You were eight years old. You knew everything you would ever need to create. Your mom and dad were both at work. The baby-sitter took you to an old diner. The lady at the front desk gave you paper and markers.
The baby-sitter ordered two chocolate milkshakes.
Decades later, you remember how paradise felt. You…
You know what to do. Draw your star. Tell us your story.
Thank you to Lynette Sheppard, who was the one writer to respond to my request for responses to last week’s Breakthrough. Is there anyone else out there?
I make promises to myself.
I will write. I will no longer watch ANY news programs. I will walk every day. I will please myself rather than everyone else. I will dress up just for me. I will create art as an act of civil disobedience. I will stand tall. I will forgive myself.
My promises flow from best intentions and fevered dreams. They hold clarity and focus like a clear goblet holds water. Cyclically, predictably, they fall to the earth and shatter.
All I can do is gather up the shining fragments and cradle them with reverence in my cupped hands. And begin again. I promise…. — Lynette Sheppard