I Am Not A Star

Twinkle Twinkle

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So, I am not a star, but I breathe the same air as every star in the cosmos.

I am connected to the stars above, to the earth below, to every creature upon this earth, be they man, beast, insect, plant…and everything under the waters.

I have a knack for hiding my light, with lots of justifiable reasons.  I have often found myself out and claimed I would “re-take” my power, this power that I had “given away” to someone else.

The truth is–I never gave anyone anything.

I kept it all to myself, locked up, hidden deep inside, sometimes more than others, sometimes less than others, but always, hidden, hidden, hidden.

Do I want to be the Virgin or the Whore–the age-old “high school” dilemma.    The problem has always been–I am neither/nor–neither a virgin nor a whore…  In high school, I chose to be known as the Whore archetype, because seriously, being known as the other kind, the goody-goody who never did anything, never went anywhere, always did as she was bid…not me.

And yet…and yet…always with the hiding myself away to be a “better person” for someone other than me…and yet, what I am most known for is…being myself, being weird, being strange, being…me.

How do I allow myself to get so lost?

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Each and every time, there were always viable reasons, all laid out in strict rows, regimented, clearly marked–every marked, everything remembered, all Is dotted and all Ts crossed.  Linear.  Structured.  Reason.  Logic.

None of which is really me.

I may have a ton of lists, to do lists, to write lists, to do list for X lists, to read lists, have read lists, and the beat goes on and on…but in the end…I work in circles…and if my lists cannot travel the circumference of those circles with me–I throw them away and start again.

So, here I am, again, shushing away the covering clouds, pushing them back…and allowing my own self to be visible again.

I have been ill for several years and my body is still struggling to recover.  I have been in the midst of grieving for several years….my heart is still struggling to recover.  I have been in a state of change and shift for … quite awhile…I couldn’t tell you how long…and I am still growing, still changing, still shifting.

Here I am.


I mentioned in one of my weekly check-in videos how I recently discovered my first marriage certificate while going through one of my drawers while on the phone talking to a friend.  I tore that thing up–its nice thick white envelope…the beautiful ornate paper and decoration, words all written in script throughout, tucked inside that cardboard envelope as if it were something precious–and for a long time it was so very precious…my friend laughed — for her first marriage, the license was a photocopy of the form, typed up and handed over without any to do whatsoever.  Nothing remarkable about it in any way–she said something akin to the county that issued it must know they were handing out licenses for marriages that weren’t going to last all that long…  I tore that envelope and that certificate to shreds and burnt it — the darned gold star thingy on it refused to burn…but that didn’t really matter.

I had no idea what burdens that act would lift from my shoulders.  Burdens and baggage I thought I had set aside years and years ago.  I also had no understanding of other repercussions that would come from such a seemingly insignificant action–the burning of some papers, with some herbs and some prayers of best wishes to all involved.

I woke up, was it the next morning–or the day after that–and I found every single thing I had ever written in my life that was still in my possession–I have lost a few notebooks over the years…but I have 2 drawers of a filing cabinet full…I have a huge plastic tote full–of folders, files, spiral notebooks, typed up pages, things I’d written for classes I had taken….everything–every bit of it all–destroyed.


My first thought was, I’ll keep the poetry…I love that stuff…but as I began to drag notebooks and binders and everything out–two things struck me–wow, I have notebooks for every man I have dated, in order: R (high school), C (after high school), T (well, I married him)…I have tattoos for my current partner–and he has a ton of letters I have written him–but overall, I haven’t done much writing in the past seven years, not like the writing I used to do…I also learned–I wrote a lot more poetry than I remembered–because there were tons of short stories in binders–but the spiral bound were all poetry–which came as more than a little shock to me…I had forgotten that I wrote like that that much.

I also discovered some old art–and I found out–I have actually been art journalling — for decades.  The definition of art journalling is art in your journal…and I had a ton of doodles, scribbles and who knows what all over the place–

I threw it all out, destroyed it all, ripped it to shreds–and I let it go.

My entire writing career.


In an instance.

And —

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I cannot tell you what a breath of fresh air that entire process has given me.

I was completely unaware of the weights around myself that these notebooks and binders wrought.

Until I started to see the names on the journals, inside the covers, on the backs of the covers, wherever I doodled them, like a schoolgirl–because actually I WAS a schoolgirl when most of those were written…I dated all of my writing…and it was from the 80s (high school) into the early 90s–which is about when I went into my zombie coma and stopped doing much at all–until the poetry bits started eating away at me again.

I could even tell where some of the stuff was written based upon the stationery used–there were tons of scraps from my old operator job.

All of it–shredded, torn to bits, and let go of–never to be seen nor heard from again.

I went online to the family website–and I pulled all that old poetry that I had up there for sale.  I left things that I have done since roughly 2009…because that year marked a new year for me…a new direction while writing…

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I had no idea I was holding myself down.  I had no idea I was holding myself back.

I had no idea this clinging to the old was one way I held on to the old stories I had always told myself about me.

Now–I have the space to rewrite those stories.

Now–I have the courage to embrace my own power.

Now–I have the power I need to forge ahead in the direction that is best for me.

Thank you for listening.



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Tabitha Low

Writer, Artist, Journey Creatrix

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