Dear Pneuma,

I am uncomfortable in myself today. If I were an artist drawing a self-portait, I would be all black, slashy lines. I seem to be full of angry thoughts and ugly criticisms. Neither I nor my Beloved can get it right today. Neither doing, nor being are OK by my inner critic. It yells that I am selfish, but resists any move to gift. It yells that we have enough to spend, but pulls back in fear at the thought of buying anything more. It is angry that I am not enjoying this wonderful new day of cold, bright sunshine, yet its own nagging nature is at the root of my disenchantment.

I will attribute this to tiredness after the holidays. I will attribute this to the terrible messes we make with our lives. I will attribute this to my own inability to let go of the past. I will attribute this to a need to understand my world a certain way, and cowardice at the thought of trying to believe something new. I will attribute this to close loved ones that make me accountable for my own self by refusing to carry my burdens as their own.

All good reasons to feel angry, sullen, put-upon, unfinished, and swamped by intentions that rarely seem to materialize in actions.

Why am I so small? I want to be better than I am. I want to believe bravely. I want to love freely. I want to give easily. I want to care compassionately. I want to live fully. The only thing standing in my way is me. You'd think that would be a simple obstacle to overcome.

Yours ever,
Cobalt Dreams