Restless Anxiety

Today I'm restless.

My pup is sick. Yesterday, she was exceptionally lazy, which would be fine if she wasn't a terrier/border collie/lab mix. She's supposed to be exuberant and normally she wears out us, our neighbors and their dog. Yesterday, she didn't though. She didn't want to play or run or be happy. Then, she started limping. And now this morning the incision spot where she just had surgery is red and swollen. 

She needs a vet. My husband will take her in around an hour where he was able to snag a last minute appointment. This is the first time in her life she has been this kind of sick.

Here she is with me hiking a few years ago.

My day has started out anxious and when it starts like that? It is hard for me to come down from it. So, naturally, I'm using it in every other crevice in my life.

I started a guided planner this year. 

Here's the beast (above). 

I bought it for my birthday back in November knowing I needed more guidance for the coming year. I need accountability and reminders and something to keep my fingers moving and a place to put my lists so that I can actually put them to work. I know this. Most of you probably know this, because if you talk to me for even a moment it is apparent that my mind is scattered and I have a million things I must do immediately.

We also all know that you cannot do everything at once or you have nothing at all. So my planner is a monster. 

It lays out life goals, year goals, monthly goals and weekly goals. It has quotes and phrases meant to inspire. It has room for mind maps and goal setting on every, single, page. And most days, I love it. I pull out my colored specialty pens and get to work on scheduling my dreams so that my brain-skipping can finally find purchase. 

Today though, I hate it. It is making me see all the things I've sent out to do and how little I've actually done them. I see the checks I didn't make next to the things I didn't do and I question why I wasted so much time yesterday. last week. today. 

When I am anxious I vividly see my lack of self-discipline. My mind goes blank at the word accomplish because I know I didn't do that recently. My anxiety makes me want to create lists, upon lists, upon lists. I want to write down financial numbers and page numbers and writing numbers and then I want to compare them all to where I should be, or what I have (or worse what other's have), just to see exactly where I'm lacking. 

I want to find all the flaws before doing the work and then tell myself the work is useless.

I scrabble for anything to fill the time in my brain. I need something to distract me and then distract me from the original distraction and so on until the day is over. I need to believe I can do anything, without ever actually have to have done it.

Restless anxiety is funny like that.

Which is why I haven't been able to write in so long. I feel failure looming. I thought it was my book that was the problem. I thought if I knew what to write, if I knew where I was going, I could do it. Well, I know where I'm going in the book. It's plotted. I've also come up with some great fodder to get there and still I cannot concentrate enough to write it out. I've been staring at the screen blankly for days. Weeks possibly. 

A bunch of plot notes for my current novel, and not a word to write.

I have encouragement, motivation, an idea, a support group... What I lack is concentration. Anxiety tells me I'm not very good. Restlessness tells me there's other, better things to do. And I believe them. I believe them because right now, I'm broken. My habits are off. My time management is non-existent and my self-discipline is lacking. And I'm not entirely sure how to build it back up. 

My creative due diligence is a cup half full. And it's yelling obscenities at me that I would rather not repeat and have been trying to ignore. It's partially working, which is problem in a nut shell. I hate when I feel like i'm failing. Flailing around with this obscene amount of entitlement that in anyone else I loathe, giving excuses as to why I'm incompetent instead of just becoming competent. 

EMBRACE THE SUCK! My better-self yells. Still, I can't seem to make myself listen.

School starts back up in sixteen days and that is making the pressure unbearable. The boundary of that day listed on my calendar makes me feel the waste of my time even more. I should be writing right now, constantly, because when schools starts back up I'll have even less time. My thoughts clam up and regret starts to boil on the edges and I'm too far seized to write. To read. To watch movies. To do anything productive or happy or good. The cycle of time is cruel to me. 

I want to leave this on a positive spin. An upbeat farewell, if you will. But I won't. I'll leave it right here in the mound of mud I've created because that's exactly where I lay today. Sometimes restless, anxiety (or any form of whatever it is-- sometimes it's just a shitty day) wins a round or two. 

