Wake up to a hurricane in my gut, don't want to open my eyes, but there's no chance to sleep in as my never ending worries demand attention. My mind races against itself as if the track were a Möbius strip; a never ending loop, balanced between what I should and shouldn't have done, and ending back where I started in the first place. So much to do, so much left unsaid. Internet bill due... damn, I should've said that to her instead... more bills... I forgot to get milk last night... Dishes are still there... Electric bill overdue... Need to shower for work later... My God... So much to do. So much left to say.

Ok... laying here treading water in this stormy sea of thoughts doesn't help anything. I will end up drowning. If it's in the past, it can't be changed. Or, if it hasn't happened yet, worrying doesn't help anything. I rub and open my weary eyes, slowly sit up as my bed pressures me to lay back down. No. If I don't get up now, I never will.

Before I can stand up, I am greeted by my son, who's been watching me from the crack in the door to see if I was awake yet.

"Can you make me pancakes?" Of course my buddy.

"Can you transform my Bumblebee? I forgot how to do it." Ok, one minute please. Followed seconds later with, "Can you help me do this puzzle? It's my favorite." and continuing, "I broke my Optimus Prime, can you please glue it?" Yes. "I saw Lola (our cat) outside chasing the birdies." Cool, did she catch one? "Not yet ... Why do kitties like to chase birdies?" Before I can answer, "Can you make me waffles?" I thought you wanted pancakes??

Every sweet, high-pitched word that leaves his mouth are said with the most pure intentions. Pure unfiltered thoughts and curiosity. I remember when all I wanted was for him to talk, but this morning the words become increasingly piercing to my ears, as if I developed tinnitus overnight. I snap. "Dude! Can you please give me 5 minutes of silence!?"

I immediately flood with regret. Add it to the already overwhelming weight of anxiety. He's only 4, and the word 'silence' is not in his vocabulary yet. I'm a piece of shit.

"I'm sorry, Iroh. I didn't mean to yell at you. Daddy didn't sleep very good, and sometimes daddies just really like when it's quiet for a little bit."

Visually sad eyes respond "ok."

I can't stand myself. He was only waiting patiently for me to wake up so he could talk to his dad. I'm the worst father ever. The best thing I can do next is give him a big hug, kiss on the forehead, and start making his pancakes. Or was it waffles?

Throughout the next 15 minutes of cooking breakfast, my mind cycles through everything I need to do today. Big and small, each one accompanied by its own level of anxiety. Overwhelmed is an understatement as I stare blankly at the bubbly pancake batter on the griddle. I hear from the next room, "Don't burn the pancakes, Dad!" He's too damn smart. Thank you for reminding me buddy. Without his reminder, this batch would have most assuredly been burned. It's the strangest feeling being unable to move from so much going on inside my head.

We sit at the table and eat our breakfast. His questions keep on coming, and I slap a smile on my face and answer to the best of my abilities, simultaneously reminding him to eat his food, as that's my break between the queries. After we're done, I add the plates and utensils to the ever growing stack of dishes, I direct him to the couch and put on one of his favorite shows, "Bluey." I actually enjoy this show, I could watch it without him, and actually have. But I can't watch with him this time. I tell him I need to go outside for a little bit but I will be back. He acknowledges while eyes glued to the screen.

I step outside barefoot. The morning sunlight greets me warmly through the old cottonwood trees standing proudly to my left. Limbs still bare, but I see leaves beginning to bud. The air is still chilly with a slight breeze from the southwest, but it's the sunlight that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. I don't regret being in a t-shirt and boxers. No neighbors around anyway. First order of business is a deep breath. A heavy sigh of relief at the serenity of my front yard. A deep inhale of the smell of spring within the clean mountain air, and an even deeper exhale as if I'm releasing every last worry into the atmosphere.

I love this place. Birds happily singing in the treetops, like they were mocking my cat that she couldn't climb up to get them. I bet she could if she wanted to. She greets me as well, rubs her sun-warmed fur firmly along my legs, and I reach down to stroke her long, peach-colored fur in return. The sounds of her purring, the singing of the birds, the light breeze gliding through the bushes and trees harmoniously making its own original song. As calming as if 'Claire de Lune' were playing.

