Balance (A Guest Blog by Dawna Russom)

As I sit with my feet in the river under a sky that threatens to raise the CFS, I enjoy the tranquility I've been starving for.

The balance of tumult and serenity has been the epitome of the last few months of my life.

You see, my life has been a roller coaster, and not a big fancy one you pay to ride. More like the hang-on-for-dear-life-and-pray-death-overlooks-you kind.

I've fought hard my whole life for things they say are birthrights. Freedom. Autonomy. The safety to make my own stupid decisions as a woman.

I've been under someone's thumb, or foot, or constraint my whole life.

Feminine rage is a thing.

I still carry a lot of rage.

But for the first time in my life, I don't just believe I'm safe.

I know I am.

And apparently safety leaves room in your brain to become irrationally fucking angry about writing utensils.

I tried to continue writing this with a pencil, but the pencil doesn't sit right in my hand or my brain right now. The paper is too rough. The spacing isn't right. My nails are beautiful, but they don't pair with a cheap plastic 0.7 mm mechanical pencil the same way they do with a sticky ballpoint Bic pen.

I know.

These are ridiculous little things.

But I've been reading Kate's blogs, and she's right about something.

It's the small things that matter.

Maybe that's what I've been trying to write about all along.

Balance.

I know I am safe.

I can send her my silly rant about the wrong writing medium and know she'll smile because she understands. She understands the impatience. She understands the frustration behind emotions that fail to conjure the right English words to paint the picture I'm trying to share with her.

It's why the words matter.

It's why being deliberate and concise matters.

Purpose matters.

She matters.

Every small way I begged other people to love me, she just effortlessly does.

At least, that's how I receive it.

I don't mean to make a big deal of it, but I've never been valued, seen, and ultimately loved the way she loves me.

Maybe that's what safety actually feels like.

It doesn't mean the rage disappears. It doesn't erase everything that came before. It doesn't mean the river suddenly stops being powerful enough to sweep you away.

It means I can finally sit at its edge.

It reminds me of the river I had my feet in earlier.

Terrifying in its power.

But also serene.

Lulling.

Both things can be true.

Maybe that's balance.

For now, though, it's beautiful nails, crappy pencils, poorly spaced pages, and fucking autocorrect pissing me off.

And somehow, for the first time in my life, I feel safe enough to be pissed off about the little things.