<3

J.B

The Years

The Years

One. If there was a single, hold-able regret, I would tell you. I would shout it from the rooftops and let it fester until it healed. I would move to mend, to extract the lesson, to let it mold me into the person I want to be. But there isn’t. There’s a million and I can’t grasp a single one long enough to control it. I’m haunted and I fear I always will be.

Two. The amount of days until this same amount will be my wedding anniversary. Two years. Two days. They blend. They move and meld and whisp away until they blur. It’s amazing how much time we lose and spend and wish away. I’ve stopped doing that now, but how much did I lose before I realized what I was doing?

Three. It’s a crowd of sorts, but I like the direction. It’s more than a single and opinionated in duo and it’s how much longer I need to wait until a dream I’ve had for triple this amount of time is accomplished. You’ll see a new me, in only three years. And oh what a ride they will be. You never would have guessed the road I picked to travel.

Four. It’s still us. Not as close, not as easy, not as likable as we once were. But there’s still us times 2. Times 4. We’ve grown larger now, but the horsemen still remain. You would be happy to know we haven’t completely fallen apart, although it’s been hard. For some more than others.

Five. Fingers and toes. All in one piece. I’ve got a plan for this number and they’re big. They’re astronomical. I’m working towards it, every hour, every minute. I’m not as deliberate as I used to be, I know these years can change me. They can change everything. But by that time it’ll be thirteen and that’s a lucky number. I’m using all my digits to push forward to it.

Six. The amount of time I’ve been gone. Home means something different to me now, though our house still means the same. It’s good for me. For all of us. I’ve learned so much more than I thought I would when I struck out, worried but pushing through. I didn’t think I would find a place. I still don’t know if I have, but I like the way the creek crackles down the rocks and how something can feel like mine.

Seven. You’ve been gone. It’s crazy. It’s unthinkable. And at the same time it’s not. I forget, sometimes. I scramble to remember your smile. Your hugs. Your love. And I panic thinking I’ve lost it. Every year I forget a little more, a word in a conversation. The look you gave telling me you were proud. The date you were gone. I try to force the memory. The details. But they’re gone. Then I remember the feelings. The moments. The thoughts. My panic at being left. Your peace at knowing I would be OK. And I feel less worried. Less frantic. Because I remember what matters. What you really left me with, Dad. I miss you, but seven has been better. I understand more now. See more. I’m not who I was, even if I slip sometimes. I’m more. And whenever I’m looking over my shoulder, wondering if I should go back, I remember you and I take another step forward. Seven years and you’re still pushing me. As long as I don’t forget that, I can handle tomorrow. Next week. Twelve months. Or another seven years. One step forward, don’t move back.

A Love Letter to My Countrymen & My Country

I'm struggling. Struggling to write what needs to be said, to push through voices louder than mine. To be heard when no one seems to be listening anymore. 

I'm broken. By the cries of the distraught, the families left to carry on. By the constant chatter about not wanting to live in a place like this any more.

I'm terrified. For my country. For my people. For everyone who has ever been American, in any form of the word. 

This is our home. 

Our tribe. 

Our countrymen. 

Which means something to me and no matter what you say, to you too. 

America is just a plot of land. We are the dream. We are the ideals. We are the reality. Only can we, as a people, stand up and regain peace within ourselves. Within each other. Within our communities. 

Asian-American, European-American, African-American, Native-American.

They are just labels and mean very little to me. 

You are my brothers and sisters. You are American and I will defend your right to that with every beat of my heart. I think when bad things happen, we forget the beauty of our country. We forget to stand with each other in the face of evil. We let fear control us and that is when things truly get scary. Good people do irrational things when they are afraid. When did we come to fear our neighbors?

Do not turn on each other, America. 

There are too many injustices, too many people with horrific agendas, for us to turn on each other. Uniting together, as we've done so many times before, is the only answer. Respecting each other, even if you do not like each other, even if you do not agree, is what will resolve the fear that plagues us. 