It's only me here in this present moment. No thoughts intruding on this pleasant solitude. My gaze directed towards the immeasurably big snow-covered mountains straight ahead, but my awareness is more of a floodlight in this moment. My eyes towards the front, but my vision only limited to the farthest extent of my peripheral.

To my left: Budding rose bushes, 15 200-year-old Cottonwoods and Willows, starlings changing branches every few seconds and twittering in conversation with the others. Lola exploring, the sun demanding attention through the trees, and the small town waking up in the distance.

To my right: More trees budding, these ones being younger, and shading my son's swing set. The closest house 2 miles away, blue and standing out from the distant hills and dark green forest. Clouds beginning to take shape against the deep blue sky, as if the owners of that house wanted to match the morning horizon.

All this within my present awareness. All this while staring forward at the mountains, with a clothesline in the foreground, holding the clothes I forgot to bring inside last night, and all the rolling hills and distant trees in between.

I can see every color without moving my head or eyes. Hues of red within our clothes and stained in the rocks and dirt scattered throughout. Orange is my cat, and the shirt hanging that my parents got me from Hawai'i last year. Yellow is the sun. Green is the grass and weeds growing back from winter, as well as the buds on the trees signaling spring. Blue is the sky and house to the west. Indigo is the sky surrounding the sun, a lighter hue than the darker horizon to my right. And Violet is harder to find, but it's there. From my view, the mountains appear violet where the snow doesn't touch. White, black, and grey everywhere else.

This is my peace. This is my happy place: The present moment within nature. When things get too overwhelming, I go outside, whether under the sun, the overcast, or the stars, and I breathe in the quiet serenity of nature that is unbothered by our worldly concerns.

I hear the door open behind me; my son asking what I'm doing. I calmly reply "I'm just getting my quiet time, buddy. I like to listen to the birds and watch Lola. I like to sit here with my feet in the dirt and listen."

Confused, he asks, "why you doing that?"

With a gentle smile I say, "One day you'll learn."

And feeling renewed, we head back inside to sit and watch some Bluey together.

I've been simmering on this; making my point might be like driving a car in stick shift - I don't know it. I only strive to be the best writer I can be while sharing my story; if a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does Prose still have the capacity to hold me?

Coping can look like crying; some might say I do that into the keys - the click of my typing like little tears getting bigger and bigger, a la Alice in Wonderland. Fergie said, "Big girls don't cry", (almost too simple, like a lullaby). If you don't know who that is, it's probably because my age bracket was born at the tail end of the twentieth century. And that's okay, and that's why we're here - to share different perspectives, holding the truth, making the complex clear.

I know I lack drive, that I lack confidence. It's not lost on me that I'm writing into the internet, little nothings that might make someone say oh, me too, or sometimes, that's not the way of the world, sweet girl.

I'm writing for myself, first and foremost, above everything. My nieces play with teddy bears and flower petals, I play with words and feelings. I take screenshots and share the evidence. Perhaps that makes me vain, but isn't that the world we're living in?

Do I make excuses? Absolutely. That's the world we're living in, too. That could just be my generation though - whining about everything. Millennials, am I right? Or maybe I got lost somewhere along the production line. I'm missing a tooth, or a toe. Or maybe just the ability to tell my woes without sounding morose.

I promise that I'm trying not to whine, to complain bitterly about things I have the capacity to change.

I promise I read your message, and if this isn't even close to what you meant, I apologize - sometimes I miss the point entirely.

I wish the best for you, too - the whole world aligns when we write and hold each other up; supporting other artists is what this is all about.

And with that, I sign off, and please remember - I am just a girl, trying to type out what hurts. What my personality lacks, my keyboard pounces like a cat, and attacks. But we're all friends here, we're all trying our best and that's what I love about this website.

The world feels broken these days. Every morning when I wake up, it's like staring into a shattered mirror, with cracks running through the reflection. The news is full of conflict, injustice, and human suffering on a mass scale. Sometimes it feels hopeless, like there's nothing I can do to make a difference.

