It’s hard to tell what brings me back to the Soft Girl. She’s certainly not always around, especially not these days of nappies and loudness and putting out the emotional spot fires of small children. But today she came back.
I found her in the music again as I drove back from the shops. Music has the peculiar ability to remind me of the beautiful people and times that have touched my soul, and when it does…the Soft Girl is right there. Opening the door. Letting it all flow in.
Why did I decide to call my spirit the Soft Girl, you might ask? Well, it’s because thats the way my energy feels when it moves within me. Soft. Like a gentle breeze blowing through me.
When the Soft Girl is around I feel calm and I feel peace.
And that’s all I’ve been looking for my whole life long.
Peace. That’s all.
And now I’m the closest I have been to having it, because I finally know that that is what I’ve been searching for all along.
I’m so grateful for the gifts meditation and yoga have brought to my life. I’m still unsure what it’s all for, and even what it is that I’m meant to do with these new and beautiful feelings, but I’m starting to gather the clues. And they are leading to new and delicious places, sometimes expected, sometimes a complete surprise.
I’m off to bed now, I’m exhausted.
But I wanted you, my beautiful bloggy friends, to know that I adore you, and I hope each and every one of you is in your happy enough place.
Sometimes I wish I had been born of another culture, a culture of eyes wide open, a culture of hearts wide open.
They say to resist ‘what is’ is to cause your own suffering. Am I suffering? No. But I certainly do ask the question: what if?
Would I be further along in my life journey if, as a child, my sensitivity had been celebrated by my culture, rather than shunned? Would I have saved myself years of healing from the innocent unconsciousness of those around me? Because of a rigid cultural narrative, those who have loved me have accidentally hurt me. I shudder to remember those who have held me in their lives as an insignificant supporting character.
I hope humanity soon understands that the world they see is a choice, rather than a given. I hope the beautiful little soft girls of the world are one day celebrated for the depth and gorgeous attention to detail they bring the world. How shameful that they haven’t been, thus far.
Am I angry that I was brought up starved of female role models? Am I angry that not even my Mother knew how to teach me to truly grow into womanhood? How could she? All she knew was what the western world was. Hardened. Money hungry. Black and white.
There is an aspect of me that is angry. But a bigger part of me understands. There is no one to be angry with. We have all been brought up in boxes. Every single one of us, and when you’re inside of a box (we call them cultures) you truly cannot see there is another way. Another way to see, another way to be. And if you cannot see or be, you cannot teach. You cannot change.
I hope enough eyes are opening, now, to the beauty of individuality.
The oddities of humanity. The neuroses that so often become us that really have nothing to do with who we are, at all, or what’s best for our health, wellbeing and growth.
Take breakfast, for example.
My body doesn’t know that breakfast is a man-made occasion, and yet, still, I choose to feed it specific foods such as toast, cereal, orange juice or coffee at the very time it expects to find them in my life. The morning.
My body, I’m fairly certain, just needs food. To be nourished. It doesn’t care if what I eat in the morning is not, what I might consider, ‘breakfast food’. Only the odd little whisper of my brain cares about that. Should I listen? Or should I challenge what it has to say?
It’s not just cultural expectations around breakfast that rouse me. For too many years, I allowed the cultural narrative of suppressing emotional vulnerability to rule my choices, and, as a consequence, I lost the ability to live with my heart. Goodness gracious me. My precious life moments. Potential soul singing moments, destroyed because I succumbed to a life story that, ultimately, had nothing to do with the truth of who I am.
I have no regrets. Every wrong turn has brought me to this place of strength, wholeness and home, and I am grateful for the rocky roads I’ve travelled thus far. How could I be anything but grateful for the ways it has all helped to shape and expand my perspective?