We have achieved so much and even though we are not perfect, America is mine. To work on. To struggle with. To be broken and repaired by. To fear for and to mend. This is my home. You are my people. Not divided by race, age, gender, religion, class, job, or any other type you would like to throw in. I fight for you, all of you. I cannot believe that as a people, we are beyond repair. I cannot believe we have become "US" (whoever that is) against "THEM" (whoever they are). I can only see a "WE". 

We are broken by irrational deaths.
We are left to pick up the pieces.
We are faced with corrupt practices and labels.
We need to fix a broken system.
We have lost respect for each other.
We have to find it again.
We have to explain to our children why.
We have to help however we can.
We...

I don't have all the answers and I've never pretended to. I ask a lot of stupid questions, say a lot of things that don't make sense to others and believe in different things. I'm not perfect. America isn't perfect. But I'm willing to fight for her. 

Today is a hard day on all of our souls. We need each other, now more than ever. 

Reach out to each other. Help someone with their groceries. Wave hello to a stranger. Ask the cashier how they are doing and truly listen to the answer. Get to know the people around you. Get off your phones. Stop reading the headlines and the yelling and the policies we should adopt or get rid of. 

Change starts with us. You. Me. 

It sounds cliche, but be the change. Love each other. Hug a stranger. Hurt with one another. Be proud that you have a family this big, that you have a whole country at your back willing to step up. We are with you, whoever you are. Find hope. That's what we're built on after all. 

United We Stand

Divided We Fall

Accomplishment, Confusion, Denial, Excuses and Pursuit

The stages of meeting someone whose work you admire...

Okay. Some of you may not have this experience. You can meet someone who you think is, ahem, balls to the wall, if you will, and be completely cool. You're confident.You walk away feeling great about you and never think a thing of it again. This is not me. 

Whenever I meet someone incredibly talented my first thought is, 'of course they want to be my friend. Just look at how well we get along.' I feel accomplished to have made it in their presence and to be able to have a conversation that isn't dominated by hums and ha's. I feel successful by association.

Don't worry, this rubs off in 2.3 seconds after my mouth closes and I walk away. I turn confused. Wait, I just talked to someone I admire. Someone talented. Someone accomplished. Why am I not accomplished? I wonder about this on the entire walk away from them. 

Then before I start to panic, I tell myself it's not real. There's no way they are that big of a deal. Obviously. I then research the hell out of their career and figure out just how big of a deal they are. The constant fan groups/awards/love for them is shoved down my throat and all denial dies in the pit of my stomach. It's about the next morning before I move on to the next stage.

No, JB, it's not you. You're busy. You work full-time. You go to school full-time. You're a great writer, you just don't have enough time/money/resources to put together a best selling book. It isn't your fault. You're still young. I baby myself. I fill the next day with all the things my life consists of. I've even gone so far as to write down all of my activities to prove my excuses. I check my bank account and the costs of publishing over and over, pretending they are absolute facts and are the only possible things that can propel my success, which by looking at them, is the exact reason I'm failing. 

Then I take a breath.

Time for a side note. 

I'm writing this because this happened this weekend. I met the author of one of my top ten favorite series in the world, Red Rising. His name is Pierce Brown and he is 28. 

TWENTY-FREAKING-EIGHT.

He is a NY Times #1 best selling author and has sold book rights to Universal for his book Red Rising. [You can learn more about him here] 

AT TWENTY-FREAKING-EIGHT.

I, my dear loving friends, am 27. I will be 28 this year.

I have published one book and one novelette. I have not had a #1 book-- forget movie rights!

Meeting this author has probably done more of a number on my brain/motivation/self-confidence than any other has in the past. It has made me seriously question things-- and there's been a whole lot of whys and hows I've thrown around about my writing. About other people's writing. About success. Failure. Reality. Probability. And a horde of other issues I'd rather not talk about.

Here's the real rub of it: when I started the books, I didn't know a damn thing about the author. It could have been a 65 year old woman that had written hundreds of best sellers. I read the summary, decided it looked good and read. and read. and read.