But then I remember Grandma Rose's mirror. It was an antique, passed down through generations, with an ornate golden frame. One day, it slipped from my clumsy child hands and shattered into a thousand pieces on the hardwood floor.

I'll never forget the look on Grandma's face - not one of anger or disappointment, but of wisdom. She knelt down beside me as I cried over the shards of broken glass. "Why are you crying, my dear?" she asked gently. "The mirror is not gone. It is simply...changed."

She helped me gather the pieces carefully, wrapping them in a cloth. Over the next few weeks, she spent hours each day meticulously gluing the shards back together. When she was done, the mirror looked like a crazy abstract stained glass window, with cracks zig-zagging across its surface.

"There, you see?" she said, smiling at our masterpiece. "It's more beautiful than ever before. The cracks are a part of its story now, a map of all its broken places that have been rejoined. Those cracks make it unique."

Grandma kept that glued-together mirror for the rest of her days. And every time I look at the world's cracked reflection now, I think of her lesson. Yes, the world is broken in many ways - but that means there is immense potential for discovering new beauty in the shards, if we have the patience and resilience to remake it into something better.

You don't change the world by giving up or giving in to cynicism. You change it by seeing the cracks as an opportunity, not the end. By helping one person at a time. By being kind to your neighbor, and encouraging your community to do the same.

About a year ago, I decided to start volunteering at the local soup kitchen one day a week. I'll never forget the first time I served food to the long line of people, seeing the grateful smile on an elderly woman's face as she took the tray of hot stew from my hands. In that fleeting moment, I could see her humanity, her struggle, and her inherent worth as a person - not just another person experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. The smallest act of service was a reminder that even in a broken world, we can start re-assembling the shattered pieces through compassion.

Little by little, these acts of service and sacrifice can merge the fragments into something new, something more resilient than it was before. Whenever the weight of the world's suffering seems too much, I try to focus on making one piece of the mirror a little less broken, one person at a time.

My friend Ali started a neighborhood watch program in her community when crime became a major issue. She didn't stop there, though - she worked to connect young people who had gotten mixed up with gangs or drugs to counseling resources. Over the past few years, she has helped create a community support network that has given so many a second chance.

My co-worker Marcus started tutoring refugee children in English and math, knowing that education is the key to building a new life of opportunity in a new country, free from persecution.

These people aren't heroes, just ordinary folks who decided to stop waiting around for the world to fix itself. In their own way, they have become skilled craftspeople, carefully glueing together the shards of our shattered societies, creating something more resilient and beautiful in the process.

The cracks in the world's mirror will never fully disappear. There will always be a new hazard, a new injustice to face. But if we all commit to doing our part to address those shattered places with love and service, piece by piece, the masterpiece will only become more striking over time.

When times seem darkest, I imagine myself as a child again, sitting next to Grandma Rose as she patiently reassembles that broken mirror. I hear her words of wisdom echoing through the years: "These cracks are a part of its story now...These cracks make you unique." These cracks are part of a larger whole. I hear my grandmother's soothing voice, reminding me that I can always restart my day....

Sometimes there is no coping. All you can do is curl up into a ball and cry your heart out, until you realise you're just doing it for effect. Out of self-pity. Life is still going on, it won't help.

I'm lucky, because living on a farm there is always work to do.

That's what does it for me. Work. Fixing fences, building gates, digging hoes, chopping trees, mucking out, even just watching the animals is very important. And it all helps. To take your mind of things, off everything. To think only about what you're doing at that moment. It doesn't take your troubles away, or solve your problems, but a clear mind is the only way you can get through all the overwhelming stuff.

There are other ways such as walking, sometimes walking up our long lane will calm me down enough, either listening to nature or singing as loudly and as badly as possible to various songs. Playing a musical instrument has a very calming effect on people, if I happen to be cross, playing something loud like an accordion is great for letting out frustration.

That's how I get through a bad time. Different methods for different moods.

