourish in my tags and be more visceral in my narration. But it felt clunky and I found that my first drafts were always a mix of both ‘said’ and something more fun. Because that’s how my voice sounds in my head. And I liked writing that way better.

Fast forward and I’m pursuing a writing article last week, when I nearly had to stop and find a fainting couch (I must be feeling dramatic today) because *gasp* the all-powerful ‘they’ of the writing industry (trends) have decided that a little spice of interested dialogue tags might help break up the monotonous lines of ‘said’ and bring a little more color to your characters. For the love of all that’s holy.

What’s next? Are we’re not giving out participation trophies to our kids anymore to boost their self confidence? That we need to let them fail so they can learn? (for the record, that was always my stance, along with my two eggs a day breakfast.)

The point I’m trying to make is that in all things, you know yourself best. I like to believe you’ve had a healthy dose of introspection (hopefully some therapy and a few writing classes) and have learned as a parent and a writer, where your faults lie and how you like to move in your creative and parental endeavors. That not every book, article, poem, breakfast, or child is the same, in any given moment, and that learning to trust that you’ll do the best you can with what you have, and honor your own ‘style’ in the process is the better route than following a trend. That you can enjoy a moderation of eggs regardless of what the latest health article is decrying currently.

So–I will keep my fancy dialogue tags, thank you very much, when they serve the scene and the character. But I promise not to use them at the end of every line being delivered (just like I won’t, probably suck down six eggs a day). I’ll constantly work towards the balance of support and love, while stepping far enough away to let my kids struggle, fall, and get back up. And I’ll keep my two soft-boiled eggs and toast breakfast as a loving nod to my grandfather and the nourishment that sustains.

Writing Challenges: Reconnecting to Self

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve been reading a lot of writing and life advice for the past few years (few, meaning 18 years?) As we’re approaching February and another Writing Heights Writing Challenge, I feel a little edgy in my gut. Knowing there’s an accountability is part of it. Knowing that a lot of the writers I follow have been recently talking about their writing habits and writing every day. Knowing that the last two to three years I’ve been in an editing whirlpool (stacks of books written that are now under contract means back-to-back edits and very little new content.) And I think the edginess is resting somewhere in the knowledge, that I haven’t written anything new lately.

Okay, back up a tick. Yes, I finished the last novel for the Timekeeper Series in October. But that book was bit of a possessed demon to both my process and my love of writing. I won’t go into it now, but suffice to say, it did not feel like the beautiful, flowing, creative river that writing often is for me. It was more like I had to manufacture a kayak run by diverting a real river into a human-made one. Anyway, what was my point? Ah yes, I haven’t written anything lately.

I could just as easily use the February challenge to work on edits and it would count. I could even more easily, not participate at all. But I’m starting to feel (admittedly with the unneeded pressure of listening to other writers’ processes) like I’m not much of a writer anymore. I have a hard time nowadays, sitting down and just writing. And it kind of breaks my heart because I always feared that this might happen. That I’d get to a point when I was out of ideas for story. When I had no one left I wanted to follow in their journey. That I would be resigned to teaching instead of doing and reliving glory days behind book jackets of years-ago published work.

But maybe it’s not that I lack story. Maybe there are still characters still locked away in there. And maybe I’ve just thrown curtains over them in my constant state of editing. Maybe what my writing really needs, is a challenge to sit down and recommit to it again. So…I’m looking ahead and spending some quiet time to myself, to think about what a good, but not overwhelming challenge might bring me back to the essential core of who I am as a writer. How can I be present again with the creative process?

It will need time. It will require me to let go of some other things that have siphoned off minutes and hours in my day. It will need consistency, and the letting go of perfectionism. It will need a dash of whimsy and a whole shake of bravery. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll let you know who I find beneath the curtain. And if my edits take a little longer. If my house is a little dustier. If the email responses lag and I don’t make every meeting…perhaps that is a better thing for my overall existence. I’ll even schedule some write-ins through Discord, at some local coffee shops and the occasional brewery. Keep an eye on my social for when and where.