I loved them. In a moment where I was struggling with finding something to read, these books were like water. I seriously couldn't get enough. Darrow is one of the most honest, heart-breakingly real characters I had come across in years. I could see myself there. In every moment. 

And this past weekend, the person who wrote something that had broken my heart and made it whole again, stood in front of me. A 28 year old, goofy guy, and for a few good hours I wasn't sure how I felt about me. 

He is practically the same age as me. How can he be a successful author and I'm still, well, just me?

Back to the stages.

I don't want you guys to think this is about Pierce Brown, because it's not. It never has been. This is about me. About how I am affected by those around me and what I can do with those reactions. I have been completely gifted with the ability to work with and talk to several amazing writers, artists and editors that I am completely in awe of every, single, day. Jealousy is an ugly thing and I am ashamed to say it can get to me too. I see others that I am so completely enamored with and I compare. I compare myself, my writing, my characters. I compare my work ethic, my lifestyle, my choices. I try to make sense of something just to make myself feel better, so that the world I live in seems more at fault than my mind is. I struggle. A lot. And in the face of happiness, in the presence of success, my struggles only tend to become that much more real. My faults become red marks in a world of white. I can see who I am and who I am struggling so hard to be.

Then, my dreams come into focus.

Pursuit. That's the only defining characteristic I can label the last stage as. I am in pursuit of my dreams. After everything I feel, after all the self-guilt, I can remember why I'm writing. That the way I feel when I've read a book, and the way I want to become something bigger than I am at this moment, is a gift, a reminder, that I want to bring this companionship and emotion to readers, the way these authors bring it to me. My mind comes back to all the colors. The love I have for my own stories. How I know if I push myself just a little bit further and continue moving towards my goals, I'll get there too. 

And someday, someone, somewhere will go through the stages. I'll shake their hand and smile and set their mind on a path I've been down oh so many times before. I'll remember then like I remember now, that it's worth it.

So, the next time you find yourself in the presence of someone great, someone whose art makes your breath catch, know that you too, can be that. Maybe not in the same time frame, same mode, same anything. Realize that it isn't about them. It's about you. You're good enough, strong enough, beautiful enough to create something that speaks to someone else. You can become successful, in whatever way that may mean.

For me, I'm going to write a best selling novel. Starting with today.

<3JB

The Last of Yesterday

And the beginning of tomorrow...

I've been traveling a road for a summer, fall, winter and new year. I wasn't alone, although there were so many times it felt like it.

My husband quit his job in the Spring of 2015.

He had worked there for over eight years. He had built his goals on the foundation of a zoo and when he had accomplished all he had striven for, he found he wanted more.When you're driven, which we both tend to be, losing a dream is infuriating. You become lost in who you want to be. Where you want to go. Especially when you realize where you are doesn't fit right any more. Like your favorite t-shirt you wore ten years ago when you made that dream to start. You've outgrown it. 

I like to think I'm a loving wife. An understanding one. One who knows her partner with every whisper of breath. I knew he was drowning so, I threw a life raft. 

A shaky, ugly, torn thing that only had the inkling of a plan.

But I threw the damn thing with all my might. And he quit. As furiously as he does anything else and our journey began. 

I have learned so much.

We thought our own business was the best idea this side of Spokane. My husband is talented and I am able to keep the papers together enough to make sense. We would be busy and happy and fulfilled. 

We were not.

It was long and grueling. People were snakes, hands stuck so far out of their pockets and into our own we were confused who was who. We found the ugly side of money and the greed seeped deep in our area. A hard days work isn't worth much anymore, apparently. Honesty is spit on and screamed at. Necessities should be free, regardless of what we owe to obtain them for you. Our dream of creating other people's dreams and making them a reality, soured. But we learned.

There are two types of people in the world: One's who live to work and those who work to live. 

