Here I am, in my new home.

Don’t mind the boxes, or the echo you hear as your feet hit the hardwood. 

It’s an adjustment, moving.  Declaring “I’m Home!” as I walk into unfamiliar territory, all the while feeling inspired, excited, and anxious. 

Home.   It’s where your heart is, they say.  Where you can shit comfortably, in your unscrubbed toilet with your toilet paper roll hung exactly the way you want. 

I hope that’s what Walking the Tightrope becomes for me.  I love my old home, but I felt stifled there.  Like I was a visitor, or better yet, a paying tenant who owed back rent and who had made more holes in the walls than was allowed.

I know my life is sweet.  Lord knows, I know that.  But unfortunately, I don’t always feel that way.  There it is on paper: life is good!  Appreciate it!  Count your blessings! 

But I’m darker than that.  I’m not cheery.  I don’t wake with the dawn and sing songs along with the birds.  And so, writing there made me feel somewhat fraudulent.  Like I couldn’t say shit and fuck and dammit, because is that what you say when life is sweet?

For the past two years, I’ve been writing what I think people would want to read at a place where Life is Sweet.  I’ve been writing authentically, yes, but what I really want to do, is write what crosses my mind as I let the steaming hot water run rivulets down my spine in the shower.  What dwells in the deepest part of my soul when I go through one of my rough patches.

My life is the tightrope – sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, always hanging over a deep chasm promising to swallow me whole if I fall.  Here, I talk about finding my balance.

Won’t you join me?

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