Notes from the Red Bird House

  "You got a gypsy soul to blame and you were born for leavin'." ~ Zack Brown Band, "Colder Weather" I'm not entirely sure what I told myself all those years. Was it living twenty-years in the same house? Was it my parents' divorce? Was it the loss of my childhood home when I wasn't quite ready to create my own? Was it fear? Was it longing? Was it FOMO, the fear of missing out? Look, I have a degree in psychology and I've done several stints with a variety of therapists so please understand when I make this next statement. It's possible to think way too damn much. Or not think nearly enough. Looking back on this issue - one that plagued me for nearly thirty years - I realize that I didn't think enough. Or maybe I did, but not about the right things?  There is little as frustrating, confusing, and convoluted as the human mind. And when it's your own doing all that? I think that's why most people shy away from thinking. The more you...

There comes a time when you just have to tuck it away. Pull out a new box, throw it all in, and close the lid. Write "Yesterday" on the outside, if you want, but it's not required. Tape it closed, if you want, also not required. I've created a lot of these boxes in my day; fifty-two years worth, in fact. I'm getting better at it. Quicker. Practice makes perfect. Perhaps. Or maybe I just decided that I didn't want to be that person anymore. I no longer choose to hold onto sh** that doesn't serve me or deliver me, make me a better version of myself or move me forward. I've learned to box it all up real quick, long before it begins to fester and pollute my soul, long before its tentacles have breached every facet of my being, long before months and years disappear into the ether.  I had to do another final accounting recently. Endings are seldom pretty, but they don't have to be awful. I catalogued the memories, our history - the good, the bad, and t...