Either is fine with me. I thought if we had purpose, meaning and love in our jobs (and only these things) life would be easy. I still think it might be, but those positions are few and far between. We may get back there someday, but for now I am completely happy, actually more happy than I ever thought, by working to live. I'll go to a job where I like the people and the work is OK and the stress levels are low and then I'll spend the money I make there on the things I really love. I'll use my vacation to travel the world and write until my little heart has no more words. My husband also learned that he would like that too. The search began.

And search was all we did. 

Every day for months we scoured the world for work that would more than make ends meet and that he would enjoy (for the most part) doing. We applied. He took phone interviews and tediously went to five or six interviews a week. All on the hunt for something to fit his new (hopeful) lifestyle. We wanted benefits. We wanted enough cash to live comfortably. We wanted a good environment. We wanted a reasonable commute. 

It was heartbreaking and at times soul crushing. 

I'm not what you would call religious, but I have faith. I have a faith so strong that the world will work out and if you put good things into the world, the world will return good things to you. I have faith in my husband and his abilities. In his personality. I have faith that we can make it through anything. But this, this tested that faith to the very frayed ends of it's existence. 

And I realized that when my faith of the future is wavering, I become reclusive. I cannot handle listening to others say anything negative. I cannot hear it will be okay or talk about the downturns we've had. I cannot hang out as if everything is okay. I can only squirrel my soul away until it is back to being stable. Until I know I can face friends and foe without be persuaded by their words. And this is why I am not a great friend. When the universe is testing me, I will fail or succeed alone. I give myself no other option. 

Good, bad or ugly, this is the truth of who I am. 

And it took what looked to be the end of life as I know it to see it. 

I've come so far. 

I can't begin to explain what it has felt like to see my savings dwindle. To hear no after no after no. To push my husband up when I felt like doing was staying down. I know it isn't going to be the last hurdle, nor the worst, but it was a glaring change that was probably one of the largest in my adult life. It was the first time I openly doubted my faith that things were going to work out. It was a trial where I learned so much about myself and my husband that otherwise would have gone unnoticed.

It mattered and that's why I'm writing this. To remember.

Thankfully, I can write this because its over. My husband accepted a job that is perfect for him. And us. It is absolutely everything we didn't know we were looking for and everything we were. I am so, so thankful. A weight has been lifted and a lightness I didn't have before (even before this happened) has filled me. I see a plan forming. A future. It is exciting, terrifying and fulfilling in every way. I'm no longer wandering aimlessly. 

We have finally found the path through the trees.

And what a glorious road to see.

<3JB

#SaturdayScenes The Beginning

I've decided to share the entirety of my novelette The Beginning for the next few #SaturdayScenes in honor of NaNoWriMo.

Here's the blurb:

The Beginning: 

For every step in the right direction,

There’s one that lingers in the dark.

Forgive the stability of my expression,

But the truth stands still inside the spark.

For what you know cannot be true,

There’s a different path in sight.

Don’t worry, history doesn’t blame you,

It just wants to set the tale right.

The wolf was real, the girl a sham,

Real humanity in the village was kept.

The hunger inside is quite grand,

So you better watch your step.

The Beginning is a novelette for the Guarding the Vila series. It takes place before Red. It is approx. 10k words and is a short-story.

Enjoy!

*
And this warning take, I beg;

Not every wolf runs on four legs.

The smooth tongue of a smooth-skinned creature

May mask a rough and wolfish nature.

These quiet types for all their charm,

Can be the cause of the worse harm.

-Charles Perrault; Little Red Riding Hood

France, Fall of 1697

*

The dew had yet to be disturbed and the leaves lit the ground on fire with their 

color. The wooden cabins lay laced with mist, hardly visible from my window, while they 

sat in the distance. I should have been soaking up the beauty, loving the morning before 

the winter turned it cold, but Mama had woken me too early after her long trip from 

Grandmere's, causing my mood to turn fouler with each passing breath. No amount of 

beauty, or threat of its extinction, could soften the sour look I gave the dawn.

"Scarlett," she called. "Wake up! Grandmere is sick and cannot get out of bed. 

