Early in the morning the house is quiet still, my legs still hurt from yesterday's standing and working and running and cooking and serving and cleaning and raising funds. It was a day off for the kids but I was gone for most of it at work and then at the concession stand for Spanish club. We are less than 110 days until our departure and it's starting to become real. I like real.
I spent my shift at the cafe serving burgers and sandwiches and cleaning as always. Whenever I pick up that broom it's like giving myself permission to spend 20 minutes daydreaming while I move chairs and sweep under tables. I love it. Yesterday's daydream was all about songs that need writing and words that need saying. I can feel something brewing and stirring and creating deep deep down and I can't make it out, but I know that it's there so that if I can keep searching and listening it will show itself.
Someone yesterday posted a Woody Guthrie quote about believing you're the best songwriter because it's no good thinking you're anything other than that when you're writing songs. I liked that quote I sat with it while I moved that broom back and forth collecting the dirt and dust left my work boots under the bar stools. What good will a song do anyone written from a place of timidity or half truth or believing that you're not good enough to write something someone really needs? It won't serve anything.
So I'm still listening. That's what I plan to do today. I plan to keep sweeping with or without a broom and keep dreaming for that thing that is still out of reach. I'm going to live in the promise of love that does not alter depending on what I get right and what I get wrong. I'm going to lean in to that love and be fearless because chains don't do a bit of good.