If you want to be a part of my bumbling reset, it’s free to join the challenge. I’d love to meet you there. We can figure this thing out (once more, again) together.

(contact Bonnie at membership@writingheights.com for more info)

My Attempt at a Newsletter

Posted on by sereichert

Listen… I hate newsletters.

I rarely post them. I, honestly, rarely read them unless they’re really entertaining. I know that as an author I’m supposed to tell everyone about my books, and what I’m working on, and where they can find me, and what great and wonderful things are happening in my life. It’s to froth up my base or some such nonsense. Provide a giveaway or prize to feed into the corporate machine?

The truth is, I’ve just never been a newsletter kind of person. One, I don’t have a lot to say about my books until I’m nearly done or have just finished them, at any other stage I’m too busy writing them to talk about them.

Two, I don’t want to be found. Seriously, I like my solitude and my peace. I would happily hermit for the rest of my days. I do occasionally crawl out of my little cavernous hole, hiss at the sunlight, put on pants and grunt my thanks to book buyers as I sign their copies. And I am grateful for those that come and support me. It means a lot. But as my schedule is still pretty mom and business heavy, I don’t occasion out much. And honestly, the selling of books was never the reason I began writing in the first place. Here’s a little secret, any one of you could write me and ask for a book and I’d probably just send it to you, free. No exchange of money. We all need stories. You can have mine.

Three…I’ve always had mixed feelings about telling others about the great and wonderful. I’m not sure how interested anyone would really be in my life, and I understand that there is so much ‘great and wonderful’ on social that it can often feel false. Truth be told, I often feel guilty when there is great and wonderful. Because even when you work hard, so much of that is dumb luck. Or systemic advantage. So I prefer to not say much, because I understand the sting. I also understand that nobody wants to hear about the doldrums of my actual life. Unless it inspires them by making them feel not so alone in their hermitage, general dislike of capitalism, and hatred of not-pajamas. I feel like anyone who follows my weekly blog, probably knows enough about me. Probably more than they wanted to.

But…this year, I’m going to be doing a few new things. Like hosting write-ins for Writing Heights Writers Association regularly, and supporting local businesses with poetry readings, supporting other local authors and events, and looking into good causes for our community to collaborate on. I’m going to be making myself get out more in an effort to balance the horrors on this new scale our country is holding. Because as much as I hate pants, as much as I hate noise, and parking, and crowded rooms…I hate fascism more. I hate people being censored, abused, wrongfully imprisoned, and killed more. I hate to see the arts and artist organizations fold and crater. And if my existence in the outside world makes a difference, then I will put on pants and make that difference.

So, every third week of my blog will be my Newsletter. I will try to promote my site and get a few more people to sign up. Not to sell books, not to make a name for myself or garner more ‘follows’ (imagine loving solitude and still being told you need more followers—gag me with a spoon) but to make friends. Because one of the best ways to build community is to create friendships, to find common ground, to make the fight personal. The more we know one another, the more we protect each other. And we all need protecting right about now.

I promise it will be short. I promise it will be honest. I promise it will attempt to be funny. I promise it will have at least one thing in it that should make your day better. That’s all I can promise. Technically, this is my first one, and you’ve just now read what I intend to do.

If you need more details, I’ll be hosting a write-in, in February (I’ll post date and time on social), and my writing group is organizing at writing challenge next month (February). You don’t have to be a member to participate but you can win some membership benefits for participating (message me and I’ll get you those details). I’m teaching a class in February called “Your Novel in A Year” and I’ll be giving you all the good tricks and tips to finish that book, and next steps. You can register for that here: Your Novel. I’m currently working through massive edits on a terrible novel that I hope will not be so terrible once I finish. I am also up to 5 submissions and 2 rejections for the year. Uh, what else? I’m on the board for Wyoming Writers and registration for their June conference (4th-7th) is now open: Wyoming Writers Conference 2026 I’ll be there, selling books and directing traffic and whatever else they need me to do. In May I’ll be giving a fun little talk in Saratoga, Wyoming about writing romance, and I’ll have more details on that later. I think that’s it. See, imagine that paragraph as my entire post, and you have my newsletter (plus or minus a few pictures of my cats). Thanks for sticking with me.