The wolves are said to roam this time of year, so I need you to get up so you can 

go and light the fires for her tonight. She is too weak to do them herself and I 

must go to town and fetch your sister to help take care of her."

I mumbled sleepily and rolled over, trying to ignore the urgency in her voice.

"Girl, wake up!"

She shook me heavily as I tried to burrow deeper under my covers, when 

suddenly she tore them off completely. She scowled, tapping her foot impatiently, as I 

crawled begrudgingly from my bed to get dressed. I did not want to be up and I did not 

care to walk the distance to Grandmere's. This could wait, I was certain, but if I did not 

do as I was asked, I would be left no coin for food, and Mama's temper would flare 

when she returned. It seemed far better, for now, to appease her. She quickly kissed my 

head as she pulled on her cape.

"You know what you must do?" 

I rolled my eyes with my back still turned towards her. 

"Yes, Mama. Light the fires at Grandmere's." I could hear the rustle of her skirts 

moving away from me.

"And you must do it before dark. Do not stray, Scarlett. I'm trusting you."

Before I could say more she was out the door and on her way to the town a half-
day’s walk north. I couldn't help grumbling, cursing at my unfortunate luck, as the chill of 

the floor crept through my bare feet. I should have been married off long ago, released 

from being a burden on my family and from having their burden on me. But at twenty I 

was still living at home, taking care of Mama as if I were an old maid. It was customary 

for fathers to pick a future husband to take care of his daughter as soon as she was of 

age. My father had done all of this, choosing a boy about my age named Jacques. He 

was brave and eager to become the lead hunter's apprentice, convincing father of his 

worth even though he came from humble beginnings. My father always called him a 

wolf in sheep's clothing, insisting he was more predator than goat herder. All had been 

set until my betrothed died at the age of sixteen, weeks short of when we would have 

been wed, alongside my father.

Papa had taken him on an early hunting trip, training him. They did not stand a 

chance. The wolves tore them apart to the point that they were barely recognizable. The 

only indicator that it was them were the pieces of clothing strewn on the ground and the 

emblem embedded in my father's chewed fist, declaring him the lead hunter of our 

village. Since his death, Mama had refused to give me away and her fear of the wolves 

had been palpable. The fires were key to keeping the beasts at bay, but as I stood in 

the morning light, I could not bring myself to head into the woods towards the cabin. I 

did have a little time until it would be absolutely necessary to leave in order to be there 

before dark. I turned my steps towards the baker's cabin, the forest drifting away at my 

back.

The smell of freshly baked bread and hot iron filled the air. The earliest risers 

were always the baker and the blacksmith. I loved the way the morning swirled with the 

scent, both metallic and warm. The baker ran her shop out of her small cabin, tucked 

deep into the middle of our village, a pitched lean-to in front. The outside was lined with 

shelving and tables, all holding the goods she baked to sell. Thankfully, I had a few 

coins to fill my hunger with since the smells of her wares were driving my stomach to 

flips.

A crowd of villagers were pulled tightly together by the time I reached the shop, 

requiring me to push my way through to the front. A week ago I had come, craving the 

taste of scones, and just as I had arrived, a traveler snatched the last one from the shelf 

greedily. I knew I needed to be quick, so I would not be cheated again. I none-too-gently 

elbowed a man in a graying outfit, quickly taking his surprise as an advantage to step in 

front of him. I saw his glare from the corner of my eye, words of protest hanging on his 

lips. He looked to the hood at my back, recognizing me instantly.

"Red! You should try to watch your elbows. It's not very ladylike to be shoving 

men around." 

He gave me a wink, a smile spreading across his face. Claude was the 

handsome, carefree boy in our village, whose looks alone would make even the most 

proper lady swoon. His golden hair only haloed his charm and his eyes of brun 

constantly danced with mischief. He made every girl smile and would have no trouble 

finding a bride... except that he was completely in love with me. He had asked my 

Mama numerous times for my hand, but every time, she declined. We, of course, had 

our fun, but I couldn't imagine marrying a butcher's boy, the stench of death burned into 

his hands. I was a hunter's daughter and to marry outside of my class was beneath me. 