On days when I feel sad and blue

And everything seems bad

I want to crawl back into bed

Can't see a way past sad

There's war and famine everywhere

Nature screams in pain

People dying, children crying

The whole world's gone insane

There's trauma here and heartache there

Why's everyone so cruel

We're all people with feelings

Yet we act like we're too cool

There's cost of living, college debt

No pay rise coming soon

Can't get in to see a doctor

Until sometime late in June

The dating world seems scary

To my bruised and battered heart

I fear that they'll abuse me

If I even give a part

My friend just wants to end it

She's been sick for many years

The doctors shrug their shoulders

And she leaves their rooms in tears

Yes life is grim and gruesome

It's no picnic or parade

So how do I keep going

In this crazy, life charade?

Instead of thinking 'bout

All the things I didn't own

A house, a dog, a partner

That new expensive phone

I started giving thanks

For the good things in my life

Fresh air, good friends, my job

The peace amongst this strife

I started seeing sunsets

And smiling at the show

Those vibrant pretty colours

Told my sadness where to go

And flowers in the garden

Birds up in their trees

Singing for me daily

The calm buzz of the bees

The fresh crunch of an apple

The crust of new-baked bread

A dance class at the club

My soul was being fed

The time to do my writing

To walk in local parks

To dine out with a friend

And hear about their larks

That changed everything for me

For beauty is a salve

Friendship is a tonic

They ease that pressure valve

Life is still no picnic

The blue days haunt me still

But now I search for glimmers

And my cup, they do fill

I didn't win the vagina lottery

wasn't born with one

haven't been able to find one

ready willing able to hold me

even for that little bit of time

for me to spew renew

left to my own devices I fall

on my knees and say words

directed to the vast heavens

take away this blasted curse

send rain wash me

cleanse my aching soul mind

hands clenched white tears

unashamed I can't do it by

myself alone unassisted sole

help help me Rhonda

Abba Hercules Diane

I can't make it one more day

My alarm goes off, my eyes open, and I feel instant dread. Another morning, I wake up not dead. An eternal sleep sounds like the ultimate peace.

Sleeping has been my escape for so long. Once I get the noises and chatter to turn off in my mind, I drift away to the safest place. A period of time I am granted permission to be unconscious. I spend too many hours of my day overly conscious. Waiting and longing to turn it all off again. Sleepless nights are like torture, eliminating the one thing I fall back on when everything is overwhelming. Nightmares jeopardize the solitude I seek, and occasionally leave me feeling worse than before. Reminding me that there is no true escape from the things that haunt us. Maybe I should take a pill that guarantees restless sleep? Maybe something stronger that will let me forever be.

When my eyes are heavy, but my mind refuses to shut down, I eventually allow the thoughts building in my head to pour out through my exhausted relief valve. One I don't have control over anymore. I let the words dance from my mind to the blank canvas of a screen, creating something tragic, beautiful, worthless and all that in between. Rhyming, crying, random or heartfelt, it all comes out when I allow myself the time to write it down. When I try to put my thoughts into words, sometimes a wall rises up, blocking anything from connecting brain to page. I suddenly feel inept and speechless, unable to form a basic sentence. Leaving me hopeless and discouraged, I give up. Back to bed until the alarm goes off again.

It's no secret that the world seems to crumbled more each day like a wooden bridge in an adventure movie! I plunge as swiftly as Michael Phelps into a pool of words. My words or other people's words it matters not. Reading and writing help me escape. My job keeps my mind busy but working everyday with children and teens screwed over by society and parents alike makes me want escape more.

So whether it's the sound and philosophical fury of Metalica or absolutely mind numbing creature features or the written word, I get by as best I can... waiting for that better tomorrow I've heard so much about.

take it

and I don't mean

"the Good with..."

but take it

bald faced eagle

and lying

upside down

pick at it

as true

carve it

sprawling

raw

into

the 'morrow

to the bone

that's some thing

like old Styrofoam

permanent marker'd

with personal initials

in boil, dribble

and in regret,

as it crumbles

in vice grip

of mind's

mother

feedin' vultures

and know, in the arrow

Death will take me,

broken,

but it will never

have you.

05.10.2024

The best way to live in a broken world challenge @putski