I’d tell you to like and follow…but, well you know.

Why do they look like they’re being directed by a Glamor Shots photographer?

Poetry 1-15-26

Posted on by sereichert

A bit more Hallow’s Eve than New Year’s Eve…but this came from a poetry challenge a few years ago and I thought it was interesting.

Corvidae

Black oiled beauty
needle claws to grip
solid to my eye sockets
no longer needed by me

I'd rather be your throne

and you can be my new eyes
and continue on
in this dark world
light glinting and 
soul exposed 
in the off feather sheen
and firelight behind your beaded eyes

ever higher, above the madness
that ended me
you will be my wings and I
will be your resting stone
your peaceful,
calcified nest of respite

you will be my freedom
from the fog of earth
the stains of so many moments
now rested in the dry and brittle grass

we are a pair
dark wanderer
above the grief 
of an impermanent world
together in easy camaraderie
until your bones rest atop mine

the world will go on,
in wreck and ruin
growing up through our silent jawed beaks
until we are stones in the grass
nothing 
and everything
more

Submitting to Rejection

Posted on by sereichert

Nobody likes being rejected. Yet one of the fundamental truths of life is that we will not be accepted by everyone, every time, and that includes our work. Admittedly, throughout nearly two decades of being a writer, I’ve been rejected more than I’ve been accepted. In recent years I’ve put aside submitting to pursue work with my publisher in the craft of novel writing, but I’ve come to realize that it’s stunted my growth as a writer.

The years I spent submitting weekly (mostly in an effort to gain experience and get some publication credits, as well as harden my tender, little writer heart against rejection) were the years when my writing grew the most. Submitting to whatever contests and journals I could meant I was always pushing outside of my comfort zone. Feminist horror? Sure, why not? SciFi Flash fiction? I can do that. Memoir? Creative nonfiction? Humor? Let’s try it out. Whatever was calling for a submission, I would fumble my way through it, and that led me to explore genres and forms I might not have otherwise attempted. I learned I do have a little dark streak that likes to come out and play.

I learned that a thread of justice and the unsettled walking of moral lines often shadowed my flash fiction. I wrote poetry about lawnmowers and tricycles. I threw paint at the wall in so many colors that my writing house became a mural of unexplored and emerging thought. All of it wouldn’t have happened if I had focused on a ‘rejection’ goal instead of an ‘acceptance’ goal.

Now, in a certain stage of stagnation, I’m returning again to a rejection goal for 2026. Not so lofty as 100 this year (I do have important things at home to still attend to and novels coming out) I am just aiming to submit once a week and garner 50 rejections in the year. I’m looking into playwriting contests, and speculative fiction, memoir and essay. I’ll probably revisit my favorite literary magazines and quirky publication to see what they’re up to. All of it, a practice that I hope you try too. A practice in being brave, in being curious, and in being untethered to the ideas of publication as success.

What can you learn about yourself as a writer? Not just what genres you might unknowingly enjoy, but also in sticking to a schedule, brushing up your cover letters, and learning how to concisely formulate a story (or poem) that feels like your voice and your soul. Knowing that you’ll be rejected. Knowing that not everything (maybe even none of it) will be published or given a place in the public sphere, can you reorganize you brain around the idea that it is the practice itself that’s the prize to be won?

That’s the goal for me. To rediscover the boundlessness of my creativity. To get uncomfortable. To learn things about myself and what the world looks like through my words. I hope you can find something similar that challenges you, humbles you, and eventually strengthens your love of writing.

