If I Belonged

> When did it start to feel like… Like you fit? Like you…belonged here?
> Well, I'm still not sure I do.

If I belonged

Really belonged

I wouldn’t feel the need

To prove myself

To show my worth

To defend every action

Every desire for connection

Every longing for love

If I belonged

I wouldn’t feel like I was trespassing

On someone else’s territory

Fearful of triggering

Someone’s anger

That I had overstepped

My bounds

Taken what was

Not mine

Expected more than

I was owed

As if friendships are transactions

And love can be meted out

In weights and measures

I don’t know how to belong

Without being invited

How do I differentiate

An invitation

From my own longing?

Carving out a place for myself

Evokes images of sharp edges

Blades cutting and slashing

Creating a space

In the absence of a welcome

I’d rather nestle in

Where space is made

With the intent

That I should fill it

A me-shaped space

A perfect fit

But this requires

The involvement of others

One in which

Belonging can never be

A one-sided decision

I see now

This is belonging

Among people

What if this is too narrow a focus?

Can I belong in the world

Without people being involved?

Why should other people

Have the power to decide

If I belong?

Am I beholden to them

For my existence

Simply because I’ve never felt

What it means to belong?

What if belonging

Is a state of being

And not a status

A rank granted

Only if one meets

Subjective standards

And pays one’s dues?

If I belonged

As a state of being

I could stop apologizing

For being who I am

If I belonged

As a state of being

I would have just as much right

To happiness and joy

To love and fulfillment

As anyone else

If I belonged

As a state of being

My needs would be important

Should the cabin lose air pressure

One of those oxygen masks

Would be for me

And I could secure it on myself

With gratitude

If I belonged

As a state of being

Then should others

Overlook me

Forget me

Ignore me

Try to erase me

I have a right

Even an obligation

To speak up for myself

To fight for myself

Because I belong

And I will not be erased

I belong

And I have a right to be happy

I belong

I do not need to carve out a space

Or nestle in to one existing

I will make my own space

In the world

And invite others

To stand with me

To sit next to me

To share with me

And if I sometimes feel

Like a fish out of water

Because belonging

Has been foreign all my life

Then I will be that fish

Who learns to live on land

Big plans for that fish

Don’t step on me

I belong.

Literary Orgasms

I've long said that the act of writing, whether a short story, a novel, or a poem, is like giving birth. The only difference between the three is the length of gestation.

There is the initial orgasmic ecstasy of a new idea, of plot twists and characters imbued with meaning and perhaps layers of symbolism. There is the period of morning sickness, of wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into and isn't there a more qualified writer to manifest this idea into reality?

There are those first kicks, proof that the idea is developing a life of its own, that ultimately the story will leave the womb and make its way into the world. At times, the story leaves me fatigued and heavy, a beached whale that can barely string two words together while having to pee every thirty minutes.

And finally, after what seems like a lifetime of feeding off me like a literary parasite, and at the same time not nearly enough time together, it's ready to be born, accompanied by sweat and copious tears and possibly some blood.

Nursed through marketing efforts, it soon can stand on its own, garnering the strength to stand up to bullying critics, to make new friends, to find its place in the world.

Until a new idea hits with white-hot passion and my toes curl with the sheer joy of telling another story that can touch someone else's heart.