My father had always promised me a hunter and even in his absence I would accept no 

less.

I turned away from Claude, unconcerned with his teasing, and grabbed for the 

last raspberry scone, snatching it from underneath the hand of a battered old man. He 

looked pitiful, urging me with his eyes to give up the scone I had taken. I refused, 

shrugging my shoulders, pointing instead to a pie that was still waiting to be taken from 

the shelf. He shook his head in disgust at my suggestion. I did not feel guilty as I bit into 

the gooey raspberry filling, the flavors comforting my decision to be harsh. All acts were 

fair when dealing with the baker's delicious goods. The old man would just have to 

learn, as I had, to be quicker next time.

I left my coin in the hands of the baker's daughter then shuffled my way out of the 

crowd, satisfied with my haul. Claude was right on my heels, obnoxiously digging into a 

scone of his own. When we were far enough away to be simply a memory to the crowd, 

the scones licked clean from our fingers, he swooped me up by the waist, planting a 

sugar-filled kiss on my lips with force. I pushed at his arms to let me go and he did, 

dropping me lightly to my toes. I grabbed his hand and ran towards a small alley 

between two stables, hidden away from prying eyes.

"Claude! That was not discreet! I thought we agreed it wouldn't be proper, kissing 

in the streets. What if someone saw? My reputation would be ruined, you 

wretched boy!

I slapped at his chest but he just laughed, the contagious sound thrumming through my 

fingers.

"No one saw us, darling girl. You know I would be ashamed if I ended up the 

cause of your fallen honor. I would never be so rash!" He gently brushed my 

cheek. "You are as precious as a rose in bloom." Stepping back, he looked 

around in delight. "But behold! We are alone. So. Where were we?"

He grabbed me by the waist, sweeping me up into another kiss. This time I 

returned it, consumed by his urgency. He tasted of jam and warm bread, and for a 

moment it didn't matter who we were. We could have been anyone and the future laid 

out before us. All that mattered was that it felt right. That moment, however sweet, just 

as the roses were, faded quickly. He returned me to my feet, that I carefully shuffled 

trying to regain my balance. I adjusted my skirts and cape back to their proper position.

"What is the meaning of all of the commotion this morning? There are so many 

people about so early," I said. 

"The men are going on their hunt tomorrow for the wolves, so the town is 

throwing a festival for their safe return. There'll be plenty of food and drink today, 

ma cherie! It's a celebration! One that you do not want to miss, dear lady."

He slurred his words in exaggerated excitement and I couldn't help the grin that 

came to my face. In my anger at Mama I had completely forgotten the day. I loved the 

festivities before a hunt. There was no better place to be in all of France when our 

village was celebrating the safe return of our men. Claude's enthusiasm only spurred on 

my own. The town would be so alive today, whereas tomorrow there would be nothing 

but drowning amounts of fear—terror that our loved ones may not return. I had a few 

hours until it would be absolutely necessary that I leave and this would be a pity to miss. 

I grabbed Claude's hand and started dragging him towards the pub. He played along, 

pretending that my strength overwhelmed his own.

"Where are you taking me, my rose?" He said with feigned concern.

I just winked and we ran through the streets, laughing.

It's Never Too Late

To Say Thank You <3

Today, my dear friends, is for you. I want to simply say thank you.

Thank you for your time, reading the stupid, but needed, things that I post.

Thank you for including me in your circles, your jokes, your advice. 

Thank you for taking moments out of your days to answer my questions, commenting or sharing, and making things seem like they matter in a world that is usually too busy to notice.

Thank you for helping me step out of my comfort zone.

Thank you for helping me. Period. Even though you may not know you're doing it, have done it, or will do it in the future, know that you are, will or have. 

Thank you for being real. For showing me your success, for sharing your trials, for giving more than I'm sure you feel you should, to those of us who want to know.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

<3 JB