From the Muck and the Mud

Posted on by sereichert

“Like the lotus flower that is born out of mud, we must honor the darkest parts of ourselves and the most painful of our life’s experiences, because they are what allow us to birth our most beautiful self.”

– Debbie Ford

If we are to know growth, compassion, and peace, we must first understand and embrace suffering. It is only through accepting and living with burdens, sorrows, and disappointments, that we can let go expectations and learn to live in the skin and environment we’re in. The mud. The muck. The lessons and trials that come to us all. They teach us about patience, about failure, about acceptance and resilience. They teach us about our pain, and through it, others’ pain. And when we feel this suffering, we can better understand the suffering of others.

This is a New Year, and last year put me through some of the deepest, darkest, muddiest waters I’ve ever had to traverse. It gave me months of anxiety and pressure. Worry and loss of time and opportunity. It, in some ways, took both of my daughters away from me. But in other ways, it taught me how to keep them close even in the darkest of storms. It taught me who to trust, and who I could love better at a distance. It taught me that my heart is tender and that it should be. That it has been one of my biggest faults, in the past, to harden it every time it was broken. It taught me that a compassionate heart knowingly takes in pain, and breathes out hope.

So with all of the muck and mud I have sat in, the darkness that has surrounded me, I am in so many ways, seeing the first rays of sunlight bouncing on the surface above me. I am feeling my petals arching towards it, strengthened and supported by the loam of life that has taught me that all things along my journey have mattered, have fed me, have taught me…have shown me, just how beautiful and unpredictable and precious this life really is.

What are my plans in this dawning new year? Well, first I’ll happily tell you that I have no expectations. Because holding expectations is a sure-fire way to get the universe to prove them wrong. So I’ll just say this. I’m going to be kind. To myself and to others. I’m going to be conscious. Where I spend my time and my energy. What I allow into my life, and what I close the door on. I am going to be honest. About what I want, and what no longer serves me. I’m going to be quiet and listen more. I’m going to go outside more. I’m going to be alone more. I’m going to write more and email less.

I’m going to look for ways to hand over the obligations I took on out of ego, to someone who can carry them instead, with heart. I’m going to let go the trappings of the ‘hustle’ and embrace the comfort of the ‘nestle’ instead.

This last year was hard on my heart, my body, and my soul. So this year, in as much as I can and the universe allows, I will be softer to myself. I will remember my roots, and what has built them. And I will reach, always, and upward, towards the light.

How about you?

Poetry 12-25-25

Posted on by sereichert

On this day you shouldn’t be checking your email. I hope, instead, you are watching holiday movies, and still in your pajamas, and drinking coffee, and finding joy, and calling your loved ones, and eating one more cinnamon roll, and picking up pieces of taped wrapping paper, stuck to the floor, and feeling…feeling…feeling, the light and warmth of the season. Feeling that you can finally settle down. Feeling that this is the day to rest and think about nothing in particular. I’m here with you.

On this day you might also be mourning, and seeped in a kind of loneliness that feel worse than on any other day. You may be trying to keep hurtful memories at bay, or separated and far from the people you love. You loved. Maybe this day you are begging for it to be swift and end quickly, because you cannot bear to be told to carry joy when pain is taking up all the space inside your chest. I’m here with you too.

And so, here’s a little poem, nothing your brain needs to work too hard at. Nothing as important as honoring where you are at, and being gentle to whatever is filling your heart. I am here with you.

Flight

a fallen feather is a piece of grounded soul
aimless without a body 
to lift
a reminder of once great heights
no longer attainable

she is a sign from the gods
that even the most perfect designs
lose elemental fragments
along the bumpy ride
and every fragment shed
is an updraft not caught

still, I think they’re pretty
and I tuck them into books
and pin them to walls
and read in them messages 
in the timing of their arrival along my path
on my right means yes,
left is no
even when a question 
hasn’t formed yet

maybe if I collect enough
I can build my own wings someday
maybe leave this place,
a curtain of elemental fragments
lost pieces of soul,
to lift


Santa, Hippy Jesus, and The Importance of Choosing Joy

Posted on by sereichert

It’s that time of year again, and wherein I repost one of my favorite blogs. This isn’t about religion per se. It’s not about what you believe or who you ascribe your faith to. It’s about how you choose to treat others. Because it is always a choice. And we can make it every moment. We aren’t held to our past. We can be better. In this particularly dark time, I would urge you to remember your capacity to spread and give light. We may not be able to control everything, or combat large and fascist forces, but we do have a choice to spread our own joy. To illuminate the shortened days. We also have the choice to be a petty and divisive jerk and shit on other people’s beliefs… different beliefs that rarely have a negative impact on you.

So here’s your yearly reminder: Don’t be petty and shitty, not any time, but especially not this time of year.

The world is dark enough as it is.

Be good to each other.

Psst… if you’re looking for a way to be good, especially after you read this tear-jerking post then click on this link and spread some joy:

For a list of where to get the most out of what you have to give check this link out.

For something closer to home: This is a great place to start.

And now, grab a tissue and enjoy…

Dear Madelyn and Delaney…

I hear there have been some questions at school and amongst your friends, about if Santa Claus is real.

There comes a time, in most kids lives, when they are taught to grow up and out of what some adults call “silly, fanciful, daydreams.” And so adults and peers will go about destroying everything that even whiffs of magic, and work hard to wipe away every ounce of stardust from the eyes of children who believe.

To this I say…Shut your mean-hearted pieholes, you wankers. (And anyone who hasn’t, at some point in their existence, called a middle schooler a wanker is probably lying. Let’s face it, middle school is not our finest hour as humans.)

These are the people who will say it’s obviously impossible for a generous old guy to deliver presents to kids one night of the year, while simultaneously cherishing and accepting the “fact” that a deity impregnated a virgin and their child wiped away the entirety of sin in the world…

…uh…

nativity

If they can suspend reality and base their lives around the idea of (albeit a cool), hippy/demigod, is it such a stretch to believe in a jolly old elf that spreads the ideals of generosity and selfless giving for just one day?

I won’t touch your hippy demigod if you don’t touch my jolly old elf in a red suit.

jesus-santa-bff
I bet Jesus calls him St. Bro-cholas.

I refuse to lose my stardust. (Or as Anne Shirley would say; I refuse to be poisoned by their bitterness.)

You want to know if there is magic? If Santa is real?

Here’s what I know…

Santa is real and magic exists.

How can I be sure?

I’m here aren’t I? You’re here, yes? We’re all here.

We were sprung from the unlikely combination of a evolutionary, chemical lottery and dumb, cosmic luck. Our bodies’ chemical and mineral components are the same as stardust floating around and comprising distant galaxies. We are made of the Universe and the Universe is in us. We’re naked, funny-looking, bipedal apes, and we’ve survived hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary death traps.

If all of that’s not magical, what is?

Here’s what I also know.

There are two types of people in the world.

Those that destroy joy, and those that spread it.

I DO KNOW that it does no harm to believe in something better, more beautiful, and magical in our lives (Hippy Demigod or Santa Claus).

I DO KNOW, it does no harm to fill our eyes with wonder and joy in the midst of the darkest days of the year.

I DO KNOW, it does no harm to hope and anticipate.

I DO KNOW, it does no harm to walk into these short cold days with elation in our hearts.

And I KNOW this:

That it must be a horrible, dark and sad world for those that seek to take away such light; how bitterly awful to be those who disbelieve and ridicule others who hold magic in their heart.

It does harm, to take someone’s joy.

It does harm, to smother the fire of giving and generosity.

It does harm, when we seek to oppress the light of selflessness in a world so dark.

I also know this; each one of us chooses what we believe.

We choose what we fill our hearts with and in a world that can be so gloomy and wretched, why would you want to fill your heart with anything that would make it even more so?

I choose to believe.

I believe in Santa Claus and I believe in magic.

I believe that there is light in the darkest of times. And I believe that the joy radiating from hearts that hope, and love, and give, is more real than any hot air getting blown around by a bunch of self-conscious, hormonal, dying-to-fit-in middle schoolers (or cynical, angry, self-conscious adults)

Now listen: I can’t decide for you what you believe,

but neither can they.

So you choose.

Embrace the joy, be the magic, and light up the dark… or reject the lot of it and wipe the stardust from your eyes.

As for me and my heart; I choose joy.

I choose to believe.

red and white ceramic santa claus figurine
Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

How Life Is…

Posted on by sereichert

No one is harder on me than me. And so, when I realized that I’d missed not one, but TWO blog posts in a row, I was at first righteously disappointed in myself. After all, I’ve been doing this blog for a long time. Every week, on Thursday, a little something about life, writing, or just to enrich the world (via poetry). But if you read this blog, you know that my life has been on the rocks for the last 8 weeks or so (before that really on our way leading up to inpatient) and so the disappointment quickly faded.

You see, I’ve learned to treat myself with the same grace I would extend to those whom I love. And it’s a kindness I’ve been looking for my whole life.

Like it or not, my blog is not the miracle of physics that keeps the world spinning ’round. There aren’t lives dependent upon my poetry or massive crowds hanging on my every word. When it comes down to it, the blog is a lot about me shouting out into the void, to remember that I still have a voice to use. That it occasionally resonates with someone else is wonderful. That it exists helps me feel purposeful. And so to hit and miss it a few times while my daughter and I are staying far from home and undergoing treatment for one of the deadliest mental illnesses that exists, is a drop in the bucket of my existence. I’m doing other things.

Fun fact I learned in one of the classes we take here as parents; the stress of parenting child suffering from an eating disorder is THREE TIMES the stress of parenting a child with schizophrenia.

I believe it. I feel it. The constant worry and triggering of what they eat, if they’re eating, if they’re eating enough, if they’re getting up to exercise in the middle of the night while you’re passed out from exhaustion from being “on duty” all of the time. If they’re only pretending to get better and it will reemerge as soon as you get home. If they will relapse later. If this will be the thing that takes their life, if not now, then sometime down the road. There’s no magical medicine to help soothe the savage beast of an eating disorder, and the only thing that truly is their medicine (food) is the one thing they fear most to take. It is physical and mental. And the mental leads to worsening physical, and so the cycle goes.

When I remember the characteristics of this villain we’re currently fighting, my blog post doesn’t feel quite so important. But it kind of is too. Because in the midst of this battle, I realized, I’ve become nothing but the General. Nothing but one-woman army, constantly fighting. Not a writer, not a wife, not a sister, not a friend, not a community organizer, or a poet. Not a human. Just the facilitator of a hard-to-come-by cure. And it has worn me thin. Too thin. So thin that the dark thoughts I’d shelved for the last few months are beginning to seep through the cracks in this armor that has already taken too many blows. And the thoughts that seep in…

Well…they aren’t life sustaining, I’ll tell you that much.

So today, I’m making a conscious effort to sit down and write. To do more than research and fret, and meal plan. To remember that attending to the foundation of who I am matters, to the house that still needs to stand in this storm.

I’ve watched a lot of events and occasions pass by in the last two months, as an outsider. From holidays, to birthdays, to fun events and friend gatherings. Even the release of two of my own books. And I could not be a part, fully, of any of them. But we are coming back into the light, and with every day she grows stronger, I need to also commit to coming out of the dark too. It wouldn’t do much good to help her survive only to loose my own will to in the process.

So I’ll keep writing. Keep shouting into the void. And I’m thankful for you, bearing with me while I come back to myself.

I’ll see you next week.